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The old man’s words stirred Hearpwine back into the waking world, from which he had been taken by the power of Liornung’s music. “Indeed, there is much sadness in battle, and none who have seen it would soon desire to see it again. But I do not know that I can see it as you do, both” he said, looking from the fiddler to the old man. “There is terror and loss and great sadness; but there is also honour and glory. The fall of Men in battle is a terrible price that we must pay time and again, but it is not one that we should mourn only, but remember and celebrate!”
Liornung lowered his fiddle and placed it upon the table with reverential care. “Remember, yes. But celebrate? We must always regale and sing the praises of those who fell, but I cannot – as you – see much to celebrate in war itself.”
“And I,” the old man said to Hearpwine, “have seen too much of war to find anything in it worthy of joy.”
Hearpwine threw up his hands as though to fend off their responses, and said through a widening smile, “Do not fear, my friends! I do not seek to make war pleasant in my songs. Nor would I desire to hide its evil beneath the beauty of my verse. But is not the purpose of song to beautify that which is ugly, and mend that which is lacking in the world?”
Liornung smiled back. “Your music must be powerful indeed if it can mend the world’s faults.”
Hearpwine could sense the tone of gentle mockery in his friend’s voice but he did not take it amiss for he knew that it came from one who cherished and admired music and its power as much as himself. The old man also spoke. “There’s many a tale I could tell of war, but there’s not one of them that’s able to bring back the men who died in the battle. And if there is beauty in them, then it’s the prettiness that comes from knowing the darkness and evil of war is past.”
In reply Hearpwine sang a melody that raced with the thunder of galloping hooves. His voice rose and filled the rafters of the Inn, reaching into the chests of all who heard it and thudded along in rhythm with their hearts:
“The hours sad I left a maid
A lingering farewell taking
Whose sighs and tears my steps delayed
I thought her heart was breaking
In hurried words her name I blest
I breathed the vows that bind me
And to my heart in anguish pressed
The girl I left behind me
“Then to the east we bore away
To win a name in story
And there where dawns the sun of day
There dawned our sun of glory
The place in my sight
When in the host assigned me
I shared the glory of that fight
Sweet girl I left behind me
“Though many a name our banner bore
Of former deeds of daring
But they were of the day of yore
In which we had no sharing
But now our laurels freshly won
With the old one shall entwine me
Singing worthy of our size each son
Sweet girl I left behind me
“The hope of final victory
Within my bosom burning
Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee
And of my fond returning
But should I n'eer return again
Still with thy love i'll bind me
Dishonors breath shall never stain
The name I leave behind me”
Hearpwine turned to Liornung. “You sing of a maid who has lost her love, and of her sadness at their parting. And you wonder if the boy you sing of thought of she who he left behind as he faced death. Your song is sad, and has caused this reverend old warrior to remember the ill-days of his youth and cast aside all but the darkest thoughts of those great days of triumph. In response to that I sing a song of that boy as he marches off to battle. In it, there is hope and glory, and he does think of the maid. The sadness of your song is greeted with the joy of mine, and the darkness converted to light!”
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