Hearpwine accepted his harp back from the Elf, his eyes wide with wonderment at her skill with the instrument, and in awe of her craft. “I am familiar with your work, Lady, for I have often heard the Queen play and sing, and she does sometimes use the lute you speak of. It is a wondrous instrument that speaks with many voices, as though a choir were contained within its strings. One time, the Kings Elessar and Eomer, in a moment of brotherly play, engaged with one another in a contest of music, with each claiming that their realm had the mightiest singers. To prove their points they each appointed a champion to sing before the gathered court of the other. As the Bard of the Golden Hall I was sent to Minas Tirith where I sang the Dirge of Denethor before the White Tree, and though I say it myself the tears of those gathered flowed like wine. It was widely believed by all that there was none could match my performance. But when the following spring a mighty caravan arrived in Edoras from Gondor, and the Lady Arwen descended with her lute, I knew that I was doomed to lose the contest for my King! Ah, but if only every loss could come with so sweet a doom!” Hearpwine’s eyes drifted back into memory and he laid his head against the bole of the tree. “What music did she make that day! She sang in the High Tongue and though few there understood the words each one of them pierced us to our very hearts. We were all of us in love with her by the end of her performance, but then she honoured us with a song in our own tongue, telling of the Fall of Theoden. When she finished there was such a moment of silence that I imagined I could hear the fall of the sparrows outside the Hall. At last, the Lady Éowyn rose and approached the Queen and in silence bowed her head before her in token of thanks. What a sight that was! The most beautiful of their kind – mortal and immortal – side by side before the gathered people of Edoras, sombre yet glad! My heart feels like a child’s again at the mere memory.”
“Not immortal,” Mithalwen whispered. “Not anymore. She is lost to us.” And she trailed off into silence.
Hearpwine recalled himself to the waking world and addressed himself to the Elf in gentle tones. “Forgive me Mithalwen. In our own joy of the Queen, we mortals tend to forget the sadness of the Elder Race: how well I can imagine the grief of your kind, a grief that must be as great as our joy that she has decided to dwell with us!”
“Nay, Master Bard, your grief can never match ours, for yours will come to an end with the close of your life – whereas the grief of the Elves lives on until the breaking of the world. Long after Arwen Undomiel is buried and forgotten by all Men, she will be a living presence in our minds, a memory of our former glory and of all that we once had in these lands and can never have again…”
Laughter, bright and silvery, came to them from the open windows of the schoolroom, sharply reminding Hearpwine of his promise to Miz Bella. Surging to his feet the Bard explained to Mithalwen that he had said that he would spend the afternoon with the school children teaching them some songs of Rohan. Seeing that the Elf had not yet finished her meal, he apologised for having to leave her then and invited her to come join him with the children when she was done, “For,” he said, “I am sure that you would have a lay or two to teach the young ones of the Shire!” Mithalwen smiled slightly in response, and apologising again Hearpwine hurried off.
When he arrived in the classroom he found that the children were playing some kind of riddling game. Loath to interrupt, he stepped into the doorway as quietly as he could and waited for Miz Bella to acknowledge his presence.
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