[Kransha]

A smile lighted Osric’s face again as he listened to a more jocund song from the mouth of Hearpwine. In truth, it was not very merry, but it brought back merrier memories. Though the song of Hearpwine chimed a gentle bell, it was Osric’s mind that strayed from the lyrical verse itself, leaving only the rhythm of the tune itself that lingered like a heartbeat in the aged Rohirrim as he thought back.

He could see the same jet black hair, smooth strands as dark as night’s tempting shadows, that Hearpwine sung of in his stirring melody. It was his own maiden, the one image he remembered better than any tale. Unlike the maiden whose portrait was so finely crafted in song, her eyes where a tranquil green, glimmering with what Osric had always thought to be a tint of gold. Those eyes and that noble but delicate complexion soothed the elder Rohirrim, rocking him into a state of mental slumber as he pictured the woman with a reminiscing smile upon withered lips. He was brought, soon enough, back to the warm reality of the White Horse with the sound of an oddly pensive feline’s purring, as it rubbed against Bethberry’s leg calmly. This was followed by more arrivals, namely a quartet of young ones who pranced over, most energetically, to Liornung. As the fiddler took the smallest of the children on his knee gently, he introduced the four of them. Osric’s smile widened, the creased wrinkles of his face fading in happiness, and he spoke, turning to Hearpwine. He quickly gave Gomen, Middaeg, Drihten, and Beorht an acknowledging nod and further grin, to the slight delight of the child, Drihten, whose blue eyes seemed to wink with that wonderful innocence that only a child had.

“Though I’m sure I speak not for all, Hearpwine, I can honestly say that the second is, in my foolish old eyes at least, the fairer. The only maid who I ever loved was one such lady, a woman as strong as a storm and as untamable as the very Mearas themselves. The meek may be for some, Hearpwine, but is those with fire that draw me and, so I have heard, a great many men. I find that this fire may dwindle and need new firewood to rekindle it as years go by, but the mysterious and elusive beauty of the flame will be eternal as the sun.”

The old one paused, considering his words in contemplation and chuckling foolishly to himself as his mind began leafing through neglected pages of ballad, story, tale, and epic he could have related about any beauty that he thought of now. He knew any attempt would be weak and surely dwarfed by Hearpwine’s serene talent and expertly honed skill. The man’s eyes, widened now as he awakened from his veritable dormancy, turned and gazed with reverence on Hearpwine.

“If my mind was still mounted upon firm foundations, lad, I could tell such stories, but alas I would only butcher them each in turn, for my silver tongue has dulled. But, I see new hope for the next age when I see folk such as you, Hearpwine, and the fairness of your words. I assure you, the Golden Lady would be proud to hear your moving rendition of her verse, for who could sing anything but its praises? You are too modest, Heaprwine, a trait which I have not seen in a truly long time.”