The White Horse Inn, Act III

[piosenniel]

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~*~ Bloodstained Elanor ~*~

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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.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Osric’s sudden and uncharacteristically good humor brought a smile to Hearpwine’s face and a laugh to his throat. He pounded the elder on his back with such vigor that the old warrior staggered into his seat, but Hearpwine’s spirits were too high to notice. The Inn was quieter than the street had been, and its now familiar and humble shape was strangely comforting to Hearpwine after the grand heights of the Golden Hall. He looked about and saw Aylwen looking up from where she sat at her desk, her face wreathed in smiles. Bêthberry was there with, as always, her oddly knowing smile. She returned his glance with little more than a nod of her reverend head, but he read much in that gesture, and with a gravity that did not often characterize his actions, he bowed his head to her slightly. But his joy was greatest when he beheld Liornung coming toward him, his arms outspread and his face beaming with joy. The two men embraced one another like brothers, and once more Hearpwine felt tears upon his face, for of all the men whom he could have wished to be with on this day, the fiddler who had set him on the Road that had brought him to this moment was the most dear. “My dear, dear friend,” Liornung said, “I am more happy for you than you can know! What a tremendous honour! And how much more enviable than becoming the Bard – now you can travel and see the world. Who knows, if your Lady will allow it, perhaps you can join with me in my travels some time.”

Hearpwine’s face took on the look of one who had been granted his heart’s desire beyond all hope, and he was speechless. He merely took Liornung’s hand in his own and fought back the knot that clutched at the back of his throat. Liornung then saw Eorcyn approaching and he hailed the old Bard with glee. “Good Eorcyn,” he said, “I had heard of your success and was overjoyed – the King has chosen wisely indeed!” The two men shook hands.

Hearpwine found his voice at last. “You were Bard to the King!” he burst out at Liornung. “All this time, and you did not tell me! I had thought that none had followed Gleowine until this day!”

It was Eorcyn who replied. “Indeed he was, and a much finer Bard than I fear I shall be. If the Lady could indeed be prevailed upon to allow you to accompany Master Liornung on his travels, even if for only a short time, you would learn more from him in a season than I can offer you in many years of careful instruction.” Liornung flushed and began to refute the compliment, but the old Bard held up his hand and said with mirth, “Silence! Have I not this day been made Bard to the King? I will not be gainsaid in matters such as this – a masterful Bard you were, and one you shall always be, although I know you do not take the title for yourself.”

It was Osric, now recovered from Hearpwine’s rough treatment, who first recalled the bards to the matter at hand. “I see that we have here,” he said loudly, commanding the attention of the Inn, “three Bards of the Golden Hall: past, present and future. Come! Let us demand a song of them, so that we may boast years hence of the day we heard the three mightiest bards of Rohan united in song!”

[Nurumaiel]

"I made a dreadful mistake in telling my service to the King as Bard," said Liornung with a playful little smile. "Now you compliment me more than I am worthy of. I thank you." He bowed low to Osric, and the latter spoke again, "Sing for us first, Master Liornung, as Bard of days gone by."

"But, uncle, I beg you tell me this first," Maercwen broke in before Liornung could go to fetch his fiddle. "Why is it that you were Bard of the King and no one ever knew this? Would not Eorcyn know, and perhaps Osric as well, and others who were older than children before the War?"

"It was not a grand affair," Liornung replied, "as this one is. Times were growing troubled then, and such festivities were not held. There was no Contest; I sang in the Hall once as I passed through Edoras and the King bid me stay awhile and be Bard. The honor of Eorcyn and Hearpwine is much greater; they have earned through hard toil their right to the title while my little song merely caught the King Theoden's fancy." He moved off to find his fiddle and Maercwen went to her sisters, drawing them to her and kissing their golden heads. She sat beside Gomen and a silence fell upon the room when Liornung returned. His eyes had become soft and dreamy and he struck up a slow, haunting melody that rose and fell as waves of music, bringing the incense of sound to the room and delighting the ears of those that heard.

"Oh, fare thee well sweet Hall of Gold,
I leave thee for awhile.
The days are short, the year is old,
the road is many miles.
I hoped to stay but a little more
and linger for some days
but my presence here is o'er;
I can no longer stay.

Oh, when I was but a little boy
I heard of your renown
and such tales filled my heart with joy,
you, Edoras' crown.
I dreamt on thee by dewy grass
when time was sunrise
and hoped that one day at last
you would be my prize.

And Edoras is sweet and fair,
Rohan's gleaming star;
the Golden Hall a jewel rare;
I saw it from afar.
I travelled to that fairest place
to come before the King.
I saw the Hall's golden grace
my heart did sing.

And then before the King a melody
presented soft and low;
I sang a song most readily
of heroes long ago.
His eye was kind, his voice was soft,
no evil his words marred,
he wished me in the Hall to sing oft;
he named me as King's bard.

Joy complete, oh Hall of delight,
I sang within your walls,
my heart with peace was ever bright
and ever was enthralled.
But now alas I see darkness afar
and see a sorrow fall.
The darkness brings a weary war
so farewell, Golden Hall!

Oh, fare thee well sweet Hall of Gold,
I leave thee for awhile.
The days are short, the year is old,
the road is many miles.
I will not return again, I fear
to sing before your King
but all memories I will hold dear,
and the joy my music brings.

His voice broke and his hands trembled as he set the fiddle down. He shook his head and spoke, saying, "My friends, there is more to the song but I cannot sing. My heart was near broke when I left the Golden Hall and ceased to be Bard of the King. I dreamed of it long, ever since I was a boy, and it was bitter. I recall those days now when I gaze upon the youthful face of Hearpwine, and the memories are sweet and sorrowful. Yet I do not sorrow that the young has had his dream fulfilled and will someday be Bard. I weep that my days as Bard were too soon over, and the days of King Theoden. Perhaps I will sing to you the rest of the song when the memories have fled my heart and no longer pain me as they do now."

[Kransha]

Osric listened, focused and soothed by the calm verses, to the song of Liornung the former bard. His gaze became weary, serene, like a wistfully gentle sea in the wake of any storm; the like had been seen in the bustling streets of Edoras. He nodded in reverential agreement as the voice of Liornung withered and died in his throat, the sweet sound disappearing gradually as the silence that had completely overtaken the room became evident. No one clapped, or showed the merest hint that the song had ended, even after Liornung had finished speaking. Osric looked up, as he’d been looking down, pondering the shadows on the floor beneath, and managed to get out the first words, as he so often did in the tune’s solemn wake.

“My friend, Liornung,” he said, quietly at first, but then with more resoluteness, “you need not conclude that song just yet. When your verve is rekindled, do so, but I pray you, rest and be merry. Though you have left the Golden Hall, we can all see that the hall has not left you, more in soul than heart. You carry the flawless beauty of Meduseld with you, the fluttering grandeur of the Rohirrim banners held aloft, the beauteous things of Edoras and all of Rohan, and beyond, if I may say so. I too know some of the wonder that lies in that place, and perhaps the residue that cling to those who leave it." At last, the subdued nature settled on the innards of the White Horse dissapated, "Be at peace for this moment, and we shall elicit a song from master Hearpwine or master Eorcyn, so that you may collect the verses which have entertained us.”

As the old Rohirrim came to a serious, if not tedious conclusion, he reflected. He had been moved especially by what the bard and fiddler had said. The man of Aldburg had come on numerous occasions to the city of Edoras, and from the rolling, dipping hills of high-hanging grass, rippling across the plains of amber green as water would, the eyes of Osric, whether as old and nestled between wizened flaps of wrinkled skin as they were now or shing out and glinting with a fiendish light as they had in youth, would always fall upon the hall, its roof thatched with shimmering patches of sunlit gold. He had looked, in past days, upon the beauty of the hall and dreamt of entering. Dreamt, with his boyish fancies, until one day. Dreams fulfilled, so he had thought, were to be beauteous, but his had been only grand until the dream ended. The Golden Hall, from without and from within, was a wondrous weight, which gnawed at Osric murderously when it had been lifted years ago, leaving an unexpected emptiness behind it to haunt the man.

“Eorcyn,” said Osric, feigning harsh sternness as he turned to this unknown man, scratching his dappled beard in contemplation, “milord Bard, perhaps, since you have not before graced this horse with a fairer saddle, you would be willing to show us what made you so favorable ‘neath the roof of the Golden Hall. If Hearpwine’s humble words ring true, than you are a marvel to the world of music indeed. So, let me not speak of you more, since you are surely capable of doing so yourself. Give us a round, and a merry one at that, else we shall have to find another bard who can do the job justice, but I have no fear of that.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Eorcyn bowed to Osric and smiled gravely. “You doubt that the King as his nobles have made the right decision,” he began. “I am afraid, for my sake, that there are many who will think so too. Perhaps you have not heard the whole story of the Contest however? I offered the place of victory to Hearpwine but was denied by the King.”

“I have heard the story,” Osric replied, “and I am glad to know that it is true. But by what I’ve heard, you denied the decision of the King in that you felt a younger man who could serve him longer would serve him better. I did not hear that you relinquished the title of the better singer.”

“And that I do not,” Eorcyn said, his voice taking on an edge of iron that it had seemed incapable of earlier. “Master Hearpwine is talented and passionate, but he is young and untutored – he will benefit from a few years’ seasoning.”

Oscric made to reply to this, but Hearpwine stepped forward with his arms raised between them. He had not noticed the slight altercation at first, for his eyes had been taken by Mae where she stood (quite prettily) contemplating what must have been for her a miraculous sight: not one, but three Bards to the King! Hearpwine tore his attention from her and spoke to the two older men. “Please my friends, do not quarrel upon such a happy day: do not mar my victory with disagreement. For a great victory I deem it – have I not won both the favour of the Lady and the right to learn from the King’s Bard himself? Come Eorcyn,” he added quickly to forestall and more harsh words between the two old men, “give us the happy song that my friend Osric asks. And if I might be allowed, I will accompany you on my harp.”

Eorcyn looked at Osric once more but did not say what he was thinking. Instead, he seized the middle of the room and began to hum a familiar tune. Hearpwine knew it well, and soon the melody flooded from his harp to all corners of the room.

There was an old fiddler who had a cow
The cow wore striped pants
And when the old fiddler would play a tune
The cow would love to dance
Dance, dance, dance, the cow would love to dance
Dance, dance, dance, the cow would love to dance

The fiddler played and the cow she danced
Beneath the light of the moon
The fiddler got tired, but the cow did not
She said: "Play another tune."
Tune, tune, tune, Play another tune
Tune, tune, tune, play another tune.

The cow kept dancing and danced all night
And most of the following day
And all of the animals joined right in
And danced their shoes away
Away way way, they danced their shoes away
Away way way, they danced their shoes away

There was an old fiddler who had a cow
The cow wore striped pants
And when the old fiddler would play a tune
The cow would love to dance

Eorcyn finished to a round of applause and raucous laughter, bowing and smiling to those around him (but not, Hearpwine noticed, to Osric), saying “‘Tis a piece of lovely nonsense I learned of the Halfing Meriadoc,” he explained. “I met him when he and his companions returned here with our King, and though he was saddened by the loss of him he loved, he did teach me the words to this song. ‘It’s a silly song,’ he told me, ‘such as my people sing, and not at all fit for high company. But I sang it for Theoden before he rode away from Dunharrow and he said he liked it. I sing it now in memory of him’.”

Hearpwine applauded with the rest of the crowd, and soon the cry came for him to sing a tune but he shook his head quietly saying, “I am sorry, my friends, but I have done so much singing since I arrived that I must give my voice a rest. Why, all last night I sang, and then this morning I had to give a performance fit for a King. And then, I’m afraid, I much abused my throat in the celebrations after. Please,” he added wearily, “allow me to have a bite to eat and some drink and then I shall sing for you when my strength is gathered once more. In the meantime, I daresay my master will be willing to share his song-hoard with you all.” Eorcyn smiled and bowed once more to the Inn, saying that he would be happy to entertain any requests for music.

Hearpwine took the opportunity to move away from the centre of the room. The tables were all filling up, and he went over to a small one by the window where sat a Man dressed in the habiliments of a Dúnedain Ranger. “May I sit,” Hearpwine asked.

[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.”