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Crabannan kicked at the dirt as he leaned against a wall outside the Hall. Lithor's trial had gone as well as might be expected, he reflected, especially he, Crabannan, had done very little to help the situation by jumping in like that. I should have kept my mouth shut. Always keep your mouth shut, he thought. Have I forgotten everything? He spat in the dirt and pulled his cloak tighter around him.
A few moments earlier, Javan had walked up the stone steps into the hall, slowly but doggedly, barely looking at Crabannan. The tall dark-haired man acknowledged Javan with a nod. It irked Crabannan to see a lad like Javan getting into trouble. He liked Javan and would have been likely to strike up a friendship with him, if he had not always felt some disapproval from Thornden. Maybe he sees what I see, thought Crabannan. Maybe he sees a boy who very easily turn into a vagrant, a mercenary, a scoundrel. Like me. He shook his long dark hair. Thinking again. I need something to do, quick.
He sat on the steps and produced his harp. It wouldn't be the first time that idleness had become restlessness, that restlessness had driven him to do something stupid. As he plucked the strings slowly, aimlessly, he ran over the past few years in his mind.
He enjoyed playing the harp for various squires and nobles in Rhovanion, but those positions invariably ended in brawls and knife fights. By the time he had been thrown out of every village in a 60 miles radius, a lord's son had taken a violent dislike to him and he decided to move on.
Of course, he had not meant to fall in with the bandits in Ithilien - but one thing led to another, as things tend to do. All told, though, it had been better than working as soldier for hire in Rhun. That had been an ugly year, which had culminated in a ugly showdown. Fun, but ugly.
Minas Tirith had been good to him until he started walking the streets at night with a cudgel. The way he saw it, the city was better off without the ne'er-do-wells and thugs that he was incapacitating. The owner of the tavern where he sat as house bard caught wind of it, though, and Crabannan was forced to fight his way out. The irony of course was that he, who could be considered simply another ruffian, had taken such a keen interest in justice. He had moved on quickly.
Then there had been the knife in the leg early that summer, before Scarburg - which, he thought, was hardly worth it, for the girl involved now seemed to him to have been not even particularly friendly, let alone attractive. But he took comfort in the fact that it would be several months before the other fellow would recover enough to spread his name about.
Crabannan shook his head again. That was as far back as he liked to remember. But which was worse? Forgetting or remembering?
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