The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

"From time to time, the tried-in-battle
their grey steeds set to gallop amain,
and ran a race when the road seemed fair.
From time to time, a thane of the king,
who had made many vaunts, and was mindful of verses,
stored with sagas and songs of old,
bound word to word in well-knit rime,
welded his lay; this warrior soon
of Theoden’s fall right cleverly sang,
and artfully added an excellent tale,
in well-ranged words, of the warlike deeds
done that day, to the doom of many."

Hearpwine’s voice filled the meadhall and once again the room fell silent to listen. After the first few lines Liornung took out his fiddle and began to play along, adding to the strength of the young man’s song a mournful tune of honour remembered. Even as he sang, Hearpwine was ravished by his old friend’s skill with his instrument, and he marvelled at the speed with which Liornung took up and improved the melody. The enchantment of the music seized all who heard it, and for a moment the very sight of those days of doom and death became as though there were real. They heard the far cry of the Men of Minas Tirith as they called in joy from their walls at the sight of the Rohirrim’s charge onto the Pelennor Fields, and they felt the touch of sun and fresh wind that heralded the arrival of the King of Gondor at the very turning of the tide.

“Famed was this Theoden: far flew the boast of him,
son of Thengel, leader of thanes.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well
with his father's friends, by fee and gift,
that to aid him, aged, in after days,
come warriors willing, should war draw nigh,
liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds
shall a king have honour in every land.”

Hearpwine’s voice fell silent before the last quavering note of Liornung’s fiddle. It hung about them like a lament, stilling the very air of the Inn and reaching out into the busy streets of Edoras so that for a second it seemed as though that whole city grew silent with the lament for their lost King. Then there was a moment’s silence in which one could hear the sound of a breaking heart. Liornung was the first to speak, but his voice was soft and thick with emotion. “You sing well indeed, my old friend. The King will be fortunate to have a bard such as yourself.”

Hearpwine looked up at the older man, and there were tears in his eyes. “Your mastery of your instrument has grown with the years, or I have done you a terrible disservice in my memory of it. You are indeed the greatest of bards. I know! You would not claim that title for yourself, but I hereby give it you!” At that he stood and bowed deeply to Liornung, who flushed deeply and bid the younger man sit again.

“What song is that?” he asked when Hearpwine was once more at the table.

“In your honour, I have sung but a small piece of the lay that I have composed for the Contest tomorrow. It tells of the King’s riding forth to the succour of Gondor, and of his fall beneath the Fell Beast. It is a sad tale, but one – I hope! – that will do Theoden king the honour he deserves. But now, you promised me one of your own songs, let us hear that and I will ask the good Aylwen to fetch you some meat and drink.”

[Kransha]

Warm green eyes, laced with a shadowy tint of enervation, surveyed the threshold of the White Horse Inn. The pale flesh beneath the figure’s eyes was rimmed with tinges of sable brought on by sleepless nights. He looked out over the vicinity, overlooking the immaculate masonry and welcoming feel of the structure, his gaze flitting to the vine-blanketed stable nearby and the sign, mounted ceremoniously on a post in front of the inn. His eyelids slowly lifted so that the vermillion orbs that lingered behind them could look more intently at the snow-white horse reared up on a green backdrop. It was a welcome sight to the old man as he turned back to the inn itself. Though the form, dragging himself torpidly into the building, bore a cold, almost debilitated demeanor as he pulled one stiff leg in front of the other, more animated limb, there was still a glimmering like in his expression. Though there was a visible increase tepidity of the surrounding air, he still saw fit to pull his emerald-colored cloak around his stooping shoulders, but lowered it again barely a moment later as he entered the warmer room, bustling with activity.

It was certainly an ample place that Osric made his way meekly into. He stopped a few measured paces through the threshold and assessed the first room, his wizened face wrinkling up as he squinted to see the various ornamentations and decorations for the festivities that he knew were coming. It was yet another anniversary, one of the many recorded in the vast corridors of his mind. He had a head for such things; dates, tales, epics, and all manner of information that would ever be needed by him or most others. It was his nature and he didn’t bother denying that fact, since he often swelled with pride when his encyclopedic knowledge was mentioned.

As he contemplated that, a smile creeping over his sour pallor, Osric took a seat in a sturdy chair and leaned back against it, hefting his inelastic leg onto another unused chair. He scratched at his scraggly brown beard, now intertwined with strands of aging gray that he thought did not belong. The room, filled with lighthearted feelings and goodwill brought him back to a simpler, better time. Wars could come and go in Rohan, but there was always a jovial air to receive him. The elder’s murky pupils focused like sunbeams and took one sweeping glance across the stretching mead hall, the view he saw allowing him another satisfied smile.

Oscric was a man of Rohan, but had only sought Edoras a few times in his many days. He had lived in Aldburg, an ancient town southeast of this grand city, for all of his life that had not been spent beneath a warrior’s banner, sitting atop a noble steed behind his now aged shield with the winds of glory at his back. He did not revel in reminiscing over those lost days, since they brought him little pleasure. His life had been simple, a valiant but composed man who served the cause of his king. To lighten the moods of those around him and elevate the lowest of times, he would tell others the stories that he knew like the back of his horse, regaling them gladly with stories of Rohan’s mighty kings, immortal warriors, and their awe-inspiring exploits. He rarely told stories now unless that was requested of him. Those timeless tales were embedded to deep in his consciousness to be forgotten so easily, so they stuck. Osric had been known, in his day, to burst spontaneously into muddled recitations. The man could still do that, when called upon, but had become more reserved.

Now, Osric was content to sit and listen to the rest of the world, relaxing himself in the comfortable atmosphere of the inn. He closed his eyes slowly, letting the sounds of the inn put him at rest, though it wouldn’t have done so for most. He could hear singing, melodic notes ringing like gently chiming bells in his ears. The swift and efficient harmony of a stringed instrument soon joined in.

[Imladris]

Taliesin opened his eyes wearily. He had fallen into a pleasant sleep amidst the soft bustling of the Inn, but his stomach, protesting loudly at its emptiness, had awoken him. Goldwine was nestled in his bony lap, purring softly. With a smile, the old man petted the feline and quietly put his paper and ink away.

His knees creaking and popping, he rose to his feet and stretched. His muscles had grown stiff from their constant sitting position, and his back ached a little. He sighed. Such was the doom of an old and wizened warrior. His cheeks grew pale, and his eyes glazed with memory. He shook his head. The time of the orcs and suffering many had endured was over.

A pretty young woman stepped up to his table and asked, “Is there anything I can do for you, sir? My name is Aedre.”

He noded, and said, “Taliesin.” Then he smiled at her and said, “Yes there is, oh maiden fair.” He gestured to the empty table, and continued, “Bring food to laden this table bare, and drink to quench our thirst. Please, quickly bring some milk, for Prince Goldwine must be servéd first.”

Taliesin beamed at her and then plopped back into his chair. “Thank you, milady,” he added.

[Nurumaiel]

At Hearpwine's request Liornung brushed the tears from his eyes and gazed thoughtfully out the window. "A song then, good Hearpwine?" He played a few notes on his fiddle, then nodded with satisfaction. "You have sung of the King's riding to Gondor and the great battle that there ensued, and I shall sing of this... a song I have composed in an idle hour full of sorrow that is the lament of a fair young lassie whose soldier lad has ridden to Gondor in hope of fame, adventure, and glory, yet she knows he will find nothing but sorrow and death and if still glory remains he shall no longer care for it." Putting his bow to his fiddlestrings, he added, "I will attempt to play and sing at the same time. I fancy if I hold my fiddle just so it shan't choke my voice up so much."

And then, drawing the bow down he played but a few notes that told tales of sorrow and battle and perhaps a hidden glory. He let these notes rise and fall, gently rising to the ceiling of the Inn and spreading soft fingers to each corner of the room, touching all would listen and bringing thoughts of lamentation to their minds. He then raised his voice in song, his eyes fixed on an empty space on the wall where yet he seemed to see strong men upon horses, their banners waving to the sky and their keen swords flashing in the light of the rising sun.

Oh then woe to the dark forces of Mordor
for they have caused my love to ride to Gondor
away from the one who holds him dear
and by her heart ever near.
And to see their banners in the rising sun
and at the sun's setting when day was done
did make many a heart of Rohan leap
but such a sight causes me to weep.

Oh then woe to the cruelness that calls him away,
that causes him from home to stray
and the tears in my heart now flow from my eyes
as the sky is filled with loud battle cries.
For my love away to the cruel wars has gone
riding away with a light-hearted song
but alas I fear that e'er battle is done
of cheerful songs my love will know none.

Oh then woe be to it the cause of my sorrow
for my love fights in battle on the morrow
and that he will never return I do then fear,
that I shall never see again the face of my dear.
And the wars have taken away my lad
for adventure and glory and honor to be had
but before away fades the last battle cry
my love with no naught but to fear and to die.

His voice dropped and he fell silent, but his fiddle sang still, the clear notes ringing out in harmony with the gentle, weeping voice of a young maid that still lingered in the minds and hearts of the people until at last it, too, faded and drifted away on a last mournful note.

Liornung slowly lowered his fiddle and bow and dropped his eyes, murmuring softly, "Alas for all these sorrows... that men should ride in hope of glory and then soon hope not for glory but that still they might live and not die in battle. And meanwhile they break the hearts of their lovers and mothers.... I do hope the lad in my little song did remember in bleak hours when the skies were dark and death waited to lay cold fingers upon whomsoever might come within its grasp that there was a fair young maid waiting for him and filled with such love for him that she should sing in lamentation. Surely he must have known fear and sorrow... good Hearpwine, men were not made for battle, they were made for peace and love and joy. Alas, then, alas that often comes a time where there can be no peace unless there is battle. Alas for the broken hearts and the piles of dead that lie about in frightening numbers that one would not count in fear. For a man to seek his comrade among the living and not find him and then weep to seek among the dead where it was almost certain he would find him..." His voice broke and he bowed his head quite low and said no more on the matter.

[Kransha]

The aged man’s heavy eyelids managed to elevate again, his deep eyes behind them resting on the visage of a young-looking man with the delicate silhouette of a fiddle sitting in his hand with the sturdy bow of that instrument gliding along gently vibrating strings. The device sung in his hands, its melancholy tune filling the room like billowing puffs of smoke from a pipe, though the sweet sounds of this were ten fold more pleasing then wheezing lungs beneath tawdry outfits. The long notes, resonating with a finely crafted vibrato, filled the depths of Osric’s mind, throbbing like a rhythmic heartbeat in his ears, which nearly melted when faced by the mournful melody.

Swinging his rigid leg off the other chair, Osric pulled his own chair smoothly towards the focal point of that sound, the notes growing more prominent and defined as he neared their source. He heard the words clearly now, each mouthed syllable perfectly shaped and falling like a single raindrop on a placid crystal pool, creating a serene ripple that sounded like a tremulous echo within Osric. The elder listened silently to the chord-mingled lyrics and bowed his head, as had most others within earshot.

It brought back ill thoughts that Osric had long tried to push from his mind’s lonely annals in vain. The voice faded slowly, though the notes still poured from that violin clasped like a fragile but energetic bird in the man’s hand. Soon enough that too became no more than a quite hum which evaporated smoothly into the absence of sound. Osric blinked, wonderment and astonishment twinkling in his eyes. The dark feeling lingered, brought on by the cheerless nature of the piece, but he seemed uplifted by its beauty. The man now listened avidly to the violinist’s words as he concluded. The words of this soulful man almost stung at Osric as he talked dispiritedly of “the broken hearts and the piles of dead that lie about in frightening numbers.” The warrior of Aldburg was stricken with shrouded memories of what he’d seen himself in the service of Rohan during the war that seemed so long ago, now considered yet another one of the grisly battle stories he could tell to Rohirrim pups swarming around a crackling campfire.

Osric, finally regaining his senses entirely, glanced around to see that no one was speaking, or even attempting to make a noise to disrupt the solemn aftermath of that work of music. Though it seemed nearly blasphemous to violate the silence, Osric spoke up, his grizzled baritone barely carrying to the violinist and singer, but still stood out in the utter hush that had descended on this section of the White Horse.

“A stirring song, sir, and your words ring true as well. You have true talent with that device and an unchallengeable philosophy, which I would dare any being in this room to disagree with. You, sir, have a way with both word and music, and I commend you for both. Indeed, it has been a great many winters since I have heard something of that caliber.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The old man’s words stirred Hearpwine back into the waking world, from which he had been taken by the power of Liornung’s music. “Indeed, there is much sadness in battle, and none who have seen it would soon desire to see it again. But I do not know that I can see it as you do, both” he said, looking from the fiddler to the old man. “There is terror and loss and great sadness; but there is also honour and glory. The fall of Men in battle is a terrible price that we must pay time and again, but it is not one that we should mourn only, but remember and celebrate!”

Liornung lowered his fiddle and placed it upon the table with reverential care. “Remember, yes. But celebrate? We must always regale and sing the praises of those who fell, but I cannot – as you – see much to celebrate in war itself.”

“And I,” the old man said to Hearpwine, “have seen too much of war to find anything in it worthy of joy.”

Hearpwine threw up his hands as though to fend off their responses, and said through a widening smile, “Do not fear, my friends! I do not seek to make war pleasant in my songs. Nor would I desire to hide its evil beneath the beauty of my verse. But is not the purpose of song to beautify that which is ugly, and mend that which is lacking in the world?”

Liornung smiled back. “Your music must be powerful indeed if it can mend the world’s faults.”

Hearpwine could sense the tone of gentle mockery in his friend’s voice but he did not take it amiss for he knew that it came from one who cherished and admired music and its power as much as himself. The old man also spoke. “There’s many a tale I could tell of war, but there’s not one of them that’s able to bring back the men who died in the battle. And if there is beauty in them, then it’s the prettiness that comes from knowing the darkness and evil of war is past.”

In reply Hearpwine sang a melody that raced with the thunder of galloping hooves. His voice rose and filled the rafters of the Inn, reaching into the chests of all who heard it and thudded along in rhythm with their hearts:

“The hours sad I left a maid
A lingering farewell taking
Whose sighs and tears my steps delayed
I thought her heart was breaking
In hurried words her name I blest
I breathed the vows that bind me
And to my heart in anguish pressed
The girl I left behind me

“Then to the east we bore away
To win a name in story
And there where dawns the sun of day
There dawned our sun of glory
The place in my sight
When in the host assigned me
I shared the glory of that fight
Sweet girl I left behind me

“Though many a name our banner bore
Of former deeds of daring
But they were of the day of yore
In which we had no sharing
But now our laurels freshly won
With the old one shall entwine me
Singing worthy of our size each son
Sweet girl I left behind me

“The hope of final victory
Within my bosom burning
Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee
And of my fond returning
But should I n'eer return again
Still with thy love i'll bind me
Dishonors breath shall never stain
The name I leave behind me”

Hearpwine turned to Liornung. “You sing of a maid who has lost her love, and of her sadness at their parting. And you wonder if the boy you sing of thought of she who he left behind as he faced death. Your song is sad, and has caused this reverend old warrior to remember the ill-days of his youth and cast aside all but the darkest thoughts of those great days of triumph. In response to that I sing a song of that boy as he marches off to battle. In it, there is hope and glory, and he does think of the maid. The sadness of your song is greeted with the joy of mine, and the darkness converted to light!”

[Nurumaiel]

"And glory to your song for it!" Liornung cried, clasping his friend's hand. "Alas, say I, for the sorrows of the world, yet we must not forget there is joy still and in the midst of death there is still life. Where then a lad, surrounded by those same battle cries and that same cold death, thinks of his lassie and recalls her love with joy and thinks not of death but of the day when he shall return to her then there is still hope. 'Tis always sweeter the day when sadness turns to joy!" He fell to pondering this for a time, and then turned bright eyes to the old man. "Sir," he said, "may all honor and glory be yours for your services to fair Rohan. May much sorrow befall me if I have recalled to your mind painful memories. Good Hearpwine has lifted the spell of sadness that was cast over me however, and even now as my eyes wander to the fair face of my darling niece songs of joy come to my mind and seek to find their ways to lips and fingers which find themselves anxious to touch those fiddle-strings again. Then permit me to sing again and again play and sing of glory, hope, love, and a valiant battle for freedom!"

Maercwen's eyes shone and she sat back in her seat, breathless with amazement and wonder. She had heard her uncle speak rousing words but in his speech of battle his spirit seemed to have been inflamed and it was kindled in his eye as he raised his bow again and lay it tentively on the strings. He paused for the briefest moment, his mind's eye already seeing the scene he was about to lay before them in music and song, and then the bow drew itself down across the string and a slow but rousing tune was pulled forth from his old, weather-worn instrument. A breeze from the open window softly made its way through the room and if by some strange magic the fiddle caused that same breeze to be scented with the sweet perfume of heroes and glory, a sunrise and a hope in the midst of death.

Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising
The men rode forth, their song reprising
Their once mild eyes with fire beaming
And from their spears the sunlight gleaming.

Hark how they cry out for their glory
Ne'er a one felt near to sorry
For their country, for their king
That battle cry o'er the plains did ring.

See the hope from their eyes glowing
Scores of doubt they're overthrowing
And their gallant hearts are beating
Death they're fearlessly meeting.

Hear the song they raise in granduer
Death and fear they do banter
They did not hesitate for a breath
They fought for life and scorned death.

See the shining swords unsheathing
Hear their heart's beat and their breathing
See their shields in morning light
Shine proud their emblem, horse so white.

If one does hang back in fear
If to die one will not dare
Let descend upon his name
Contempt for fools and coward shame.

On for Rohan, on for glory!
Let us find a name in story!
On for country, on for king!
Death to every foe do bring!

Then farewell to the sunshine bright
And farewell to the charm of night
For if in battle I do die
In pride and glory, in joy fell I!

No honor greater do I seek
Amid death's foul and awful reek
Then to die, and so to give
Hope that my country might still live.

Onward soldiers, stout and brave
Let none of you be traitor knave
We rose in battle Mordor's slaves
But we go in freedom to our graves!

And freedom rang loud and clear with the sound of the fiddle though Liornung's mouth had closed and his strong voice had faded. Maercwen did not hide her tears in shame but let them fall freely down her face as she stared in amazed admiration at her uncle. As his fiddle also felt silent she saw his eyes were also suspcisiously moist.

"If those brave men found no glory in life as they fought amid death, I pray that they find it now," Liornung murmured. "What greater honor can be bestowed upon a man than to fight and die for all that which he holds dear. And if he lives then we who can do naught but play simple music may show to the world all that joy and glory that they have thought lost in the midst of sorrow. Glory was lost for many, and they could not find it, but still it was there and it is resounded in all splendor with every simple strain of a fiddle and raised voice of a bard. These are the days we remember them and their sorrows and their deaths but we also remember their glories and heroic sacrifices!" He turned to Hearpwine, joy mingling with the tears in his eyes. "Good Hearpwine, I permitted myself to fall into a bleak mood and dwell on most sorrowful thoughts but I again I thank you for your song and your words to bring singing birds back into my heart. When a man loses all hope and joy what then in life does he have left?" The flame kindled in his eye again. "Hearpwine, tonight we shall rouse the good patrons of the noble White Horse as we sing of glorious deeds and the valor of simple men yet not so simple." A laugh sprang to his lips and he leaned back in his chair, a look of great self-satisfaction coming to his features. "Truly good Miss Aylwen could not hope for two finer singers than the two of us, could she now? Such music and songs will be heard in Edoras tonight that have rarely been heard before. Dare we venture to say such as what we will sing tonight will never be heard again? We can do naught but try." And he closed his eyes to muse over what he had said and what he had heard said.