The White Horse Inn, Act III

[littlemanpoet]

"Gentlemen."

Eodwine caught the amusement in the lady Saeryn's voice, evident also in her twinkling eye. Ah, if only he were young again. Like that boy who had stepped closer and closer to their table as the three of them talked. Eodwine had smiled at the boy, and had been getting ready to speak to him when he had been called away. Ah, to be a boy again, with all the dreams and joys still lying ahead of you. Sorrow was all in the future. He sighed and turned his thought to the present.

"Lady," Eodwine bowed, "we dishonor you with our bickering. Forgive us."

"I am curious," Falco Boffin said to Eodwine, standing on his chair to get a better look at the lady's garb, "is it common for Rohirric women to wear breeches?" He spoke a little too loudly and was overheard by Saeryn, who colored slightly.

"Fairly," Eodwine said. "Rohirric women who ride horses wear them. And our shieldmaidens do as well. The Lady Eowyn is somewhat responsible for it, I daresay."

"What? How's that?" Falco asked.

"Have you not heard the tale of how the Lady Eowyn defeated the Dark Lord's Lieutenant during the War?"

"Yes, I heard it, from the Master of Buckland hisself, who had a part in the deed too, I ask you to remember. But women's wearing of breeches started with that?"

"I do not think so, but it gained acceptance at court and in town; that much I can say."

"I for one am glad of it," Saeryn announced with enthusiasm.

"I am curious about another thing," Eodwine said. "Your brother is not with you. What has become of him?"

[Bêthberry]

Despite her tears of laugher, Bethberry caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She watched Gomen return to the kitchen to answer his mother's call and wished she had seen his stealthy, quiet approach rather than his departure, for she would have introduced him to the table. He was an old enough lad to begin to be able to converse with the patrons of the Inn and she knew he harboured wishes for learning how to develope storey himself.

But Saeryn's demonstration of the shahallion-like dance fired her interest, as did the confession of who the story referred to. Every storey tells a life, as she recalled an old staying, although who's life is not always clear.

"A brother and a sister do not always get along so well," Bethberry observed, hoping to prod Saeryn to tell more about the fate of the brother.

Saeryn, catching her breath from the wild dance, nodded her head with an agreement to continue, but before she could, a voice hailed everyone from the door.

"Bethberry, it's a chill day out. Have you got any hot cider for old bone?" It was Ruthven, the rag lady, come to visit a friend. Without waiting upon an answer, she hobbled as fast as those old bones would allow her into the Great Hall, where she took a seat beside the Innkeeper. "Have you been riding a broom, mistress? There's the scent of cinder about you." Yet her eyes sparkled as she spoke and she nodded towards the young woman, the tail end of whose dance she had just witnessed.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Where is Fenrir? Why do I travel alone? How the bloody well do I answer that question? Saeryn trembled.

"I travel alone, Masters, for lack of suitable companion. My parents were killed when I was young, and my siblings have all parted ways. The last that I knew, my twin brother Degas was in Gondor, performing ballads for the King." Eodwine studied the girl... a twin? And what was that look in her eye... perhaps fond memories.

"Caelwyn, my sister, was travelling toward the Shire on personal business." Vengeance, she thought. "And as for Fenrir... I haven't the slightest, nor do I care where the fool ends up. I have not seen him in a year."

"Beg pardon, Lady Saeryn. I meant no--"

"Do not beg of me, Master Eodwine, for my pardon is hard to come by, and you have yet to need it. I miss Degas and Caeli dearly, but to be done with Fenrir is no sad loss. However, you make appease me," she said, spirits high again, "with another tale of your own. Or perhaps Bethberry has one?"

[Esgallhugwen]

Though the first of winter is a welcomed reprieve from field work, it is a burden to a sore traveler. Especially for a young wounded one.

How long have I been walking?

A voice rattled in the young woman's head, she squinted her eyes against the chill wind and looked down at her feet that were barely covered by her tattered skirt, no shoes the rattled thought spoke, no, not for a long time.

A horrible cough breached her lips as she staggered forward on numb feet, falling to her knees small pebbles and rocks bit into her frozen skin. She cursed hoarsely under her breath and picked herself up, almost falling again.

Her body was riddled with bruises, old and new, scratches and scrapes, old and new, and a few scares. But nothing marred her face save for a cut on her lip and smears of dirt. The cold seemed to be eating away at her and the grey rag that was once called a cloak provided no comfort.

But still she clung to her frail consciousness despite the numb sinking feeling that was swimming before her. She could feel the cooling blood trickling down her legs, hot tears burned her frosted cheeks and her teeth began to chatter visciously inside her skull.

How long have I been walking?

She followed the road upward knowing not where it led, knowing little other then that she would probably die in the street and be covered up by the impending snow. Another cough racked her body and she held back the urge to vomit.

Turning a corner a sign caught her vague attention.

The White Horse Inn

She would have laughed had she the strength, she clambered up the steps with aching toes, and attempted to push back the door. No she couldn't, as if someone had pushed it against her, she had no strength to open a simple door.

You can stop now Gudryn, he won't find you.

Darkness overwhelmed her and she hit the door with a muffled thump before falling to the ground. He won't find you.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine was about to start his tale of the "Bumptious Barkeep of Belfalas" when he heard a thump at the door. He looked but no one came through. It sounded like someone had dropped a sack at the steps.

"What do you suppose that was?" he asked the others.

They offered various guesses, but something niggled at Eodwine, and though he was on his third stiff one - he had lost count - he felt sobred somehow, enough anyway to have an ill feeling about the noise. He got up, went to the door, and opened it. Lying on the front step was a waif of a girl, her hair bedraggled, cuts and bruises all over her limbs, blood clotting on her legs, bare of feet, and her cloak not worth calling one.

"Falco! Bethberry!"

Falco knew that tone. It was no joke. He hastened to Eodwine's side and saw the girl. "Bring 'er inside!" he said.

Eodwine lifted the girl in his arms. She felt as light as a bird, and seemed as broken as one too.

Bethberry saw his burden. "Bring her to the hearth! I'll get some water to heat and some blankets. Saeryn, can you help, please?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Oh... oh dear. Saeryn thought, for a moment afraid. Her lapse of calm retreated as quickly as Bethberry's request had come.

"I shall get the water, Bethberry." Saeryn ran to the kitchen.

"Please," she asked Aedre, whom she met in the doorway. "I need warm water and some soft clothes, as well as a warm blanket. Wait...," she stopped the maid. "Just the water and cloth... bring it to Bethberry quickly."

Turning quickly on her heel, Saeryn sprinted to her room. This, she thought, is why every woman needs a sturdy pair of breeches. Picture me trying to run this in a gown!

Reaching her rooms, Saeryn pushed open the door. Grabbing the quilts from her own bed, as well as her own worn, but warm, cloak, the young woman returned quickly to her companions.

Handing the pile of blankets to Falco, Saeryn turned to Bethberry. "What else can I do?"

[Bêthberry]

Upon Saeryn's request for a story, Bethberry had become lost in reminiscence, thinking of the little lost soul who had earnestly planted apple pips in the east garden. Who had once knocked at The White Horse's door late, late one night. Madi had been his name. Madi Codex. Her hand went to the amber ball he had given her, which she kept in her pocket. She could still hear his impatient thudding at the door now...

Until Ruthwen shook her out of her waking dream. They were all ascurry now, briinging warm water and warm blankets to the aid of this other lost soul.

"Eodwine, my thanks, for bringing her in. And to you Falco also." A voice of solemn timbre acknowledged their help even though Bethberry's eyes were on the young woman.

"For now, Saeryn, I ask that you help Frodides in the kitchen to prepare some warm broth. And ask Aedre to light a fire, a strong fire, in the small guest room beside the kitchen. It will prove doubly warm for her when we are able to move her. If you will take accept my taking up your offer of help."

Saeryn nodded with relief that there was yet more she could do.

"The floor is cold. Eodwine, Falco, Ruthven, help drag a long table here, upon which she can lay." With only a minimal amount of confusion and some correction of direction no doubt due to the third tankard that had been imbibed, the three brought forth a table, upon which the blankets and Saeryn's cloak were laid and wrapped lightly around the young lass.

The Healer looked over her bruised and battered body. The cuts and scrapes would need washing and the blanched feet and fingers light swaddling. It would not do to wrap them too tightly, for circulation must be brought back to them. Over the swaddlings the old woman Ruthven chafted the cold feet gently with her boney, crooked hands, her fingers shaking but slightly with a tremour of age. The heroes of the moment, Eodwine and Falco, each took a small hand and held it to bring back colour and warmth. Bethberry turned to address the lass.

"Is your stomach ailing? Any pains there? I cannot give you broth if you are hurt inside. "

A wan face turned away from the fire towards the Innkeeper. The bedraggled head weakly shook an answer of "No."

"Then let us warm you here first, and feed you, and I shall attend to your hurts once we can see the blood colour your cheeks again, from the inside where it belongs."

"There's a story here," whispered Falco, but loudly enough for all to hear. Eodwine raised his eyes impatiently at the halfling.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Hama rode his horse slowly up the path to the White Horse...so many memories of this place, so many good, so many bad...he remembered many years ago meeting Sandrina Lightheart here, and as her sworn protector destroying her older brothers. He sighed, he took no great joy from killing other humans, even enemies...they had families, doubtless, and many tears would be shed over them. Hama had no such family now, he knew, he had lost them years ago while he was off fighting at Pelennor. They were gone now, commited to the earth and dust. The closest thing he had to family was Adu, and she was a few hours behind him. He mused about Crystal. She was beautiful, yes, intelligent, yes, the sort of woman that a man would dream of, but no...Hama could never...it wouldn't work...

Tethering his horse to the pole outside he walked into the inn, slowly pushing the doors aside. Water dripped from his hair, forming a small pool at his feet. Heads turned, they saw the General's insignia and the Rohirrim there recognised him. Hama Haukrsonn, successor of the notorious Dorian Heart. He was known to be friendly, humane, and approachable, but nobody approached him...

Hama walked over to the counter and placed a gold coin on the table. "Ale," was all that he managed to say, and annoyingly it came out as a low growl rather than a pleasant request. He saw the children dancing, and a small lump came to his throat. Years ago they would have been his children, if only...he forced himself to stop thinking about it, but this caused a grimace to pass across his features. The barmaid set his ale on the counter and he took it, walking slowly to an empty table and sat, staring into his drink. He murmured under his breath in Rohirric, " They have passed, like rain on the mountains." Before raising the tankard to his lips and draining the entire pint. He let his hand fall forward, and the tankard clanged loudly as it collided with the table...