Scarburg Meadhall

[littlemanpoet]

His back had been turned to them, and he had been making a fair amount of noise, but he knew they were there. The shift in light when the door had opened had been enough. They stayed for a little while, watching him work, and said nothing. He chose not to stop, and to say nothing as well.

Harreld the smith is like that, they probably said to each other, or to themselves. He is quiet and he works hard. It was true enough as far as it went. They did not need to know why. Were he to stop working, his thoughts of Ginna, lost to him, would be too much to bear. He could not afford to stop and talk light fare with these ladies. They might say something of Ginna, and he would be undone. He would not let them see him shed tears.

He hammered and hammered, sustained by the endurance of years in the smithy, his arms and legs provided the strength of body to prop him up as his heart was wrung with the pain of loss.

One moment he stopped, for a sudden realization had hit him full force. What have I done? Garreth in this smithy with me, his jokes about marrying and the like! His poking will be enough to make me mad!

He sighed. And began hammering some more.

Some time later the door opened again. "Harreld! It is me, Cnebba! Falco has returned!"

Harreld ceased his work and turned. "Falco! The hobbit?"

"On his same pony!"

Should he stop his work to go greet the holbytla?

"Are you coming, sir?"

"Ah, no. I have much to do. I will see him at the mid day meal. Thank you for the news, Cnebba."

"You are welcome, sir!" With that the boy hurried off, slamming the door behind him.

Strange, why was the hobbit back? He would be saddened, no doubt, to learn that his friend Eodwine was ill. Maybe he knew already. Harreld would learn at meal.