[Kransha]

As songs were sung, and words spoken, and acquaintances made in the White Horse Inn of Edoras, Sigurd son of Sigmund thought on his fate in the inn, and his newest assignment, the duties of which were still enigmatic to him.

The youth contemplated now, for many long moments as he began to pace aimlessly throughout the inn. He wondered now which of the two, Aylwen or Bethberry, had guessed his true motivation for seeking the post of night watchman. It was not a job he had desired so much, nor was it one that seemed to be catered to his talents in any ways. He had ulterior motives and other ideas of how his nights might be spent. True, he would not betray Aylwen’s trust, or Bethberry’s proposition, but he could not help it if he strayed from their watchful gaze just a bit. He was but a lad, after all, and young men should have the independence to follow their own devices (though his uncle had often told him otherwise). It was a good feeling, the one that stirred somewhat foolishly inside him: he was hot with lively vigor, and sought to leap about as a sudden revelation overwhelmed him. He was free of the rigorous coils of his uncle, to some degree, the bound with new ones that had not yet been fully clarified. Aimless, but merrier, he wandered, as a gentle song wafted into his ears as gentle spring mists after a night of rain.

From Osric, Sigurd had some freedom now, and this gave him a great comfort. He had been taught by many tutors in his life, all provided for by the funds Osric collected, and the dug wealth found in his elaborate warrior’s pension. Many had been stifled, conservative, and drawling, but a chosen few had been brisk, relaxed, and even enjoyable to be around. Both Aylwen and Bethberry seemed as if they were the latter, when categorized, which raised Sigurd’s expectations even further. Aylwen could not be a great deal older than himself, for she still looked to be a fair maid (Sigurd dared not ask her age forthwith, fearing that he might pry too far). Maercwen was, to be sure, younger, and fairer of face, but Sigurd did not wish to let himself get distracted before he had an objective to be distracted from, Smiling inward and out, Sigurd turned back toward the Common Room, chuckling gratuitously as the twins, Motan and Mereflod, pranced nimbly past him and out of the inn, probably to engage in some willy-nilly horticultural activities.

Not far from Sigurd, his uncle sat in the same old chair, which creaked in protest beneath the metallic bulk of the armor clad elder. Osric heard the song as well, the verse that Sigurd had heard. It was Eodwine’s. Osric lay back in his chair, scratching idly at the nested innards of his grayish beard, worming several wrinkled but strong fingers through the hairy muddle. He then put his warm palm to his brow and, with his stilled digits, massaged his temples as the rhythm of the poetic song rung in his ears, musical and sunny, a beam of light in his cobweb-encrusted head. He, like several others, was reminded fleetingly of his passed friend Hearpwine, who now frequented another court, in another land, and sung his songs for another patron, whose patronage was of far more value than Osric’s. Osric thought briefly on that, pondering the difference of status, and his memories of a powerful vision when he stood beneath the gilded rafters of Meduseld itself, gazing upon the heralds of the next generation, and withered emissaries of his own. The site of the last Rohirrim viziers and counselors, lingering like gathered dust in the Golden Hall, would’ve depressed him then, had he not been awed by the sights and sounds.

Curiously, though, Elves in general did not strike any great emotion into the aged Rohirrim. He did remember his awe, the maddening desire to learn and to hear of Elven-kind that had coursed through him after he heard Hearpwine speak and sing of the Golden Wood, and the Lady, the enchantress who dwelled there. If there was any Elf who held a meaning deeper than face or voice, it was Galadriel, who Osric had never met, nor seen, nor heard, nor even spoken of often. And yet, all that he heard captivated him. He could only imagine what she looked like. Perhaps she bore the same youthful prowess of the Lady Éowyn, combined with that regal, powerful air of Morwen Steelsheen, the grandmother of that same woman, who now sat on the wooded throne in Ithilien, a forest land - like, indeed, the Golden Wood itself – which seemed so very distant, in both geography and in spirit, from the rolling plains, grassy, green, and unstained by the barrenness of other lands, of the Riddermark. The old Rohirrim’s brow furrowed at these thoughts, as a painful weight was loaded again onto him. Sighing deeply, he eased himself forward, resting his arms on the stiff table, and peered forward, his eyes dimming as his mind drifted to thoughts of Elves, Woods, and White Ships.