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The quick, lively music had wound down a bit as those who played and danced found their throats parched and their bellies growling for another plate of food. ‘Go on,’ said Riv, leaning forward to whisper in his wife’s ear. ‘Bror’s tuning up over there. Your going to sing that song of Durin with him, aren’t you?’
He reached forward and with his great hands he plucked little Ginna from her mother’s grasp. ‘I can hold the wee one while you sing.’ He cradled the little girl in the crook of his left arm, smiling as she fussed a little then settled back into her dreams. Leifr, for his part, had pulled a chair next to his father’s and was leaning against Riv’s right flank. His little tummy was quite full with cider and sweets, and more frequently now his eyes drooped and a tiny snore issued from his slack mouth. Unna smiled at the image and winked at Riv. ‘Don’t you dare drift off while I sing!’ she ordered in a whispering voice.
She crossed to the other side of the hall and bent down for a few words with Bror. He plucked a string on his harp and she hummed the note, on key. After a brief introduction of Bror’s playing, Unna nodded to where the present King Dain sat with his family and began the song. The conversations hushed as her clear voice rang out through the Hall . . .
The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.
The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day.
A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.
There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built.
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.
Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.
As her voice faded with the last of the lyric, Bror’s nimble fingers picked up the melody and wove and intricate refrain. There was silence when he finished, and Unna looked at him, whispering nervously. ‘Mahal save us! We’ve ruined the party!’
Then the beat of pewter tankards on the oaken table tops began. And the king, himself, stood up from his chair, and shouted ‘Well done! Well done!’ in his great voice. Unna’s cheeks turned scarlet at the praise and Bror grinned from ear to ear, his dark eyes glittering with delight . . .
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