[Kransha]

Osric, with his withering gaze, smiled as best he could, though the smile’s luster was removed. He looked at Eorcyn, the two clouded orbs nestled into his wizened face unblinking as the bard’s eyes met his. They exchanged only a swift glance, the glance of brethren, though they shared no such bond. Both men broke the locking of their stares instantly, so as to keep up their combined appearances. Eorcyn turned to entertain the berating of numerous questions. Osric, muttering indignantly to himself, turned, reflecting back to the words Liornung had said, talking of the Golden Hall of Meduseld and his subsequent melancholia. This drove Osric’s mind from quiet contemplation to deep, unsettled thought as the candle flame of a darker memory, though thatched with glistening gold, flickered in his mind, sparkling seductively to entice the thinker back to it.

It had been years ago, the number of which had been lost to Osric’s inferior memorial records, that the man, now old and having lost his prime years to war, had been called to that place where men and women, poets and fiddlers, and all their jolly kin had flocked on this fine day. He had felt himself a lad, though he’d seen so much of war’s ineptitude, its uselessness, the squandering of fair youth and the stealing of the beauty in the world. After that day he was old, and, strangely, he had not been so before. Before he entered the Golden Hall, he had been a warrior of Rohan, with the white steed on grassy green behind him. When he left, his strides no longer filled with exaggerated vigor, he had been an ancient dotard of a Rohirrim, unfit to hold his station, or the gaudy titles pinned upon his breast unjustly. He was saddened that day, profusely, and his luster abandoned him, spurning him cruelly and striking him from his high perch, no longer the noble falcon but the cantankerous old crow, reclusive in his stories of war, death, and illusions of merriness.

For his deeds and for his presence in the War of the Ring as a man who stood on the field for principle and for honor, Osric of Aldburg had been allowed to enter that hall, alongside the few brothers of his who had not fallen, and be looked upon by the noble Eomer and fair Eowyn, Lord and Lady of the kingdom. He had been humbled, not by them, but by the place, by some strange futility that accosted him to no end. He could not shake as he looked upon the marble pillars, gleaming in sunlight manufactured perfectly by the sensational golden hue of the rafters above, on the dazzling tapestries of past conquests ceremoniously decorating Brego’s hall. It was something that lingered in Osric now. But, the Rohirrim tried not to consider it an ill thing. He had seen Meduseld, and was honored to have even the syllables of his name spoken by the brave and regal Eomer upon his gilt throne. Now, as Osric so warily assured all others, was a time for celebration.

“So,” queried the man, more as thundering statement than question in reality, clapping his suddenly clenched fist upon a table and rattling its foundations, “who now is left that has not placed his voice upon our heart strings and plaid, like master Liornung on the fiddle? I know but one who has yet to awe us with his words and song!” The crowd seemed to unanimously agree with the anonymous voice, since none knew its owner, and began to shout and hoot and holler, though they soon realized that they did not know which bard they ought to center their attentions on. They all looked around, bewildered, which allowed Osric a choked-back chuckle, which soon stopped as his own attention was swiftly diverted to another, more important matter.

Slowly, but with zealous sureness, Osric edged his rickety wooden chair across the floor, scraping up the polished wood, towards where Eorcyn sat. The bard took notice, but seemed, with his theatrical skill, not to, at first. He shot a sideways look at the once-warrior and turned back to the crowd, but Osric persisted doggedly, swinging his chair up and over beneath him and to the table that Eorcyn stood beside, his arms still half spread as requests seem to rise and fall. Osric gestured to him, somewhat ruefully, and the bard turned to the man, sitting beneath him. Osric, pushing up from the table with wobbling, narrow arms sheathed in cloth, stood hunched before the bard and spoke, though no others heard his voice in the commotion.

“Eorcyn," he said in reservation, being all but concise, "you must forgive my inconsiderate choice of words when we spoke. I was somewhat addled at this whole scenario playing out; my ancient wits were prone to some failing, so I may have seemed ungrateful. I want, now, before the end of this happy day, to extend my hearty thanks for your services to my friends this day, and to the noble men and ladies of the Great Hall. I know I should not speak on their behalf, as I am barely a member of the conglomerate I speak of, but I can still hope that you might accept this poor excuse for penance.”