The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Bêthberry]

[OCC]

April and May were very busy months in The Shire and saw the completion of several excellent games. Many gamers deservedly earned access to Rohan and three Game Founders earned full status in Rohan.

Gamers with full status as Game Manager and Game Player

alaklondewen
Everdawn
ittlemanpoet

Gamers who have earned access as Game Players

Alatariel Telemnar
ArwenBaggins

Durelin

Eorl of Rohan
Esgallhugwen

Fordim Hedgethistle

Kransha

Lumiel

Memory of Trees
Meneltarmacil

Nuranar

Regin Hardhammar

Witch Queen

A round of applause and a round of ale at the White Horse for these new Gamers and Game Managers in Rohan! Every one of them wrote with accomplishment and creativity and responsibility.

New Writers of the Mark, please take the time, if you have not already, to read through the rules for gaming in Rohan in the thread called The Golden Hall.

Welcome to Rohan. I look forward to gaming with you either in Rohan games (when I can find the time to join games or run my own) or at The White Horse. Please do come to the Horse in character and allow us to raise a pint in honour of your accomplishments.

Bêthberry,
Moderator for Rohan

[Bêthberry]

It had been a long and confusing morning for Bethberry, for she had chosen to avoid the competition at the Golden Hall. She had not felt inclined to remember the events of four years ago amid glittering celebration and regal pomp.

She had struggled with the children's lessons, watching their impatience and eagerness to be off to the excitment of the market and the competition. Rather than a formal lesson, she had encouraged them to draw on their slates images of kings and queens, the Golden Hall itself, the barrow of Theoden and those also of the many who fell that day. The children found an outlet for a time for their imagination and then grew impatient. She gave them leave, as she knew Frodides would have allowed, to run off to stand outside the Golden Hall in hopes of hearing the contest, with a warning to listen to Gomen who could be relied upon to keep a very watchful eye over them. With nary a word, they allowed their slates to clatter upon the old table and were away.

She sat quietly for a time, watching Ælle and Osric share a breakfast ere she rose and sought out Ruthven, the woman whose company always these days soothed her best. Ruthven knew, as did the poor of Edoras, that the last four years were years of struggle and deprivation. The costs of war were great and many went hungry and languished in pain and destitution from want. With the old rag lady only could Bethberry share her feelings of frustration with opulent ceremonies of the nobles when so much still yet remained to be done for the people. Yet, when finally she rose to leave Ruthven, her heart was more at ease.
Thus it was that she was back at The White Horse when Hearpwine and Liornung and Eorcyn bounded into the Mead Hall with their excitement and swelling enthusiasms which overtook the Inn. She had been about to address a new patron, a stranger, a northern Ranger it appeared from his dress, when Hearwpine caught her eye and nodded. She smiled at him, who seemed to have won a different prize that day, once which suprisingly gave him greater happiness than winning would have. Interesting, she thought, how things can be given even in the midst of others being lost or taken away.

Once the excitement and uproar subsided, she rose to speak to all.

"We are honoured here with the presence of three bards, the like of which The Horse has never before seen. In honour of this day and their art, may I offer them a fine meal from our kitchens and to all others, ale or cider as thirst may dictate or desire. And in memory of those who have fallen, the little remembered in song and verse as well as the great, for their sacrifice is no less keen for being less known. "

She bowed before the three, old Eorcyn, secretive Liornung, and the expectant Hearpwine and then sought her way back to the table of the northerner, whose action in pulling out quill and parchment had caught her attention.

~~~

OOC My apologies for my recent absence. My road in real life went ever on and away from the Downs and indeed I crossed the continent and was brought to the Western shore. Yet I have returned to find one of the most splendid sub-plots the White Horse has ever seen. Wonderful work particularly by Aylwen Dreamsong, Nurumaiel and Fordim Hedgethistle and writing equally good by Kransha and Snowdog. May the other gamers return as well now that events have returned to The Horse!

Aylwen and I will be hatching new subplots as this one comes to a completion, so if any Writer of the Mark wishes to suggest further plots, please contact either Aylwen or myself. This is not to call for an end to the current plans, but simply to prepare for future events.

[Snowdog]

Hanasían had out an acceptable piece of parchment, and his quill, ink and powder were set by as well as he listened to the arousing bandter and celebration that had made its way in the White Horse. But in this corner of the Inn, Hanasían started to write of the dark, confusing days of the Battle of the Fords of Isen. He was hoping to meet his twin cousins Frea an Folca here, but they were obviously off celebrating. So he penned the names of men he fought beside and tried to note anything he remembered of each, and having lost himself some into that fateful day Theodred fell holding the eyot, he wrote some words they had traded before that fell battle.

"May I sit..."

Hanasían had instinctivly sensed his presence, though another may have been startled when in such deep thought. Hanasían waved his hand with the quill toward a chair in offerance to the bard before dipping the quill in the ink and continuing to capture a thought. Setting the quill down, he dusted and gently let slide the dust with a soft breath.

He set the parchment aside and lifted his tankard. He looked at the Bard and said,

'It is an honor to have a man of such high esteem to come share this table. It sounds as though you have done well this day?'

He took a drink of the ale, and leaned back. He could see the bard's eyes looking at the Elven script on the parchment in a curious way, and Hanasían went on,

'As you tell of deeds in song and word, I tell of them in writing. Too many deeds go un-sung and un-remembered, when so many fell in the struggle against the darkness. Much is worthy of word and song.

Hanasían then listened as a lady spoke of the Bardic competition, and an applause came forth at its finish. Hanasían said to the bard at his table,

'It looks like you are well rewarded sir!'

Hanasían then stood up at the approach of the woman.

'Mae govannen lady of Rohan!'

He stepped aside to make sure the remaining chair at the table was clean of boot dirt and offered her a seat.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

There could be no lack of happiness and festive hearts on that chill, early spring day. The progression of time and events could never be duplicated or occur as it had on that day, either. None could explain the spirit that had settled over the town of Edoras. Remembering the distant and recent pasts collided with hoping for a better future. Old friends were able to come together and remember friends long gone and past times spent together, whether on the battlefield or elsewhere. Strangers met and shared stories and songs, learning to come together as they shared the promise of tomorrow.

Despite all this happiness, there remained many a task for Aylwen to complete. Most of her work that day entailed feeding and serving the customers that flowed into the Horse constantly that day. This was the Innkeeper’s job every day, but today the tasks felt less hefty as they were lightened by song and tale ringing throughout the Mead Hall.

The afternoon passed much like this, with song and merriment ringing throughout the Horse and throughout Edoras with pride in their country. Hearpwine let his voice rest before giving a stunning encore of the tune he sang for the King and the Lady. Liornung aided in the song making, as did many others who passed through the Inn that day. Stories of the valiant warriors who died in battle peppered the festivities, reminding young and old of what had come to be just four years earlier.

Sunlight became scarce, however, as the good times and good tales passed all the time of day. People began to filter out of the Inn slowly, some ready to leave with their whining children and others hesitant to exit the White Horse. As the sun went down, Aylwen stood upon her stool and raised her hands for silence.

“After being an Innkeeper for fourteen years, I have heard and seen a great many things,” Aylwen began, looking over and catching Bethberry’s gaze for just a moment before continuing her speech. “I have met many people and learned much from each of them. Some I know and remember to this day, others come and go, only to have someone new walk in the next day. I have learned that perhaps it is the way of things for people and lessons that you love to come and go, as does the day. One can go after these people and these lessons, running to catch up and never have to miss them again. Or one can stay where they are and meet different people and learn different things, keeping the memory of those they miss alive in every task they do. Tonight, my friends, we gathered to remember those that we lost in a great battle…”

Aylwen paused for a moment. She eyed Hearpwine and Liornung, Osric and Eorcyn, Bethberry and Ruthven, and she passed her gaze over all the patrons of the White Horse in turn.

“Hail the victorious dead.”

---

Aylwen pulled the windows of the White Horse Inn open with ease that came from many years of practice. Dust flew from the opening, visible only in the rays of light that flashed from outside and danced onto the wooden floor of the Inn.

Days and weeks had passed swiftly from those few celebratory nights in early spring. Trees bare of leaves had long begun sprouting buds, and before long the grand shade of green had flourished across Edoras again. Air no longer brought chills or shivers, and flowers had been blooming for a few months. Midsummer fast approached Edoras.

Motan paraded around the Inn at that early hour with a crown of colorful flowers upon her head. Frodides chased the little four-year old about, until she caught her daughter and lifted her high into the air with laughter in both their hearts. Aylwen smiled as she watched them, then turned and went to open the next window. Goldwine happily purred and rubbed against the Innkeeper's leg. When the woman would do no more than scratch once behind his ears, the cat curled his tail in a put-off manner and went to rub his back against on a leg of one of the many chairs that littered the room.

The sun had scarcely risen in the sky when Aylwen opened the front door of the White Horse for any to enter.

[Nurumaiel]

"Come now, Gomen!" Maercwen laughed as she stroked the neck of the impatient stallion that was prancing by her side. Gomen's cheery face peered from around the stable door and he nodded before withdrawing. The stallion gave a loud whinny and a little buck. Maercwen tightened her grip on the reins and caught his head, kissing his nose. "Patience, Mihtig, patience. I know this fair summer day brings thoughts of adventure to your mind, but we must wait for Gomen."

And Gomen soon appeared, leading a tall chestnut horse that thrust its head proudly to the sky and looked for all the world a king. Behind Gomen was Leofan, who went to his daughter and looked doubtfully up at Mihtig. The stallion was tall, strong, and spirited. He was not certain that his young daughter, just barely eighteen now, could manage him. "Mae, are you sure he won't be too much for you? You're strong enough to handle him?"

"No, Papa," the girl replied. "I'm not nearly strong enough to handle him. I am relying solely on the training you have given that will cause him to listen to my words rather than my strength, as well as the obedience and respect he has for me as his 'sister.'"

"Very well," said Liornung, but still he looked doubtful. He addressed his eldest son then, instructing him to watch over his sister and both the horses, and to make sure no harm befell any who were to ride out that day. He bid them farewell with a last bidding that they return within two hours so Mae could help her mother with the washing. He watched as they rode off and then turned to the sound of singing and laughter. Mereflod and Motan were skipping towards him, both golden heads wreathed with flowers and each little hand clutching a bright array of equally colorful flowers. "Papa, papa!" they sang as he skipped towards him. He kissed them both and caressed their hair, saying, "My little daughters look like the queens of fair flowers and bright meadows. Where did these lovely flowers come from."

"They came from our garden, Papa," Mereflod replied. "We've worked oh so hard in it every day and the flowers are all growing so beautifully. Don't you like them, Papa?"

He kissed each again, replying, "I love them. Make sure you pick some for your mother, Mistress Bethberry, and our innkeeper Aylwen."

"Oh, Papa," said Motan, "we already did. See?" She held out a dimpled hand. Leofan laughed. "Good, good," he said. "Now go give those flowers to those three lovely women and see if Bethberry wants you for lessons. If not ask your Mamma if she needs help. And if she doesn't need help you may come out here and play." The girls hugged their father once again and then skipped away, clasping hands. Leofan chuckled and went back into the stable.

[Durelin]

It had taken Durelin quite a long time to get all prepared for a move to Rohan. It was a long way from Bree to Rohan, after all, and a long way meant a big difference. This was certainly a great change for this Shire loving young woman, and many details entailed in making this move complete. Now that these details, and other details of her life, had been worked out, Durelin decided that it was time to introduce herself to the goings on of her new home. And, as it was in any quaint, quiet, common sense little town or a bustling city without any signs of cheery faces on short, stout halfling bodies, the resident inn was the place to go to get ‘in the know’.

As a city such as Edoras, a city very much unlike Bree, she was finding, had several inns, it was important that she find the inn. Whatever population size a community had, there was always one place where any could go and see anyone. ‘Anyone’ was just reduced in size in cities. When Durelin’s feet had become rather sore in her soft, slipper-like leather shoes (a bad choice, she now realized, to wear that day), she finally came upon an inn with its doors thrown open wide with sounds of merry making that had been calling to her for a block now. Still, this had to be relatively quiet for the inn, this early in the day.

She paused for a moment to look at the sign hanging above the door. The White Horse Inn she read, thinking of how she should not have doubted that it would have ‘horse’ somewhere in its name. She pondered the meaning of a ‘white horse’ until her thoughts were disrupted by a tugging on her arm. The small hand in hers was gripping as tightly as it could, and the child the hand belonged to was seemingly trying to pull Durelin’s arm off. The child was of course hers; it was her only son, as she had only an infant daughter at home with the father (who was in no mood to be social, at this point!).

“Mamma!” he cried with an incredible amount of huffiness, “Can’t we go in?”

The boy was just barely eight, but he was already almost up to his mother’s chest. He was going to be tall, much like his father. Also like his father, he had very blonde and very straight hair, along with light blue eyes, almost a blue-grey. This was all due to Rohirrim heritage. This was his father’s home, and this was why Durelin was here. He had refused to allow his son to grow up any more outside his homeland. Durelin could not argue with that, nor would she wish to. She had left family in Bree, but this was her family now. There was no way she would ever be lonely, she knew, as she looked down at her son with a smile. It won’t be much longer before I am unable to do that. I will smile up at him, and it will be very different, she thought, as she was already beginning to feel that time was playing tricks on her.

“What did you say, Loar?” Her son was in no mood for smiles, but he knew to say “please”. Durelin’s smile widened as she let go of Loar’s hand and had to pick up her skirts to walk quickly enough to follow the boy, now running in his excitement. Durelin sighed as the boy disappeared into the crowds and stopped to look around. It would be quite embarrassing to be seen running with her skirts pulled up trying to catch her child. Besides, he couldn’t get himself into too much trouble, the amount of people here would not allow him to…would it? There was a good many, but not enough to hide him for long. But perhaps there was enough that they would not notice a young boy doing mischief… Durelin then imagined her young son slipping underneath someone’s table, reaching up to tip over a mug of ale and opening his mouth wide beneath it. Her head turned wildly from side to side, her eyes straining to search the entire inn. She sighed once again, this time much more heavily, and gave up for now. An inn like this, much larger than the Green Dragon back in Bree, was perfect for hiding someone as cunning as her son.

Calmly, but quickly, she walked up to the bar, and got the innkeeper’s attention. “Excuse me, miss. Did you see a young boy run by here just a moment ago? I seem to have lost him already.”

[Kransha]

The midsummer air, fresh and crisp, may have had the gentle temperament of a cooling breeze, but Osric of Aldburg only felt the restricting heat, which forced his garb to cling to him with more weight, dragging down his resolute posture as he dragged his quivering right leg and his stiffened left along the grassy ground, swinging up his oaken cane beneath him and planting it firmly in the soft earth. His shadowed eyes sparkled anew as his gaze drifted up, taking in the serene sight of the White Horse Inn that sat, nestled into the rural terrain of Edoras, before him. The wrinkled wreaths of reddened flesh around his two clouded eyes pulled apart and his narrowed mouth curved into a satisfied smile as he looked upon the structure, letting his armored chest heave with the relaxed atmosphere of a refreshing, deep sigh, breathing in the brisk air. He lowered his wizened head, shaking it with a furthered smile as his mind slipped into the shroud of reminiscence, which clouded both vision and his experienced senses.

He looked older somehow, which he was, but by more than a simple season. His shoulder-length hair and unkempt beard, formerly speckled with shadowy gray, was now as white as winter snow. His beard stretched down farther, hanging in limp strands over the glinting leaf mail and furnished leather hauberk that covered his chest. The aged Rohirrim seemed older in the way he carried himself along as well, stooped over with an arched back concealed by a long cloth cloak with a collar of bristling fur. He held a long staff of oak-wood that had been polished delicately and sanded of all blemishes, with a rounded sphere, amber in murky hue, which his gnarled digits were curled around tightly, clutching the cane near him. He wore more elaborate garb than he had borne the last time he came this way, garb which weighed heavily upon him as he staggered along a winding path which only he saw. Osric wore a simple tunic, evergreen, that hung down like a cropped robe and a sturdy hauberk of brown leather over that with the stencil of a braying steed drawn into the material. His forest-colored sleeves and trousers swung limp on his limbs, too large for him, but were affixed to his arms and legs by two glinting, golden-bronze vambraces and greaves, strapped with bands of cloth to each appendage, pauldrons bound to his sagging shoulders, and a skirt of dull golden leaf mail, all these designed with constant thematic motifs of horses and blades. It was ceremonial dress, to be sure, as it served no purpose but to make old Osric look nobler, more chivalric, more royal in gait and bearing, or so it would seem to most who had seen him before under any circumstances.

But, Osric was not alone on this journey. Beside him, half in his shadow stood a taller, but far less imposing individual with a more colorful face and youthful complexion. He was a fair-haired lad, certainly young, with a bright face, a merry expression, though wrought with seriousness, and a quick and patient gait as he wandered on behind the other. His head was held upright, ovular, and capped by some unruly dirty-blonde hair which hung down but an inch less than that of Osric, unkempt and untamable. His eyes, cold and watery blue, searched the sky rather than the ignoble ground and his features remained smooth and simple. His outfit was certainly not as contrived as Osric’s, which gave him a more amiable look, as he wore naught but the earthy colors of brown and green shades upon him, a long, withered tunic, a tight hauberk over that, and a frock coat draped messily over his prominent, broad shoulders. He was a lad by most standards, no longer a child, but not yet a man. He stood and walked, ever nearing Osric until the older man began to droop on his course, sliding down. Then, suddenly, old Osric stumbled. The young man groped for the opportunity and dove, his hands clenching around his uncle’s arm and hauling him tenderly up.

“Here, uncle, let me help.” He crooned, his voice calm and composed, “I said in Aldburg we should have ridden.” It was a scolding tone, one of reprimand, he held, which elicited an irked and involuntary wince from the other, who's eyes, narrowed and suddenly tinted with a darker hue.

“Ulfmane is not the steed he was once, Sigurd.” Osric almost snapped as he wrenched his arm foolishly from the younger man’s grip, “I do not take him on trivial journeys like these. I would not trust his care to the most renowned of stable-masters in the Wold, and you know that. My legs can carry me the distance, and I do not doubt that yours can carry you faster than you are going.”

“I’m not trying to patronize you, uncle.” scowled Sigurd, Osric’s nephew, letting go fully of the armored arm of his mother’s elder brother and shaking his head, showing a look of meek frustration. Osric, his facial expression loosening wearily, turned to him as the pace of the two slowed. “I know, I know,” the Rohirrim grumbled, “It is the fact that you’re right. My leg protests whenever I try to force it into action, no matter what circumstances apply. You are right to worry. But, all of that is unimportant. My woes are no longer your concern, which is why you are here, in Edoras. I assure you, you’ll find the same in the Horse that I found, and t’would do you good to get away from Aldburg for a week or two…or three…” his voice faded steadily, but suddenly rose again and swelled as the two of them caught the vague sight of two figures on the horizon, headed in the opposite direction from them, “And there they are now, I’ll wager! That’ll be Miss Maercwen.”

Sigurd didn’t bother to ask how his uncle had managed to recognize someone from so far away so quickly, and sighed heavily. “You know her, uncle?” he queried, rather glumly. “Oh, yes.” said Osric, his delighted air disrupting Sigurd’s moody one, “I suffered the great shame of trying and failing to summon a poem that could do her young beauty justice.” Suddenly, Sigurd’s deep blue eyes widened with a strange, shocked horror plastered against his gently sloping features. “It wasn’t the-”

Osric cut him off before he finished, sharply, “No, of course not! You don’t think I’d…” his voice died in his throat as suddenly as it had peaked. He looked down at the ground and turned slowly from Sigurd, taking a few small steps forward with his nephew close behind. “I didn’t.” the same nephew acknowledged icily, “You’ve been frivolous with it before.”

“I’m careful enough as it is, Sigurd.” Shot Osric again, becoming incensed for the second time, though he did not turn to his nephew, “I don’t need you telling me not to be frivolous with my words, when you have trouble enough keeping rein on your affections.” Now, as Osric finished, it was Sigurd’s turn to be incensed. The young man, less than half Osric’s age, seemed about to leap at his uncle, as he grabbed Osric’s pauldrons-cloaked shoulder and managed to spin him until the two men, of the same height, faced each other. “You don’t know that, Osric,” he said in a low, meaningful voice, “and I would appreciate if-”

Yet again, Osric severed his words in midair and pulled onward, trying to look mildly optimistic. “Fine. No more of this. We’re here to be merry, nephew, not to sulk about our sins. Let me introduce you to Miss Aylwen and Bethberry. T’wouldn’t surprise me if old Liornung was there as well, since that was his niece…” suddenly, as he paused, a gleeful glint rippled across the musty surface of his eye as a grin peeled over him. “Ah, yes, I should definitely introduce you to Maercwen. I’m sure you’d get along very well with that charming girl and-”

Sigurd coughed loudly, forcing the sound to halt Osric. Though the old Rohirrim still bore the same devilish look, he stopped speaking as the two of them neared the darkened threshold of the White Horse Inn, stumbling as gracefully as they could inside, through the heated air around, managing to work past the first signs of new life in the inn. Osric smiled again, still with some grimness in his look, but it faded as his face and that of his nephew’s was bathed in shadowy light, beaming from above and seeming to make the air sparkle serenly. It had been some time since he’d been in the White Horse, but the last day he’d spent there had been imprinted on him, emblazoned on the stony palette of his mind, as it was a most memorable experience. His meetings, his celebrations, his conversations, all things he felt being relived. This was what he wanted for Sigurd…though he wasn’t as keen to say why.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!” Eorcyn shook his grizzled head and gently removed the harp from his student’s fingers. “You must stroke the middle high string here,” he said demonstrating as he spoke. “And you must stroke it, not pluck at it like you are trying to remove a rotten tooth.” He sighed and handed back the instrument to the young man, his face showing the disappointment that he felt. “Now, try it again. We’ll begin at the chorus – and remember, listen for my falling tone, and then come in with the harmony.” The old man touched his own instrument with his weathered fingers that had come to their second life in the last months. The good food and comfortable rooms that he enjoyed at the Hall had done wonders to restore his youthful vitality, and the constant attention (and adulation) of so many people had given him a great store of self-confidence. He played the tune with an energy that he had not known for many a year, and as he played he hummed the tune beneath his breath. He did not know he did this, and his student dared not tell him for fear his own tone would reveal how much it annoyed him.

If the months since the Contest had restored Eorcyn to his younger days, they had had the opposite effect on Hearpwine. His joy at the decision of the King had quickly given way to the sober realisation that his new role in life was one destined to be full of unrewarding labour. Day after day he sat at the knee of his master, honing his craft and learning all the songs that he could. But try as he might, he was never able to satisfy the old man. He knew that Eorcyn was demanding only that which he believed the younger man could provide, but there were days – more and more lately – that Hearpwine began to wonder at his naïve joy on that morning he was made apprentice to the Bard. Eorcyn frowned at him, sensing that his pupil’s attention was once again wandering, so Hearpwine dragged his attention back to his harp.

They were sitting together upon the porch of the Golden Hall with the whole of Edoras laid out beneath them, glowing warm and joyfully beneath the rising sun of midsummer. Try as he might, Hearpwine could not concentrate upon his lessons this day, and his eye kept wandering out over the roofs of Edoras and toward the high gables of the White Horse Inn. The Inn had become his home, but he spent little time there. Every morning he spent with his master learning his craft, and in the afternoons he worked either with Eorcyn or any of the wandering minstrels or bards who came to Edoras learning all the songs and tunes that he could. One of the first lessons that Eorcyn had given him was that a Bard could never know too many songs and had enjoined him to learn more. To that moment Hearpwine had been inordinately proud of his storehouse of music, but Eorcyn had been unimpressed. “Why my lad,” he had said that first day after the Contest, “until you know twenty score songs as well as your own name, and at least ten score tunes, you will not be fit to sing before the King and his courtiers. You must be able to find a song for every occasion and every mood, and you must not repeat a song above once a season, unless specifically requested to do so. I will teach you all the songs that I can, but you must look to the wandering musicians to know what is current and popular.” And so he spent endless hours, every afternoon, combing the market places, taverns and wayhouses of the city, looking for anyone who could teach him their songs. He very soon matched the totals given him by his master, but Eorcyn only smiled at this, saying “Well, lad, why stop at that? The more you learn in your youth, the more you will have to forget in your age, which should slow the process of forgetting down a bit!”

When his duties during the day were over, he was called upon most nights to accompany his master as he sang before the court. Hearpwine himself was never asked to sing as nobody wished to offend the protocol of the Court by having the Bard’s apprentice perform, but Hearpwine was allowed to play his harp in support of his master. Occasionally, if the gathering was going very late and Eorcyn became fatigued he would be allowed to retire and Hearpwine would take his place. When this happened, though, it was with little joy that the young man took the floor, for he would have been awake since dawn, and playing his harp most of that entire evening. The party from Ithilien had decided to remain in Edoras after the celebrations, which meant that most nights the King would stay up well after the sun had gone, deep in discussion with his sister and Lord Faramir. Just last night, Hearpwine had been asked to sing when Eorcyn retired, and he had been forced to continue until the first cock crow. He had curled up on a bench in the corner of the Hall for but three hours sleep before his master had called him to his lessons.

At the memory of his awakening, Hearpwine could not stifle a mighty yawn. His eyes closed and his hands became tense, forcing him off the tune, which then stumbled to a halt. Eorcyn frowned lightly but was not angry. He was demanding but not harsh and he could see that the lad was exhausted. He smiled at Hearpwine, saying, “The King keeps the night does he not? When did he retire last night? Had you much sleep?”

Hearpwine yawned again and mumbled, “I slept for three hours, I think.”

Eorcyn laid his harp upon the porch and placed his hand upon Hearpwine’s shoulder. “You have been working very hard for me and for your King these three months now. I believe that you deserve a break. Take up your harp my lad, and enjoy this day as you see fit!”

Hearpwine leapt to his feet with the eagerness of a child, a smile of relief on his face. “Thank you master! Thank you, I will see you tomorrow!” And with that, he raced down the hill toward the White Horse, and the comfortable bed in the small back room that Aylwen had set aside as his own.

[Nurumaiel]

Yes, the son of Durelin had certainly been lost, but he had also been found... though not by his mother. Three boys, one about ten and the other two about six years old, had been sitting under a table engaged in a whisper conversation when Loar had scrambled between the chairs and nearly collided with them. The eldest of the boys, called Giefu son of Leofan, drew himself up as far as he could without bumping his head on the table 'ceiling' and looked sternly down at the imposer. "I do beg your pardon," he said, "but we are in the midst of a very secret conversation here."

"A very secret conversation," replied one of the younger boys, who was in fact Deman. He had his arm draped about Fierlan's shoulders but Giefu knew it would not be long before the two began to fight with each other. Fierlan nodded also in agreement with the two statements already made and regarded Loar gravely, attempting to imitate Giefu's stern look.

"What is this secret conversation about?" the new boy questioned.

Giefu studied this newcomer. The boy was tall with Rohirric features, and that meant he was not a foreigner. Giefu personally had nothing against foreigners, but the fact that the boy was Rohirric was a point in his favor. Giefu would never tell what the secret conversation was about to a foreigner, kind though the foreigner may be. It was odd the way this boy had asked about the secret conversation outright, and it was very bold. He obviously expected to be told. Giefu had a sneaking suspicion deep inside of him that the boy was going to be told. He already felt friendly towards him.

"First you must tell me your name," he said gravely.

"Yes," said Deman, "first you must tell us your name." Fierlan felt very contented at the fact that his twin brother had changed 'me' to 'us.' They were all in the secret conversation and there could be no individual assuming the role of leader though they would allow Giefu to play it for awhile as he was the eldest.

"I'm called Loar," the boy replied. "What is your name?"

"I am Giefu son of Leofan," said Giefu, "and these are my brothers, Deman and Fierlan sons of Leofan. They are also twins." This official ceremony of introduction being done, Giefu grasped firmly onto Loar's sleeve and pulled him closer. "Now you must swear never to tell anyone," he said. "You can only tell your Papa and Mamma, but if they don't swear to tell nobody then you can't tell them either. Today my papa let my older brother and sister go out riding and he wouldn't let us go."

"Yes, he wouldn't let us go," said Deman, a look of deep injury appearing on his face.

"So now we are engaged in secret conversation to make a plan to convince him to let us go next time. But we must whisper... there is someone sitting right above us."

****************************

"Fiddle-dee-dee, la-la-lay,
ride up and down this cheery day.
And round the bend what will be seen?
Maybe Edoras' king and queen!"

Maercwen and Gomen laughed as they finished their song, but there was a little sigh from both of them. They glanced at each other in deep understanding. Both were passionately attached to their fiddler uncle and they had missed him terribly since he had left in the early spring. Every time they sang a song that he had taught them their thoughts turned woefully towards him. Yet Gomen was a naturally cheerful lad and soon brightened up, laughing in jest and saying, "But Mae, if we ride upon this road we'll never see the King. Why don't we turn around and go that way? Perhaps we will see Master Eorcyn, Bard of the King."

"He will most likely be within the Hall, though in truth on such a fine day as this no man should be indoors," replied Maercwen. "I hope you will not take it amiss, Gomen, but I would rather continue along this road. It is a sweet road and fair with the summer flowers, though I must say none of them are so fine as the flowers in the garden of our sisters!"

Gomen nodded his consent and they continued on, silent but knowing the thoughts of each other and the bliss of riding out on such a fair day. The sun was warm in the sky and shone brightly against the deep, rich blue of the sky, a blue that should have been made to garments for the fair Maercwen and her fair-faced young brother Gomen, for the blue was the same color as their eyes. The grass swayed in the wind beneath the feet of their horses, and the leaves rustled softly in a mysterious musical response. Keeping rythmn with the singing of the birds was the sound of the horses' hoofs hitting the road as they pranced energetically along, a wholly pleasing note to the ears of the two riders. People passing by called out their greetings, whether they knew the two youths or not. When children emerged from the doors of their houses Gomen would wave cheerily to the boys and blow kisses to the girls, and each would laugh and shout merry hellos. All the children about the Inn knew Gomen, for he was generous with the sweets he always carried in his pockets.

He was becoming quite a young man, Maercwen reflected. He was nearly ten and three years of age now, and soon he would be as tall as she would, and then he would grow taller than she. His face was slightly tanned by the sun and his hands calloused from working in the stables, but there was a certain delicacy in his features that would seem to imply good upbringing and a nobility of personality. His blue-grey eyes were clear and cheery, but with a degree of thoughtfulness and dreaminess in them, very much like his uncle Liornung's eyes. He was skilled with musical instruments of any kind and knew many old songs and tales. Maercwen had no doubt that someday he would leave the Inn to travel the road as his uncle did.

They rode on in silence for a time, and at last Gomen turned his steed, saying, "Let us return to the Inn, Mae." He smiled sympathetically at the downcast expression that came to hsi sister's face. "I know you would like to continue riding, and I fancy Mihtig could go on forever, but Mamma and Papa need us back at the Inn to help them with the work. In these warmer days there will most likely be many travellers upon the road who will seek the hospitable shelter of The White Horse and that will cause for work for those employed in the service of Miss Aylwen."

"I wonder why she never married..." Maercwen murmured, her voice barely audible, as she turned the unwilling Mihtig to follow her brother.

"Romantic as usual, dear sister."

"Uncle Liornung has ever been one to sing love songs," replied she, "and I do think Aylwen would be an excellent wife and mother."

"It is not too late for her," said he. "She is still very young, if you consider properly. As for you, how many lads in Edoras are seeking your attention?"

She blushed slightly and shook her head, saying contrary to her gesture, "One young man, the son of the farmer down the road, calls quite frequently and asks me to go riding with him and such, but it may mean nothing."

"Well, Papa thought that Master Hearpwine was quite smitten with you. He still does think so."

"Oh dear brother, he surely is not," she said, laughing. "If he felt any love for me at all he would pay more attention to me rather than spend such a great deal of time with Eorcyn."

"He does pay very much attention to you, but perhaps you are right that they are not 'courting attentions.' Ah, but I see no blush upon your cheeks, sister. Could it be that you are not in love with him?"

"He is almost dear enough to me to be a brother, but no more," she replied quietly. "Indeed he could almost be as a brother to me now. I do not know." And then she tossed her gold hair and laughed again. "Never, Gomen, never as dear a brother as you." He smiled and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

They arrived at the Inn again in not too long a time, for both their steeds were very speedy and could walk at a brisk pace. The youths unsaddled their horses and Gomen led them away, regretting that he could not go into the Inn. His father needed him to work in the stable. Maercwen bid him farewell and took up her apron from where she had left it hanging on the stable door and tied it about her waist. Casting one last mournful glance at the blue sky, she entered the Inn, but all woeful thoughts disappeared when she saw the old man who had just arrived. She went as speedily as she could while still retaining dignity and grace as befitted a young man, and stopping before him said, "Master Osric," and curtsied. Then, gazing merrily into his face with sparkling eyes, she said earnestly, "It is good to see you once again."