Eorling Mead Hall

[Folwren]

Away -- Wistan's Farm - Dunstede

Thornden was half inclined to refuse Rose’s invitation to go take the refreshment that her mother was putting out, but there was little else to do until the father got back, and it wouldn’t be polite to refuse, really. He was grateful to stop at the well and wash his hands and face before being led to the trestle table set out beneath a great, spreading oak. There he was invited to take a seat and as he was passed the biscuits and poured tea, Cwen asked him questions.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I don’t know much of this new Eorl. Though I’m sure he must be a fine man for the king to have raised him up so. What is he like? Can you tell us? And his wife, would I know her?”

“He is not married,” Thornden said. He lifted his hand to accept the mug of tea that Rose offered him, giving her a swiftly ‘Thank you’ and a brief lifting of his eyes before returning to Cwen’s questions. “I am not sure that he has any intentions to be. He is a good man, though. Quite worthy of being the new Eorl. I met him soon after the king raised him to that position. We’re in the midst of rebuilding the Mead Hall and he carries himself remarkably with everything that has to go on. However, a catastrophe happened not a week ago which changed things rather suddenly. I can’t say he was too pleased with that, but he bore himself well.”

“What happened?” Cwen asked. Thornden didn’t know if it was out of genuine curiosity, or simply for something to keep the conversation going.

“A wall fell over,” he answered simply. The four women looked at least mildly surprised. “We had taken the great roof off,” Thornden explained to them, “and a tarp covered it. But that day it rained, and with the extra weight of the water and no roof to help support it up, not to mention the mud that it caused at the foot of it, the wall simply fell in. Fortunately, only one person was hurt, and she wasn’t even wounded too badly at that. But I can’t imagine what Eodwine could have been thinking. What is a man to think when his walls start falling over? But, as I said, he appeared to do well. Never lost his head or his temper with anyone, or anything of the like.

“He’s very kind to everyone. This morning, as I was leaving the city, I found a boy. . .” Thornden paused to consider what all he should tell of this boy. He took a bite as he thought and then as he chewed decided to leave the extent of the damage done to Lys’s body out of the story. “He was rather badly hurt, and I carried him back, and Eodwine was there at once and took him under his own hand. He sent me off, I should have liked to stay, but I had my work to do.

“Then there are many different people at the Mead Hall that he’s greeted and brought in under his wing, you might say. Our ostler, now, he’s just a boy, practically. Came to him weary and hungry with traveling and looking for someplace to work and earn a living, and Eodwine agreed to let him take the job as an Ostler for thirty days to see how he did, and if he was satisfied with the stables and horses, he would be his Ostler for good.

“He’s a good man. Wise and considerate, and willing to accept most everybody who comes, and he’ll help anyone who needs it. Perhaps that’s not necessarily always the best way for business, but he’ll learn that in time without giving up his better traits.”

[littlemanpoet]

The writ Eodwine had placed in Thornden's hand had brought home the need for a sign, some thing form middle earth that would mean 'Eodwine, Eorl of Middle Emnet'. He meandered through the grounds of the fair, pleased with his lack of fame, for now, as folk recked him not as their new eorl but as yet another freeholder from some place far or near. He sought no fame until he was ready. What, pray, shall make you ready, O Eorl Eodwine the Unready? He did not know.

But his dream kept pulling his thought from the fair's gaeity and the eorl seal-to-be. What does one do with dreams? Remembered dreams? Folklore had it that dreams were from the gods, and maybe so - but he had learned from no less than Elessar of Gondor about the gods.

It had been as King's Messenger that Eodwine had had right to speak to the King of Gondor, who, being a humble man for all his greatness, looked with a kindly eye upon Eomer's messenger. He beckoned him to walk along the heights night to sunset. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, he had named himself, and 'Strider' he'd confided with a twinkling eye. Stories there were to be told about a name like that, and Eodwine had hoped to hear them some day. He had over the years, more than he felt he'd a right to, but such things had turned him into a student of the War of the Ring that had sent him to the Shire just last year.

On that walk with Elessar, Eodwine had learned of Manwë and Varda and all the great Valar, how they were gods to be sure, but angels of Eru the One. Beyond Eodwine's thought was that One. He clung rather to Manwë, lord of the winds whose messengers were the great Eagles and Hawks. High in the sky they flew, saw all that passed both good and ill, and brought word back to their lord in Valinor.

Eodwine gave thought, now, that he, Eomer's former messenger, was like to Manwë's Hawks; not the Eagles, for that would be reaching too high. So a hawk could be his seal, or a part of it, for it seemed not enough somehow.

Eodwine had found his way to the race track. It was good to see horses and riders, the very soul of Rohan, moving together as if they made two-headed creatures that could run fast and think with a man's thought how to run if not faster, then find some way to reach the goal before others. The out and out races were enjoyable enough, but Eodwine was always drawn to the other skills, for speed was not all that was needed among the Eorlingas. There were the tests of fleetfootedness, with gates and fences and waterholes scattered here and there over a cantering course. Elsewhere were mock battles, warriors wielding sticks in place of swords, their warhorses proving their mettle or not. Then there was this new game with long poles, and a ball the riders smacked toward one goal or another. The horses that were most willing to do their masters' wills served best, and light as cats on their feet.

Elessar had told Eodwine a tale of cats. Some queen, of Beruthiel, Eodwine though he recalled. It made him grin. Then his brow rose as he saw in his mind a hawk with a cat's head. Now there was an odd thought! Nevertheless, it seemed to Eodwine that his seal would have a cat-headed hawk on it. But that was not enough either. And now his thought was stuck as he tried to ferret out, Why a cat's head? He did not know, but contented himself with watching the horses and riders with the poles.

[Celuien]

The jewels on the table were beautiful, glistening over Degas' fingers. Lèoðern was filled with questions. What was that big green stone? Or that blue one? Or the red one, glinting like fire on the corner of the table? But despite their lovely shine, the precious gems couldn't distract Lèoðern from the music she heard earlier.

"Do you think he'll play again?" she asked Degas of the musician.

Degas didn't know, but promised to play Lèoðern an air later, at which statement she clapped her hands in delight. She turned to voice her excitement to Linduial, but found she wasn't there.

"Where's Linduial?" she asked.

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Garstan labored far into the morning, his son at his side. While young - still too young to take on the tasks of an apprentice - the boy had shown talent in his father's craft, and Garstan delighted in his growing skill. The sound of their hammers and chisels made a clanking duet in the Hall yard.

Garstan's chisel rested. His piece, a rounded end piece for the growing chimney they now labored upon, was complete. Garmund's simpler portion, a plain stone for the middle of the row, soon followed. He handed it to his father with anticipation, a searching look on his face. Would his work meet approval?

Garstan smiled and praised the boy for his work while gently pointing out places where the finishing of a groove might have been smoother, and curve more exactly formed, and demonstrating how to make the improvements as he corrected the carving. But the flaws were very slight. The work was good. Garmund would make a fine stoneshaper one day. Garstan had certainly not been as able at the same age. Perhaps the son would outshine the father in time. And wisely, Garstan was thankful for his son's gifts.

Garstan stepped to the side and watched his son place the completed stones into place. Then they stepped back together to look at their work. The chimney was nearly finished. Only a few small end pieces to connect the chimney to the rebuilt wall were left to be done. And they couldn't do that until the carpenters finished their work, as the stones had to be properly fitted to the wooden beams. The carpenters were behind. There was nothing more to do until the carpenters completed the woodwork, or until Lord Eodwine turned his sketches for other improvements to the Hall to more solid plans.

Garstan thought of the fair. Lèoðern was there. He knew that Garmund would like to see the horses run too, though (responsible child that he was!), he would not ask to go until he knew that their work was done. And perhaps they would meet Lord Eodwine there to give him a report of their progress. The damaged cart had not slipped Garstan's mind either. Maybe they would find a wheelwright at the fair with whom they could barter for repairs.

"Well, my boy. I'm thinking that we've finished here for now. And that you've earned a reward for a job well done! Would you like to join your sister at the fair?"

Garmund eagerly accepted the idea, and the two set off for the fair.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Saeryn greeted those she passed, speaking kind words to elderly women on door steps as they stitched their rips and tears in the warmth of the sun, listening interestedly to the bustling voices of the crowd. She met with several townsfolk that she had come to know and blushed at their praise of her gown, having only ever seen her in men's garb. She walked alone through the crowd, standing tall, her eyes ever roaming for Eodwine.

"Saeryn, Saeryn!" a small boy ran to her, hugging her about the legs. She ruffled his messy golden hair and spoke softly to his mother, thanking her for the sweet rolls she had shared the day before.

"Have you seen Lord Eodwine?" Saeryn asked curiously. The woman was a veritable mine of information if one knew enough to ask. Living as near to the middle of the city as could be, she often knew the local news before the King's messengers even had heard it.

"Yes, yes, Lady, I spotted him off that way, a look in his eye and all." The round woman's pink cheeks, burned lightly from the day's sun, moved as she smiled a curious smile. "Lost him, have you?"

"So terribly difficult to look after, lord of halls." Saeryn jested back. "A look, you say?"

"Oh yes, Lady, and he looked right thoughtful. Like chewing on a tough bit of meat right in his head, if you'll take my meaning. I last saw him wandering toward the horses, dear, if you mean to follow."

"I do, and thank you, Ma'am Verithy." Saeryn bent down, carefully detaching the little boy from her leg. Handing him a sweet, she said "May your day be as excellent as your desserts, Mistress. And you have a good day as well, little master."

He grinned a gap-toothed smile as Saeryn re-entered the shifting mass of people. She let the crowd carry her until she heard tell-tale winnying over the shouts of men clustered close on a hot day. Horse sweat and hay and mud and warm men scented the air.

A familiar form met her vision. Saeryn looked him over, eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and the curve of his jawline. He looked toward the horses, unaware of her. She moved through the crowd between them with an easy grace, stopping just next to him.

"Any riders of special talent?" she murmered eventually.

[JennyHallu]

The hall, which had been feeling uncomfortably crowded in the last few days, cleared out quickly. Marenil could hear Kara puttering about in her kitchen, the rhythm of Garstan and his son working in the great Hall, and Aeðel, busily caring for the boy Thornden had found earlier, but everyone else seemed to have gone to the Fair. Marenil had no complaint--it had been hard, these last few days, to deal with his grief while surrounded and hemmed in by so many people.

And in his room...well, there was quiet, and peace...but too much space. Marenil could see only how comfortable Enna and he would have found that room, together, and now he felt he should move to more bachelor quarters. It was the work of only a few minutes to return his meager possessions to his small chest and moved them down the stairs, though he was thankful the young healer was preoccupied while he did it.

He moved everything into a small empty room near Garwine's, and looked over the narrow single bed and short dresser with satisfaction. No fancy chair, no fancy wardrobe...just what he needed, and no more. He put things away quickly: clothes folded in the dresser, his boots under the edge of the bed, his cloak hung over one of the peg hooks on the back of the door. His pillows he placed back against the wall, so the bed could be used as a couch during the day.

Pleased with the closeness of the little room, he walked outside into the courtyard, stretching, and settled himself into an old chair from the Great Hall he'd snuck out of storage and onto the lawn the day before. It was a good day for quiet pursuits, despite the human noise from the fair that reached even this far into the city. People rushed to and fro in the road before the Hall, and Marenil settled back to watch them, warm sunshine soon lulling him into a comfortable doze.

"Eh, what?" He shook himself awake at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. A youngish man wearing the sign of the White Horse stood before him uncertainly. "What's the matter, now? May I help you?"

"I was hoping you're the man I was looking for. Master Marenil, head of Farlen's household in Dol Amroth?"

"Aye, that'd be me."

"My name is Erkenbrand, of the house of the King. I am one of his messengers. I have a letter for you." The man handed Marenil a thick bulky missive, sealed with blue wax and Farlen's seal. Marenil took it and looked back up at the man.

"Erkenbrand, eh? Are you the one in all those stories from the War?"

The man laughed. "No! No, the Marshal I certainly am not, though I've met him. Surely you've noticed how great men seem to leave namesakes in their wake like lesser ones leave debts. You should see how many Lothwens, Gimlis and some such have sprung up in the past few years. Even saw a Gimliwen once." The man saluted Marenil with a smile and walked off with a firm brisk step Mar's stiff, old bones envied very much indeed.

He opened the letter with a vague sense of dread. It seemed nothing but bad news had been filling his letters lately, and he didn't much look forward to the next one. A quick scan showed him it was indeed from his lord, and that Linduial had spent far too much of her coin in getting the news of his ill-health to her father. He'd scold her for it later...his doings were hardly worth that much money or urgency--but his musings quieted as he read more closely.

Fifteen minutes later, Marenil lowered the letter with a sigh and stood up. Free...all oaths held filled many times over. The bulk had been from a new signet ring, this identical to the Lord's own, as sign and reward for his long service: Farlen had sent instructions to a merchant based here whom he dealt with often to give Marenil a sum of money upon presentation of that ring. His son was steward now, and doing a good job of it apparently. He was not needed at home, Enna was gone...what was he to do now?

[Firefoot]

Léof had found a place where he could settle in to watch without bothering anyone and without being unduly noticeable. Mostly he watched the races, studying them to see if he might pick up any tips. He had begun to feel slightly out of his league; these horses were much finer and this was a much larger affair than any small-time races he had watched in his town. Perhaps he did not have a chance at all, and any hope he had of winning was naught but a fool’s hope. He turned his gaze to Æthel, off of whom he had dismounted – no point in putting extra stress on her when they would only be standing here for the time being – and saw an alert but not unnerved horse, expressing her quiet confidence in him. He knew his horse; let that be his trump card.

In between races, he paid more attention to the crowd, and he began to figure out the sorts of people – which ones were simply watching, then moving on; those who seemed interested in buying or selling; those who seemed to be there for the betting – when not watching a race, these often milled around the horses themselves, many of which were kept off to Léof’s left. A few cast glances Léof’s way, but mostly he was ignored as a bystander. In appearance, the pair truly was not particularly remarkable, especially not with Léof standing on the ground, his weight shifted almost wholly onto his good foot.

As the race immediately preceding his ended, Léof mounted up once more, feeling nervous twinges in his stomach. He didn’t really know what he was doing! But he nudged Æthel forward towards the paddock where he had seen all the other horses go before the races, both to warm up and to allow spectators a chance to see the horses. He told the man at the gate who he was and he allowed him through. Now was the most tenuous part of his plan; anyone from the Mead Hall who happened to be watching the races would see him now, might try to stop him. But slowly these aggravations died away as the calming effects of riding took over. He let his instincts and habits guide him as he rode around, watching the other riders and horses, trying to figure out which ones would be the real competitors, which ones seemed in tune with the jockey and which ones fought it. And suddenly, he smiled slightly. This was all racing, even racing at this level, was: an application of all the things he knew already. He nudged Æthel into a trot, feeling her respond to all his little signals and reading her like a book. He was ready for this, and what was more, so was she. Soon, very soon now. Let’s do this.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine enjoyed this new game of polling on horseback. He tried to imagine how it might have been thought up. Some victorious and bored horsemen maybe used their swordflats to knock around an orc head. Eodwine swallowed. Enough of that kind of thinking. He'd done his share of killing in battle, but did not care to think on the more grisly aspects.

"Any riders of special talent?" Saeryn asked.

"Oh, some, yes," Eodwine replied. Then he did a double take. "What are you doing -" There she stood, leaning on the rail beside him, her bright hair flowing, dressed in a lovely scarlet gown that heightened the mystery of her. Eodwine forced his eyes back to the horsemanship. "- I mean," he smirked, "so you've put away your drudgery for the day?"

"For now at least."

He knew why she'd come. The dream. Eodwine allowed a half smile on the side of his face she couldn't see. He wasn't ready to open that up. Let her ask. They watched the horses and riders for a while. Eodwine for his part did not want to break the silence. He had his seal to think on. He thought of asking Saeryn what she thought, but decided against it; he wanted to do more thinking on it first. Figure out the cat head on a falcon body. He waited for the inevitable, curious how she'd approach it, laughing inside a little in anticipation. He hoped she wouldn't be disappointed or put off. Just because it might be an off-putting dream to, well, anyone.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Saeryn tried not to shift from foot to foot with impatience. She waited for him to speak, to tell her about his dream. In the companionable but expectant silence, she began to think of the image she must present. Why had she worn a gown? There was no real reason for it... she was more comfortable in men's garb. She planned to work again when she returned. It was foolishness. And he didn't even notice. She thrust the last though away, blushing and hoping Eodwine did not see her cheeks glow in the sun.

She looked to the left, eyes searching for any distraction. In a nearby field, a race was soon to start. Her eyes swept the horseflesh, taking in size and whether or not the mounts seemed likely to do their masters' bidding. A small and familiar frame met her eyes.

"Oh!" she said softly, "Eodwine, it's Lèof!"

"What?" his thoughts were interrupted by her sudden speech.

"Eodwine, Lèof is racing. Come," she took his hand thoughtlessly in hers and began to tug him through the crowd lightly. "We should watch him."