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Hearpwine’s delight was apparent when he learned of Mithalwen’s craft, and in token of esteem to it he rose and bowed deeply to her. “My compliments once more to you Lady, for devoting your talents to such a lofty goal! I know but little of the instruments of Elves, but they are things of surpassing beauty in both form and function. There is a small harp in particular that I adore. It has many strings and is made of a fine, light wood from Lorién. Many’s the time have I been moved to tears simply by the sound of its chords.”
Mithalwen looked wary. “You would not ask of me to make you such an instrument would you, Master Bard?”
Hearpwine laughed. “Nay, Lady, I would not presume. My old master always thought me overbold – reckless even – but my impetuousness would never extend that far! Besides, in my land the Bard is expected to make his own instrument. Behold!” he pulled forth his harp once more, brandishing it in the air between them. “I fashioned this from the wood of an ancient tree that had been hewn by the foul creatures of Mordor when their kind befouled beautiful Ithilien. I sang a lament over the bole of the great beech before cutting it to the heart. The wood inside was clean and pure, and formed of straight lines, and from that I was able to make an instrument that is considered amongst the finest of my kind, although I am sure that to a maker such as yourself it must appear as the plaything of a child.”
He handed it to the Elf, eager to hear her opinion of his work but aware nonetheless that with the afternoon now underway he was expected in the schoolroom.
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