[piosenniel]

“What a wordsmith the Old Fellow was! And a true inspiration for those who have come after…” The rest of Pio’s acclaim was cut off as a long drawn out wail which rose and fell like the cry of some dark and lonely creature cut a discordant swathe through the room. Brows raised, she eyed the fellow as he spun and sang. “Have mercy!” she swore aloud. “Not bad . . . not bad . . . as far as lyrics go, I’ll give him that.” She watched as the fellow, now done with song, began to express himself with his sword. Drawing a knife from each boot top, she placed them close at hand on the table.

Pio raised her half-empty mug in the direction of the whirling singer, a friendly gesture. And one to say she was keeping her eye on him.

Taking a small sip, she raised it once again, high in the air. “And here’s to Himself, The Barrow-Wight, for making such a delightful place for us misbegotten wanderers to tarry awhile in…” She drained the last of her drink and set the mug upside down on the table.

“Arry, you know this one, I think.” She hummed low, a few bars of an old story-song. Arry strummed a mix of chords, fitting them to the rhythm of her singing. Pio nodded her head and winked a smile at him. “And you, ‘Vin,’ she went on, thumping her fingers lightly on the table’s wooden top in a soft, measured rhythm, motioning him to follow along. “Keep the beat for me . . . if you will.”

Pio listened as her two friends wove a light melody.

“Now this is a long-ago song from times when magics were carried on the winds.” She smiled a little to herself. “It brings fond memories of times of my own…”

I know a window in a western tower
That opens on celestial seas,
And wind that has been blowing round the stars
Comes to nestle in its tossing draperies.
It is a white tower builded in the Twilight Isles,
Where Evening sits for ever in the shade;
It glimmers like a spike of lonely pearl
That mirrors beams forlorn and lights that fade;
And sea goes washing round the dark rock whereit stands,
And fairy boats go by to gloaming lands
All piled and twinkling in the gloom
With hoarded sparks of orient fire
That divers won in waters of the unknown Sun -
And, maybe, 'tis a throbbing silver lyre,
Or voices of grey sailors echo up
A float among the shadows of the world
In oarless shallop and with canvas furled;
For often seems there ring of feet and song,
Or the twilit twinkle of a trembling gong.

O! happy mariners upon a journey long
To those great portals on the Western shores
Where far away constellate fountains leap,
And dashed against Night's dragon-headed doors
In foam of stars fall sparkling in the deep.
While I alone look out behind the Moon.
From in my white and windy tower,
Ye bide no moment and await no hour,
But chanting snatches of a mystic tune
Go through the shadows and the dangerous seas
Past sunless lands to fairy leas
Where stars upon the jacinth wall of space
Do tangle burst and interlace.
Ye follow Earendel through the West,
The shining mariner, to Islands blest;
While only from beyond that sombre rim
A wind returns to stir these crystal panes
And murmur magically of golden rains
That fall for ever in those spaces dim.

The last echoes of voice, and strum, and wooded beats fell away into the Great Hall’s environs.

“Well, done my friends!!” Pio nodded her head, smiling widely at her two companions. “Now, what do you say for another round of the ‘Downs finest? That was a rather longish song-poem – and my throat is parched!!!”

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“Tha Eadigan Saelidan: The Happy Mariners”
----- from the Old Fellow: J. R. R. Tolkien - The Book of Lost Tales Part Two