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Hearpwine’s cloak bore upon it the mud of all the lands between Edoras and his humble cot far away in the remotest reaches of the Westfold. He had traveled for days to reach the Golden Hall, and his horse Hrothgar was almost as tired as he after their long journey. After seeing his friend properly stabled and fed, he headed toward the front door of the White Horse Inn for a refreshing cup of beer before presenting himself before the King.
He had never been to Edoras, but he knew it as well as if he’d been born and raised there for he had heard and sung, hundreds of times, every song that dealt with its greatness. In his own land, he was acknowledged to be the greatest bard anyone had ever heard. But he knew that this meant little. To be great in a small land was nothing – to be the greatest bard in Edoras, to sing, perhaps, for the King himself. . .! It was an aspiration that Hearpwine had long held close to his heart. When news had come to him of the contest that the King was to hold on the anniversary of King Theoden’s death, he had leapt upon Hrothgar’s mighty back and left upon the instant, determined to reach the Golden Hall before it was too late.
He entered the Inn, and immediately attracted the attention of a number of its patrons, for he was tall and strong of limb, and his skin shone with the vibrancy of youth and health. His golden hair hung down his back in a tight braid and his close-cropped beard shone like freshly-harvested hay. He looked about the room with his keen green eyes and saw the Innkeeper at her books. He strode toward her to ask if she knew about the contest at the Golden Hall. “Contest?” she replied, looking up from her accounts.
“Aye,” Hearpwine replied in his deep baritone. “To select the new Bard for the Golden Hall! All bards of talent are to present themselves before the King on the anniversary of the Great Battle before Minas Tirith and sing of Theoden’s fall. The whole court shall then judge who will become the Bard to the King!”
The Innkeeper said that she remembered having heard about the contest, but that it had slipped her mind. “Do you sing well?” she asked provokingly, but not unkindly; she had obviously seen her fair share of young men from the country come to Edoras with equally grandiose dreams. By way of answer, Hearpwine straightened his back, threw back his head and sang:
“To fires consuming and foes unconquered,
Orcs waving weapons, stained with the blood
Of the Sea-kings, slaughtered by hundreds
Before the stone-walls of their strong city,
Rode the Rohirrim on the red-road of war.
Noble Men of the west from Minas Tirith
Calling to Theoden, that greatest of kings,
Begging for aid, bid him remember
The oaths he had sworn, and send to them now
Strong spears and broad shields.”
A silence fell upon the Inn for a moment as the denizens listened to the strong melody of Hearpwine’s song. For those among them who had known battle, it stirred their blood with memories that rang to the bone. For those who were yet untried by war it raised pictures of horror and glory. When he was finished, the people in the Common Room returned to their conversations and the young man turned to the Innkeeper once more. “My name is Hearpwine, and I come to Edoras to claim my place as Bard to the King! Might I ask your name, so that I can include you in the song that I shall write someday in celebration of my arrival in Edoras?”
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