[Kransha]

The sight of the Lady Eowyn was, without explanation, a great shock, and an uplifting experience for some. Sigurd, though, had not realized the identity of this regal presence, and now scolded himself for it. But, he had no time for self-reprimand, for he had become awestruck by her as he was pulled into the present, into the moving reality around him, and lost sight of his other daily goals. For a time, albeit brief, he had stood in the company of Theoden’s daughter, Lady of Ithilien, and more titles that escaped him in his sudden, passive reverie. He stared rather blankly, but managed to whisk his gaze as line of vision aside to take in other ‘sights’ as he could, and was, in some small way, successful. The sight and appearance of Eowyn, though, stirred him deeply, and his eyes followed her rather than Hearpwine into the distance.

Osric, on the other hand, bore a look more blunt and expressionless, though his heart pounded mightily, waddling up his throat and beating ceaselessly in his ears, to further his discomfort. This was the second time he’d seen her, the last time being in the shimmering golden hall of Meduself, beneath a roof of sunlit thatch and flanked by pillars of ebony that glistened as they would if stars shone down upon them. The experience was different, certainly, for the White Horse was not Meduseld, but Eowyn carried with her a gentle, calming air and a fiery but serene aura that hovered over her regal visage and lingered, skulking about, behind when she departed. It was all the old Rohirrim could do not to stare longingly back as she took her leave, not noting that Sigurd, his jaw still slack and immoveable, had turned his head to others, and no longer let his gaze be affixed to one maiden. Now, though all this commotion had come to a too abrupt end and the inn’s society began, slowly, to move and resemble a chorus of living, breathing beings again. Heaving a deep sigh, Osric turned his glinting eyes to his nephew.

“Uncle,” he murmured foolishly, stuttering as he silently spoke, “…was that…the Lady Eowyn?” The shroud of her presence could still be seen reflected in the youth’s face, Osric, sour and distempered now, turned and vigorously nodded, clapping his hand upon Sigurd’s shoulder and turning him towards Aylwen and Bethberry promptly, saying, only fleetingly, “Yes, Sigurd, it was indeed.”

Sigurd looked back at him, twisting so that Osric could not turn him, an expression of mighty aw plastered to his boyish features as his mouth moved silently, at last forming the vain illusion of words. “You…spoke to her.” Osric’s left eye gave an irritated little blink of a fashion as he nodded again, more vigorously, trying most heartily to pull and push young, confused Sigurd backward and around towards the innkeeper and owner. He continually nodded as Sigurd stood, unconsciously resisting. Finally, he said aloud, and loud enough it was to jog Sigurd from his waking slumber. “It would not be the first time, lad. Now, tell Miss Aylwen of your idea.” At last he had Sigurd turned, but the boy continued to look upon his dreary uncle, stupefied by the various happenings. “What?”

“Aylwen asked you a question, and a simple one at that. Perhaps you would be wise and answer it.”

Finally, Sigurd understood what Osric wished of him. He must resume the conversation that had been severed minutes prior and, perhaps, salvage it from the depths. Old Osric, cranky and cantankerous for a reason that Sigurd could not fathom, did not seem to be in a helpful mood anymore, so Sigurd began, looking at Aywlen. “Well, it was not my idea as much as it was that of Bethberry, for her ample suggestions made my choice all the easier.” He cast a curt glance at the owner of the White Horse, who looked back pointedly and acted her part well, never showing even the slightest hint of amusement at the young man and his uncle’s befuddling plight. “My choice is a broad one, and I can only hope that you accept it, if it makes, hopefully, more sense to you than it did to me. If you will have me, Aylwen, I will serve wherever I am needed and whenever as well. But, the position that seemed most apt was that of Night Watchman for this noble establishment, which I would tend to the inn as its resident in the absence of the sun. As far as I have been told, the Horse has no such fellow, and I would be willing,” Osric jabbed him sharply in the rib cage with his armored elbow, which was actually a much more painful endeavor than the old man had thought it would be, “more than willing to oblige.”