The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

A stunned silence fell upon the Golden Hall and all eyes slowly turned to Hearpwine where he stood, open mouthed yet speechless, by the great Door. He looked across the room at the range of people staring at him, and his eyes settled on the King, who was now regarding him with open curiosity as to what the young man would do. Hearpwine noticed that the King’s earlier easy manner and gentle countenance had been replaced with something much sterner. The Lady Éowyn regarded him with a kind eye, but her face was full of stern pity. Realising that it was up to him to break the quiet tension that had fallen upon the room in the wake of Asad’s outburst, Hearpwine did his best to square his shoulders and move into the open space between the fire and the King. As he walked across the stone floor his footsteps echoed through the rafters and beams of the Hall, uninterrupted by the slightest noise or word from all those who looked on.

When Hearpwine reached the King, he bowed low before speaking. “My King, I must beg your forgiveness for my young friend’s words. He is passionate and fiery, like all youths. Do not punish him for speaking his mind.”

The King’s face was unmoved as he replied. “You call him friend? Do you stand with him, then? Will you place yourself at his fate?”

Hearpwine considered for a moment before replying. “I do call him friend, but I have known him only the length of this morning. He did me a service, though, that I will every hold dear, and he spoke kindly of my music – always the surest way to my heart!” His light joke sent a slight chuckle through some parts of the room, reducing the tension somewhat. But still King Éomer was unsmiling and displeased by the interruption in his Hall on this day.

“Then you do stand by his words? You feel as though you have been wronged by our decision?”

“Not wronged, my lord! You have the right to choose whom you wish as Bard. But, yes, I do stand by what Asad has said about my singing and my value as a Bard…although I would have had him put his opinions somewhat more gently. I am a great admirer or Eorcyn’s, as I am sure Asad is. But like all those who were not chosen this day, I cannot help but feel that it would have been better had I been so fortunate as to win your favour.”

“If it is our favour that you seek,” said the Lady Éowyn, “then consider yourself the victor. You have won the favour of the King and of Éowyn this day.”

Hearpwine looked at her and asked with the honest heart of a small child, desirous of praise, “Did you like my song, Lady?”

Éowyn smiled and say, “Yes, that I did. It brought back to me that terrible and glorious day, when Theoden Thengel slew the Fell Beast and felled the Serpent. You do that day it’s full measure of honour with your song.”

Hearpwine bowed his head once more, saying “Then with the happiest of hearts do I concede the victory of this day to Eorcyn; for you have rewarded my labours with the greatest prize I could hope for.” He turned to leave.

To the amazement of all, Eorcyn spoke. For the duration of the Asad’s outburst and subsequent conversations, he had stood to one side of the dais, the mantle of the King’s Bard in his hands but not yet about his neck. “Wait,” he said quietly, coming forward. “I feel the honour that you have done me this day, my King, and my heart rejoices at it. But I am an old man, and will not long grace your Hall as its Bard. Perhaps it would be better to give the mantle to a younger man, one who will grow old in your company and delight you even into your own age.” A gasp went through the crowd and the King’s eyes grew wide with shock. For a moment, all stared at him, uncertain which way things would go. But then Éomer began to laugh with such humour that all the tension bled from the room like water, and everyone’s hearts began to beat once more.

He turned to Hearpwine. “Well, young Master Hearpwine, your tongue is indeed magical. Not since the time of Grima Wormtongue has someone been able to usurp the power of the King with little more than the honeyed sound of his words. Nay, nay” he said quickly, seeing the alarm in Hearpwine’s eyes at the comparison, “I do not accuse you of any evil like that wicked man’s. I do but enjoy the prerogative of King to make idle jests in his own Hall, when more serious matter is called for.” He turned once more to Eorcyn. “Your actions do you honour, old friend, but to set aside that burden is not in your power. I have laid the mantle upon you, and you must wear it.”

Eorcyn opened his mouth to protest but before he could, the Lady Éowyn stepped forward and stopped him with a gesture. “My King,” she said, “we have reached an impasse I fear – a welcome one, though it may be. We have two bards, one old and one young, both of whom would do this Hall honour. Only one can be bard, and I agree that Eorcyn is that one. He is older and more experienced; he knows our people well, and they love him in return. But,” she said with a glint in her eye, “is there not room enough in our realms for two Bards?”

A silence fell upon the crowd and there was excited shuffling as the Lady resumed. “Just as there can be only one King, there can only be one Bard to the King. But as the King has his heir, does it not follow that the King’s Bard should also have one to prepare for his place when the day comes he can no longer fill it? Let us bid Eorcyn take Hearpwine as apprentice. Let him learn what he needs to in preparation for the day when he can assume his place in this Hall – when he is ready?”

The King smiled and said to his sister, his love for her easily read to all who stood by. “You speak as truthfully and as wisely as ever! Let us do so. But where shall Hearpwine practice his trade? It would not do to have two bards singing at the Hall, and I doubt that either would relish working under the other’s shadow?”

“Then let Hearpwine come with me and my Lord Faramir back to Ithilien. There will he tarry two seasons of the year as Bard to the Prince of Ithilien. The other seasons, let him come here to learn from Eorcyn and prepare to become the legend that he was so clearly born to be!”

Even those who stood outside the Hall could hear the cries of joy that greeted this. And when they looked up the steps to see who would emerge as the winner of the Contest, there came two men: Eorcyn bearing the mantle of the Bard, and just behind him came Hearpwine in the colours of the Lady Éowyn, with tears flowing upon his cheeks unashamedly.

[Nurumaiel]

The sound of cheering soon reached those at the Inn. Maercwen straightened up, her heart beating quickly, and she returned to Aylwen, an unvoiced question in her eyes. The Innkeeper hesitated only briefly before she smiled and nodded. Maercwen gestured wildly to her uncle, who was sitting by Osric, and flew out the door on light feet.

Not far from the door to the Inn was the crowd gathered about Hearpwine and an older bard. Maercwen pushed through the swarms of people with as much courtesy as could be allowed until she reached Hearpwine. Liornung shook his head at her pushing and shoving and with experienced ease slipped in between and under people, chuckling as he thought of the time he had helped Frodides through a crowd just as thick.

Tears were flowing from Hearpwine's eyes and down his face, tears of great joy. No doubt he had become Bard of the King, yet... this older bard wore the mantle that came with the title. Maercwen pulled at Hearpwine's sleeve until he turned to her, and a smile came to his face. She gazed up at him in puzzlement. "Hearpwine, are you Bard of the King?" she questioned, doubt apparent in her voice.

He shook his head but continued to smile. "Nay, Mae, the Bard of the King is Eorcyn, and well he deserved it."

"Then why your tears of joy?" She stopped and looked him up and down and her cheeks became a trifle pale though it was just barely visible that she had lost color. "Why do you wear the colors of the Lady?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine was too caught up in his own joy to notice the distress in Maercwen’s voice and face. Looking past her to another well-wisher who cried out to him, he took another man’s hand in his own and spoke quickly to a third while the girl waited for an answer to her question with increasing anxiety. When finally Hearpwine turned his attention back to her he spoke through his grin while dashing the tears from his face with the back of his hand. “I am to be apprentice to Eorcyn, and heir to the title of Bard to the King! Do you hear that Mae! Someday I will stand before the Throne of the King and my song will fill the Hall to its Rafters!” He laughed like the ringing of a clear bell and swept Mae up in his arms, swinging her clear off her feet.

By the time he put her down again, Mae was breathless and becoming impatient. As Hearpwine turned away to speak with yet another well-wisher, she clasped him by the arm. “But why do you wear the coat of the Lady Éowyn?” she cried, and for the first time Hearpwine saw the tears of frustration starting from her eyes.

Those tears sent a chill to Hearpwine’s heart, for until that moment he had not realised how deeply the girl’s feelings had perhaps gone for him. Surely he had not done anything to lead her to think that he and she… But as he remembered the dancing of last night, and thought over his manner this morning as he had begged Aylwen to allow Mae to accompany him to the Hall; and his disturbance when they had thought she had been lost… A deep swell of shame came over his heart. He regarded Mae as a fair and happy lass, one whom he desired to look on, and whose looks he liked to draw himself. The sight of her bright eyes lighting up as he sang was one deeply to be desired, but beyond these trivialities his mind had not yet gone. He had been so caught up in his desire to become Bard that it had never occurred to him that his attentions might have been misunderstood by the girl… But still, there was no knowing what was in her heart, and perhaps things were just as they appeared: she had asked a question of him that he had not yet answered, and she was growing impatient with him for it.

He took Mae by the hand and led her away from the crowds so he could speak to her with greater attention. “The King has decided that it would not be best for there to be two Bards at the Hall throughout the year. Even though I am apprentice to Eorcyn, there can be only one Bard to sing the praises of the Rohirrim, and nobody wants there to be differences of opinion amongst the people of Edoras as to whom they would rather hear sing those praises! So I shall spend half the year in Ithilien with my Lady Éowyn, to whom I am now in service, and the other half of the year will I dwell in Meduseld, where I will hone my abilities under the strict tutelage of my new Master. Oh Mae!” he broke out once more, “is it not wonderful? Why this is better than my dreams of winning the Contest! Now I can spend years in travelling the length of Rohan and Gondor, seeing the peoples and places I have only dreamed of, learning the songs of all the lands about us, and then, when I am mature and growing stiff in my bones, I can settle myself here and sing of these things to my King until either he or I is laid in our tomb.”

[Nurumaiel]

A slow, sad smile came to her face. "Yes, it is wonderful, good Hearpwine," she said, "but I shall miss you. I have not known you long, indeed barely a day, but I have come to think on you as a brother. My uncle also will miss you." She paused a moment, struggling with the tears that threatened to flow down her cheeks. "It is always hard to say farewell to a friend, especially when the road he goes on is so long."

Hearpwine said nothing but let her struggle with herself. Bitter disappointment was creeping into her eyes to be companion to the sorrow. "I had also hoped," she continued, "that you would stay a long while and might teach my brother Gomen the trade. My uncle also will be leaving soon; this I know for he never stays more than a few days in one place. Gomen has often been expected to be horsemaster as my father is but I have long known that his heart is prisoner to sweet music and flowing words."

His brows came together in deep thought, and a few moments of silence passed before he smiled. "I think that perhaps I will be able to convince Bard of the King, Eorcyn, to help teach your brother," he said. Then he laughed. "Perhaps Gomen will someday be Bard of the King."

"He would follow the steps of his uncle," she said, raising her eyebrows slightly. "He never told anyone but he was Bard of the King in a time before the War of the Ring." He stared at her with deep amazement but she did not give him time to say anything for she glanced at Eorcyn and broke into joyous laughter. "My heart sings this day that two worthy men gain titles of honor. Come, Hearpwine and you, Master Eorcyn, Bard of the King, and seat yourselves by the warm fire of the humble White Horse to feast upon rich wine and hearty food and celebrate this occasion of deep joy!"

[Kransha]

As the day had dragged on, it’s luminous and vibrant course swirling melodiously into what seemed to be a vague dusk, but was actually still day, not long after the noon and the sun’s zenith in the unclouded sky. Osric, scratching at his beleaguered forehead, studded with rough marks and creased with wizened wrinkles, got to his feet slowly, proceeding as swiftly as he could behind Liornung and Maercwen. He followed with whatever quickness he could muster, flinging his stiff leg along like the limp limb of a mannequin, flailing behind and before him until he found himself being unconsciously devoured by a small crowd that had flooded around the visage of a young man, looking pleased, but sobered up in a unknown fashion, as he and the crowd that trailed him moved towards the inn. When Hearpwine (for Osric knew the figure to be Hearpwine now) had neared the narrow threshold and saw Osric limping towards him, he smiled solemnly as his eyes twinkled, and extended his arms to greet the aged fellow.

“Good Osric,” he cried, most vigorously, “I have good news from the Golden Hall!” Osric nodded; his hand ready and up. “I know, young friend,” he said slowly, deliberating over each word that passed over and out from his moving lips, “I have heard. My ears are old, not deaf to the songs of Edoras.” Hearpwine seemed somewhat confused, as the words of Osric held an air of incredulousness, and unusually prompt for the man. He looked as if he was about to speak but, severing his words with words even more deliberated and contemplated over, Osric continued.

“Master Hearpwine,” he began, lowering his head and turning as all the figures moved into the warm and abundant cheer of the inn’s atmosphere, “I, like Maercwen here, have not known you long, but you stirred something in this old warrior that he hadn’t felt for many years. I want to thank you, at least, for that service to my stony soul. You must promise me, Hearpwine, that, before you leave you shall sing a song to this inn to remember you by. When in Ithilien, the voice can linger here, and I’ll be proud to say to those who cross the threshold of the White Horse that I knew Hearpwine, Bard of Ithilien and Rohan, and a great man. I wish now that I’d met you years ago, when the light of hope dwindled in me when the black serpent bore Theoden Thengal to his death in the confines of Rammas Echor, but now my heart is rekindled, lad! You and Master Liornung gave me something that you’ve given to many, and I thank you heartily for it.” He finished on a more jocund note, turning, and clasping Hearpwine’s hand and arm firmly, shaking it where he stood and smiling, a featured gesture which the bard and poet soon returned.

“But, no more talk of parting!” cried Osric, with a severe suddenness that nearly caused the gathered to jump in their places after the old horsemasters solemn but jocund reverie, “Mae is right, let us feast and let us drink and you, m’lad, you may serenade the throngs of Rohan here in the Horse. It may be naught compared to the scathing critique of Lord Eomer and Lady Eowyn, but it is still a grand thing to hear you, where e’er it might be, eh? Come, and give us a rousing verse for your gathered base of followers!”

[piosenniel]

~*~ Discussion Thread Opens Tomorrow - June 5th ~*~

Durelin invites you to look at the discussion thread for the new game:

~*~ Bloodstained Elanor ~*~

Click HERE to view it.

Come play!

Players already in the game are: Amanaduial the archer, Arvedui III, Aylwen Dreamsong, Fordim Hedgethistle, and, of course, Durelin.

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Will remove this in a few days.

[Snowdog]

Celebrations of victory filled the aire of Edoras, and Hanasían rode slowly through the crowd. No smile graced his face except when he saw someone looking at him with smiles of celebration. But the four years since the war had not been kind to him. A veteran of the battles of the Fords of Isen, Helms Deep, and then, being one of the Dúnedain, he rode with his northern brethren and Chieftain through the Paths of the Dead and beyond. He fought also in the battle with the Corsairs, and the Pelennor and suffered the loss of his brother Hayna there. Hanasían himself was wounded in the Battle of the Morannon, but recovered. There was no celebration in him for the victory, but for the vanquishing of the darkness of Mordor. But the memories of friends and brethren lost he was reminded of.

Hanasían dismounted and looked about. He saw a young stable girl and he passed the reins of Greyshadow to her with a silver King’s coin. It wasn’t Rohirric, but was accepted in the Realm of his mother’s kin. He looked about some and smiled and waved to some boys who shouted praises to the veterans of the war, and he soon turned to the doors under a sign of the White Horse Inn.

The crowds were in such gaiety and Hanasían deduced from the nearby banter that a bardic competition had concluded and the joy of having the King’s title was pouring out in cheer. He heard mention of Éowyn, the white lady of Rohan and Princess of Ithilien, and one being in her service. It had been four years since he had seen her, and Lord Faramir as well. Memories of their love for one another when he was in the Houses of Healing brought refreshing memories to the tortured veteran. Hanasían smiled and clapped his hands as he pushed his way through the throng to the doors and entered the Inn.

Many were out in the streets celebrating, and Hanasían did his customary look about the common room as his eyes adjusted to the light inside. His seeming dark locks were in loose long curls about his shoulders, and his attire was that of the pre-war Dúnedain Rangers of the north. He wore dark leathers and a light cloak of deep gray-green. He made his way to a table across the room that was vacant, and being somewhat weary of the road he took to Edoras, sat and leaned back in the chair that if it could talk, could tell tales into eternity of all it had witnessed. He had beaten the rush of celebrators who were surely heading to this Inn, and Hanasían ordered a tankard of ale from a passing maid. While he waited for her return, he dug out his pipe and pipeweed, and tamped up a pipe. Drawing out a twig he kept, Hanasían lit it from a nearby lamp, and he drew his pipe into a deep orange glow. It was a good trade with the old Hobbit up north, for a store of 1420 Longbottom was relaxing for sure! The pound of Khandese tea he had to give up for it was well worth it! The lass brought the ale, and Hanasían handed her a coin of Kings silver. He smiled and relaxed for the first time in awhile, and he would enjoy his time here.

The banter of the crowds came through the door, and talk of Ithilien and song were in the aire as the noise level went up a notch. Talk from Rohirrim veterans made Hanasían wonder if there was an Annalist of the Rohirrim to record the names and events, lest they be forgotten with the passage of time. Being that the Rohirrim were his mother’s people, he would do what he could to remember, and write. Hanasían’s hand went for his satchel. He was short of parchment, but his quill and ink was in good order, and if events allowed it he would do some writing and gather the stories of the individuals who fought in the war.