[Kransha]

Osric listened, focused and soothed by the calm verses, to the song of Liornung the former bard. His gaze became weary, serene, like a wistfully gentle sea in the wake of any storm; the like had been seen in the bustling streets of Edoras. He nodded in reverential agreement as the voice of Liornung withered and died in his throat, the sweet sound disappearing gradually as the silence that had completely overtaken the room became evident. No one clapped, or showed the merest hint that the song had ended, even after Liornung had finished speaking. Osric looked up, as he’d been looking down, pondering the shadows on the floor beneath, and managed to get out the first words, as he so often did in the tune’s solemn wake.

“My friend, Liornung,” he said, quietly at first, but then with more resoluteness, “you need not conclude that song just yet. When your verve is rekindled, do so, but I pray you, rest and be merry. Though you have left the Golden Hall, we can all see that the hall has not left you, more in soul than heart. You carry the flawless beauty of Meduseld with you, the fluttering grandeur of the Rohirrim banners held aloft, the beauteous things of Edoras and all of Rohan, and beyond, if I may say so. I too know some of the wonder that lies in that place, and perhaps the residue that cling to those who leave it." At last, the subdued nature settled on the innards of the White Horse dissapated, "Be at peace for this moment, and we shall elicit a song from master Hearpwine or master Eorcyn, so that you may collect the verses which have entertained us.”

As the old Rohirrim came to a serious, if not tedious conclusion, he reflected. He had been moved especially by what the bard and fiddler had said. The man of Aldburg had come on numerous occasions to the city of Edoras, and from the rolling, dipping hills of high-hanging grass, rippling across the plains of amber green as water would, the eyes of Osric, whether as old and nestled between wizened flaps of wrinkled skin as they were now or shing out and glinting with a fiendish light as they had in youth, would always fall upon the hall, its roof thatched with shimmering patches of sunlit gold. He had looked, in past days, upon the beauty of the hall and dreamt of entering. Dreamt, with his boyish fancies, until one day. Dreams fulfilled, so he had thought, were to be beauteous, but his had been only grand until the dream ended. The Golden Hall, from without and from within, was a wondrous weight, which gnawed at Osric murderously when it had been lifted years ago, leaving an unexpected emptiness behind it to haunt the man.

“Eorcyn,” said Osric, feigning harsh sternness as he turned to this unknown man, scratching his dappled beard in contemplation, “milord Bard, perhaps, since you have not before graced this horse with a fairer saddle, you would be willing to show us what made you so favorable ‘neath the roof of the Golden Hall. If Hearpwine’s humble words ring true, than you are a marvel to the world of music indeed. So, let me not speak of you more, since you are surely capable of doing so yourself. Give us a round, and a merry one at that, else we shall have to find another bard who can do the job justice, but I have no fear of that.”