The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Bêthberry]

A still hush of late midday greeted Hearpwine's singing of Galadriel's lament. It was the cessation of movement around The White Horse which caught Bethberry's eye. It was as if not a breathe was taken nor expelled.

She saw Aylwen poised above the desk, hand still holding pen, as still as the barrows which rowed the entrance to Edoras. She saw Aedre unmoving, her hand holding a pitcher which she had placed upon a wooden trestle, her face turned towards the warrior turned bard. She saw Maercwen sit quietly and all Liornung's other neices and nephews rooted to their spots upon the floor, no longer rolling their small glass baubles nor bouncing their balls and pick up sticks. She saw Ruthven and the two dwarves, Oin and Finky, stop their raucous laughter to listen to Hearpwine's entrancing voice. It was difficult to imagine those two still, but indeed they were, not a tug at their beards nor a scratch at their heads nor a stretch of their arms. The old warrior Osric, his eyelids lowered to half cover his eyes, had straightened his back and his neck, lifted his head; even his arms had sought a stiff attention as his hands held bread. What enemy was he seeing march towards him?

"It is a song of great keening, the White Lady's lament," spoke Bethberry finally, "a song suited to the passing of her people, to opportunities lost, to roads not taken, to great regret."

Both Hearpwine and Liornung raised their eyes towards the former Innkeeper. What did they know of her past, of who this woman was?

"Yet every beauty has its cost, its great peril. There are those who say that Gimli himself spoke of the danger of light and joy and the wounding which comes of its passing."

Here a fleck of sunlight skittered into the great hall and fell upon Hearpwine's face. All could see him raise an eyebrow at Bethberry, which she acknowledged with a slow, small half smile which wafted over her face as moonlight dances over a running stream.

"Your words of praise are strung as pearls, great ornaments to beauty. Yet you have said when you returned home after the War that home seemed smaller and duller than you remembered it. And now you have forsaken it, seeking a different path."

Hearpwine did not contract her, but sat waiting for her to continue. Liornung watched her closely.

"For elves, memory was their heart's desire. And their bain. Can you sing a song for me, Hearpwine, of those who heart's desire turns them not back but forward, to find ever present beauty in the changes of each day?"

The woman who as a child had played in the Withywindle and around the roots of Old Man Willow, heedless of their dangers, and who had then journied the many paths of Middle earth as an itinerent healer, in search of the lost mother, sat back in her chair, realising that this day would bring wonders more bountiful than the current Innkeeper had imagined. She asked Aedre to take a seat beside them all, relaxing with the music. Then Bethberry waited calmly.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine’s laughter rang out clear into the Inn at the woman’s words. “Aye, and again Aye, my good woman Bethberry. A song of Men for Men, who must live and die in a world that changes ever – that’s more fit for us. Forgive me my song of Galadriel, as I hope the Golden Lady herself will forgive me for mangling it as I have. But do not be so quick to consign the Elves to that which is gone. From the songs I know of them, and from what I heard during the Last Journey of Theoden it would seem that their part in the great Song is come to an end. But the melodies they have played linger in the tunes of lesser beings.” He saw Bethberry smile at this, and he knew that she too found him to be a bold and not entirely realistic young man. Hearpwine merely laughed again, so used was he to his elders thinking him a fond young person.

He drank another cup of water in a few swallows, and then lifting his harp, he sang a sprightly song that lifted the hearts of all who heard it.

“Her arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say;
Barefooted came the beggar maid
Before the king Frealaf.
In robe and crown the king stept down,
To meet and greet her on her way;
‘It is no wonder,’ said the lords,
‘She is more beautiful than day.’

“As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her poor attire was seen;
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace,
In all that land had never been.
Frealaf sware a royal oath:
‘This beggar maid shall be my queen!’”

He finished the tune on his harp and acknowledged the gentle applause with a slight nod of his head. “What think you of that song, eh mistress Maercwen? It is one of my favourites, for it tells the tale of a young person from the countryside who came to Edoras seeking her wealth, only to be cast into the direst poverty. But when the King himself beheld her, his heart was smitten with her beauty, and he took her up as his queen!” Maercwen simply blushed and looked away, unable to speak to Hearpwine’s manner. The young man turned back to Bethberry. “I can see by the laughter in your eye that you liked my song; but there is something there that also speaks to dislike. Perhaps you do not approve of my tale of a woman condemned to wait upon the whim of a powerful man? Well, let me mend that song with another!” And without waiting for a reply he stroked his harp into vigorous life once more.

“I know her by her angry air,
Her bright black eyes, her bright black hair,
Her rapid laughters wild and shrill,
As laughters of the woodpecker
From the bosom of a hill.
’Tis Kate–she sayeth what she will;
For Kate hath an unbridled tongue,
Clear as the twanging of a harp.
Her heart is like a throbbing star.
Kate hath a spirit ever strung
Like a new bow, and bright and sharp
As edges of the scimitar.
Whence shall she take a fitting mate?
For Kate no common love will feel;
My woman-soldier, gallant Kate,
As pure and true as blades of steel.

“Kate saith ‘the world is void of might.’
Kate saith ‘the men are gilded flies.’
Kate snaps her fingers at my vows;
Kate will not hear of lovers’ sighs.
I would I were an armed knight,
Far-famed for well-won enterprise,
And wearing on my swarthy brows
The garland of new-wreathed emprise;
For in a moment I would pierce
The blackest files of clanging fight,
And strongly strike to left and right,
In dreaming of my lady’s eyes.
O, Kate loves well the bold and fierce;
But none are bold enough for Kate,
She cannot find a fitting mate.”

Once more applause filled the Inn, but this time there was also some laughter. “So what make you of my music Bethberry? To make amends for my song of the Lady Departed I give you two songs of women who are all too real in Rohan. Which of these two women do we,” with a sweeping gesture of his hand he indicated all who sat and listened, “which of these women do we prefer? The beautiful wretch who must wait upon her lord? Or the proud maid who will wait for no man?”

[Bêthberry]

Ruthven gingerishly rose to her feet, carefully feeling all her limbs and sides to make sure her aged bones could take this kind of horseplay. She watched Oin and Finky race around her cart. They seemed to have forgotten her and so for the time being she could simply catch her breath and wipe some of the mud from her. Truth be told, she hadn't had so much fun in years. Yet it wasn't like she would let on to the dwarves.

"You harmed my dignity!" shouted Oin, barely missing one of the cart's handles as he tried to catch Finky.

"You harmed an old lady!" retorted Finky, running around the front wheel and nearly catching his foot in the spokes..

"You'll pay, you miserable dwarf!!" accused Oin.

"Make me you descendant of rats scurrying under mountains."

"By the Beard of Durin I'll make you eat this mud," swore Oin.

"Tastes better than your words!"

The faster they ran around the cart, the more the mud flew and the dirtier the two dwarves became. Their hair and faces, beards and clothes were covered with mud, head to foot and back again.

Ruthven began to laugh, slowly at first and then faster and more loudly, but with good humour. Her voice rang out and slowly penetrated the thick skulls of the two dwarves. They stopped. They looked at each other. They looked at her.

Now, Oin was a decent fellow inspite of his grumbling. And Finky really did care for Oin. And they were getting tired of all this running and falling.

"I beg your pardon?" commented Oin, attempting to regain some of his dignity.

"What's this?" asked Finky, wanting to appear the peace-maker.

"You're dignity's digging yourselves down in the mud. Keep it up and the two of ye will be turned into stone yourselves prematurely. I won't know ye from the earth you're pounding."

The two looked at her under muddy eyebrows. They looked at each other. All three began to hoot and hollar.

"We are a right mess," observed Oin.

"We have taken our beauty baths," sniffed Finky.

"Methinks we'd best move on and clean ourselves before this cakes on," replied Ruthven, beginning to feel the chill of the spring mud move into her bones.

"Come, Finky," said Oin. "Let's get this cart out of the mud and head back to that Inn. We'll never get on our way this way."

"Right you are," replied Finky.

And so the two dwarves helped Ruthven roll her cat back to her small leanto behind one of the stores, where she cleaned herself of the muck. And the two dwarves moved on to the Horse, where they carefully treaded into their room, tossing Aylwen some coin for the mud they brought in, and bathed as is the wont and way of dwarves. Which is to say, in mighty pails of steaming hot water.

And so Ruthven found that she needed a way not with words but with laughter to bring the two to their senses. And so they all agreed to meet again at the Horse once they were cleaned and dried and brought back to jolly good humour. And that was how they found themselves listening to the battle of the songs between Hearpwine and Liornung and attended to the challenge of songs between Hearpwine and Bethberry. All in all, it had been a good day to be a dwarf.

[Imladris]

This beggar maid shall be my queen the euphonious utterance rang like a silver bell within the my cranium-imprisoned mind. The minstrel of words began to cantillate yet another pulchritudinous composition that revealed a maid of so cavalier an air that she seemed like a caustic elixir burning the torn, throbbing heart of star-struck lover.

My buckram muscles, with great demurral, untwined themselves from their twisted seated position, and I, with inbred feline lissomeness, leaped to the wooden floor of the Inn. Ochroid insignia lifted high, I trotted to where the master of words resided.

“So what make you of my music Bethberry? To make amends for my song of the Lady Departed I give you two songs of women who are all too real in Rohan. Which of these two women do we,” with a sweeping gesture of his hand he indicated all who sat and listened, “which of these women do we prefer? The beautiful wretch who must wait upon her lord? Or the proud maid who will wait for no man?”

Bethberry…the lady was like a returning ghost of memory. Had she really fondled me so many years ago? The thread of memory had grown ragged indeed.

Diverting the powers of cogitation to the balladist, I considered it. Having a resplendent damsel drinking your grandiose aura was rather alluring. I purred, and rubbed myself against Bethberry’s leg.

[Kransha]

A smile lighted Osric’s face again as he listened to a more jocund song from the mouth of Hearpwine. In truth, it was not very merry, but it brought back merrier memories. Though the song of Hearpwine chimed a gentle bell, it was Osric’s mind that strayed from the lyrical verse itself, leaving only the rhythm of the tune itself that lingered like a heartbeat in the aged Rohirrim as he thought back.

He could see the same jet black hair, smooth strands as dark as night’s tempting shadows, that Hearpwine sung of in his stirring melody. It was his own maiden, the one image he remembered better than any tale. Unlike the maiden whose portrait was so finely crafted in song, her eyes where a tranquil green, glimmering with what Osric had always thought to be a tint of gold. Those eyes and that noble but delicate complexion soothed the elder Rohirrim, rocking him into a state of mental slumber as he pictured the woman with a reminiscing smile upon withered lips. He was brought, soon enough, back to the warm reality of the White Horse with the sound of an oddly pensive feline’s purring, as it rubbed against Bethberry’s leg calmly. This was followed by more arrivals, namely a quartet of young ones who pranced over, most energetically, to Liornung. As the fiddler took the smallest of the children on his knee gently, he introduced the four of them. Osric’s smile widened, the creased wrinkles of his face fading in happiness, and he spoke, turning to Hearpwine. He quickly gave Gomen, Middaeg, Drihten, and Beorht an acknowledging nod and further grin, to the slight delight of the child, Drihten, whose blue eyes seemed to wink with that wonderful innocence that only a child had.

“Though I’m sure I speak not for all, Hearpwine, I can honestly say that the second is, in my foolish old eyes at least, the fairer. The only maid who I ever loved was one such lady, a woman as strong as a storm and as untamable as the very Mearas themselves. The meek may be for some, Hearpwine, but is those with fire that draw me and, so I have heard, a great many men. I find that this fire may dwindle and need new firewood to rekindle it as years go by, but the mysterious and elusive beauty of the flame will be eternal as the sun.”

The old one paused, considering his words in contemplation and chuckling foolishly to himself as his mind began leafing through neglected pages of ballad, story, tale, and epic he could have related about any beauty that he thought of now. He knew any attempt would be weak and surely dwarfed by Hearpwine’s serene talent and expertly honed skill. The man’s eyes, widened now as he awakened from his veritable dormancy, turned and gazed with reverence on Hearpwine.

“If my mind was still mounted upon firm foundations, lad, I could tell such stories, but alas I would only butcher them each in turn, for my silver tongue has dulled. But, I see new hope for the next age when I see folk such as you, Hearpwine, and the fairness of your words. I assure you, the Golden Lady would be proud to hear your moving rendition of her verse, for who could sing anything but its praises? You are too modest, Heaprwine, a trait which I have not seen in a truly long time.”

[Crystal Heart]

Crystal looked up and thanked the Innkeeper. She took a small sip and gave a smile. It was rather good.

Her memory wandered, but there was still places where she still couldn't remember a thing. In her travelings around middle earth she had been in rather rough fight with a drunken man that had mistaken her as his wife. His fists had been wild and hard against the skull of her head. There was only portions of that she actually remembered. She did remember waking up in a place with a woman over her telling her what had happened to her. She couldn't remember many other things after that. Her memory was slowly coming back, but it was so painfully slow that she had stopped trying to actually remember. She wasn't even entirely sure that Crystal was her real name.

She thought back hard against the bearer, but nothing would budge in her mind. There was just a black portion that just sat there, unweilding against her mental pushes. She itched her neck and felt something she hadn't noticed before. She pulled the rough thing away from her and saw a necklace. It was long with a pendant on the end. She read it: Eowyn Lightheart. Ah, that was her name. It had to be. She couldn't have found it any where else. She smiled.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The Innkeeper watched as the newcomer asked Aedre for the ale. Aylwen raised her gaze from the ledger to watch and study the young woman, who puzzled Aylwen and made her suspicious and nervous. Of course, it was Aylwen's job as Innkeeper to be suspicious, or at least her right to be. Aylwen didn't want any trouble, and the only reason that caused her to suspect was the weapon she'd caught a glimpse of earlier when the stranger had walked in. The young woman's looks betrayed that she did not hail from Rohan, as did the fact that she traveled alone. It struck Aylwen that not only did the girl travel alone, but she carried a sword, as though she meant to travel alone anyway.

It is unsettling to have an armed patron, for we are people of peace here after the great war, Aylwen thought. But there are probably other weapons in this Inn that I am not aware of. I shall not have the young'un tossed just because I caught sight of her sword...The Innkeeper sighed and listened half-heartedly as Bethberry and Hearpwine spoke and sang. I will do naught unless the sword is brought out for use...

“So what make you of my music Bethberry? To make amends for my song of the Lady Departed I give you two songs of women who are all too real in Rohan. Which of these two women do we...which of these women do we prefer? The beautiful wretch who must wait upon her lord? Or the proud maid who will wait for no man?”

Aylwen looked over at Hearpwine, a smile in her heart and playing upon her lips. The young man amused her, to say the least. Aylwen was almost jealous of Liornung and Hearpwine's talent and skill with music, but more than anything Aylwen was overjoyed to have them at the Inn.

“Though I’m sure I speak not for all, Hearpwine, I can honestly say that the second is, in my foolish old eyes at least, the fairer. The only maid who I ever loved was one such lady, a woman as strong as a storm and as untamable as the very Mearas themselves. The meek may be for some, Hearpwine, but is those with fire that draw me and, so I have heard, a great many men. I find that this fire may dwindle and need new firewood to rekindle it as years go by, but the mysterious and elusive beauty of the flame will be eternal as the sun.”

The Innkeeper turned her gaze to the man called Osric, and nodded at his words. It was a good man that spoke truly and honestly from his heart, and it seemed that most men of Rohan were so, and that, to Aylwen, proved to be all well and good.

“If my mind was still mounted upon firm foundations, lad, I could tell such stories, but alas I would only butcher them each in turn, for my silver tongue has dulled. But, I see new hope for the next age when I see folk such as you, Hearpwine, and the fairness of your words. I assure you, the Golden Lady would be proud to hear your moving rendition of her verse, for who could sing anything but its praises? You are too modest, Heaprwine, a trait which I have not seen in a truly long time.”

Aylwen nodded, for Osric's words were true of Hearpwine. At that moment, several familiar children came running towards Liornung, all children that Aylwen had known for a very long time. Aylwen had known most of them, in fact, for their whole lives. The children of Leofan went to their uncle with happy smiles upon their faces.

Turning her gaze, Aylwen's dark eyes finally rested on the newcomer, who thanked Aedre for the wine she'd been served. Aylwen sighed and watched as more customers entered the Inn. The Inn would become crowded quickly, for the sun was slowly waning in the sky and once it was completely gone Aylwen would give her speech to begin the festivities.