The White Horse Inn, Act III

[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.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine laughed again and asked the pretty serving maid for food and drink, “to give us the strength we will need for this nights endeavours” he explained. As they waited for their nourishment, Hearpwine spoke to the young niece of his friend. Throughout their outburst of song she had sat at the table quietly taking in all that she heard, her eyes growing wider and wider with each melody. “Tell me Maercwen, what kind of song is your favourite? Lays of war and glory, or the simple tunes of country life and mirth?”

The lass flushed at being made the center of such attention but answered promptly. “I cannot rightly say. Both have their place and time, and I have already heard this day enough of each to fill me with wonder for days to come.”

Maercwen grinned. “A good answer, my lady, and a true one. For all times are different and so suited to their own songs. But what of this moment? What kind of song would you like to hear?”

She paused for a moment before answering. “There has been a deal of song and talk about war and battle. As much as I have enjoyed them I think that I would like to hear something about things that are closer to the life I know. Do you know such a song? Perhaps one from your own land?”

“Indeed there are many! And I will gladly sing you one, but I begin to feel the need of my harp. While I am not nearly as accomplished a musician as your uncle, I can strum along well enough. Would you be good enough to fetch it for me? It is in Hrothgar’s saddle-bag. He is stalled…” But before he could finish the lass jumped to her feet. Crying out that she knew which horse was his, she flew from the Inn. Hearpwine smiled after her retreating form, as he had always enjoyed the sight of a pretty girl. From the corner of his eye he saw the old man smiling at him, and he flushed slightly before dismissing his embarrassment with a chuckle. “And what of you, friend? What is your name, and what kind of song would you like to hear this evening?”

“I am Osric,” he replied, “and I have heard so many songs in my life that I do not mind now which is playing. But for the sake of the girl’s pleasure – and perhaps your own, who clearly seeks to please her,” and he winked broadly at the younger man, “I will add my vote to hers for something bright and shiny from your own lands.”

“So it shall be!” Hearpwine cried. Maercwen was soon back with his harp, her face flushed from running to the stables and back. Hearpwine bowed slightly as he took the instrument from her hands. He strummed upon it a few times, and then began to pick out a pleasant lilting tune. Indeed, he was not nearly as accomplished with it as Liornung was with his fiddle, but the melody was pleasing. Without a word, Liornung picked up his fiddle and joined in, creating a duet that melded the rhythmic sound of the harp with the melodious interweave of the fiddle. After a few bars, Hearpwine sang once more.

“Hi! says the blackbird, sitting on a chair,
Once I courted a lady fair;
She proved fickle and turned her back,
And ever since then I'm dressed in black.

“Hi! says the blue-jay as she flew,
If I was a young man I'd have two;
If one proved fickle and chanced for to go,
I'd have a new string to my bow.

“Hi! says the little leather winged bat,
I will tell you the reason that,
The reason that I fly in the night
Is because I lost my heart's delight.

“Hi! says the little mourning dove,
I'll tell you how to gain her love;
Court her night and court her day,
Never give her time to say ‘0 nay.’

“Hi! said the woodpecker sitting on a fence,
Once I courted a handsome wench;
She proved fickle and from me fled,
And ever since then my head's been red.

“Hi! says the owl with my eyes so big,
If I had a hen I'd feed like a pig;
But here I sit on a frozen stake,
Which causes my poor heart to ache.

“Hi! says the swallow, sitting in a barn,
Courting, I think, is no harm.
I pick my wings and sit up straight
And hope every young man will choose him a mate.

“Hi! says the hawk unto the crow,
If you ain't black then I don't know.
Ever since the first bird was born,
You've been accused of stealing corn.

“Hi! says the crow unto the hawk,
I understand your great, big talk;
You'd like to pounce and catch a hen,
But I hope the farmer will shoot you then.

“Hi! says the robin, with a little squirm,
I wish I had a great, big worm;
I would fly away into my nest;
I have a wife I think is the best.”

Hearpwine finished and laid down his harp, basking in the glow of Maercwen’s smile.

[Nurumaiel]

"Lovely!" Maercwen cried as the song ended. "Songs of heroes and battle are fine, but 'tis sweet to hear a pleasant tune of the simpler things of life that more of us know. Yes, it is something grand when thrill after thrill goes through you as you listen to tales of valour and courage but a merry, light-hearted tune that touches a sympathetic chord in the heart of a lass such as I who has never seen battle is a happy tune indeed! To weep over the courage and strength of those who rode into battle is sweet, yes, but it is also sweet to laugh over simple little things that sometimes are the loveliest of all."

"And true, kind maid," Osric said softly. "Many a time in the midst of battle I have longed to return to those simpler things of life that bring such gentle, kindly joy."

Liornung was studying Hearpwine's instrument with a keen interest. "You have some talent with your harp," he said, his voice thoughtful and pondering. Shifting in his chair a bit, he continued to stare at the harp, something evidently on his mind. "You know, I do believe you are quite skilled with it. You are not yet a master, 'tis true, but if you continue to play all the time you quickly will be."

"Encouraging words," said Hearpwine, "from you, master of the fiddle."

"I've heard it said I have talent with that which I play, and I do not deny it," Liornung replied, "but I do not say I am a master." He scowled when he saw the twinkle in Hearpwine's eyes. "Does that little light gleaming in your eye betray you, or is that some trick to hide what you really think?" He tossed his head haughtily. "No matter for I am going to sing a song now to please Maercwen. I would," he said, directing his words to his niece, "sing you a merry song of my own make, for you mustn't think I can already write about dreary battle and sad love songs. I have seen happy things in my wanderings as well. But looking into your lovely eyes now I recall a day fourteen years ago when I played a little tune for you on my fiddle reputed to be from the Land of Halflings and you sang most sweetly, telling me you were quite certain that Halflings were not mere children's stories. I wanted to believe you but I was no longer a child who could easily believe such tales, yet I was proved wrong in past years. So, ltitle Mae, in honor of that occasion and in your own sweet honor, I sing for you a song of Hobbits....."

I'll tell my ma when I go home
the boys won't leave the girls alone.
They pulled my hair and they stole my comb
but that's all right 'till I go home.
She is handsome, she is pretty,
she is the bell of Bywater city,
she is courting one, two, three,
please won't you tell me who is he?

And through the whole song he sang, and at the words a fair blush came to Maercwen's cheeks and she sang along with him, their voices blending kindly together and showing no objection to it. And when the words were finished Liornung played the song on his fiddle through 'till the end, filled with delight at the smile on his niece's face. His only regret at that moment was that the rest of his nieces and nephews were not also there listening. But, if he knew them at all, the rest of them be there soon, all nine from Maercwen's younger brother to the little baby... as long as Hearpwine did mind being surrounded by children, there would be no happier man in Rohan when the rest of the children came. Of that Liornung was sure, and he told himself so most positively as he played the final note and brought the song to a close.

[Bêthberry]

"I should say you won't," proclaimed Ruthven loudly to Oin, tapping her finger with some purpose on his shoulder. "You leave off boxing Finky's ears for such a kind and considerate offer."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," retorted Oin. "He's my concern and I'll thank you not to tell me how to handle him." He struck a haughty air and tried to jump up in the mud. But the combined effect of shakey footing on the mud and his motion to push her finger away threw Oin off balance. Instead of finding a dignified position from which he could tower over the old woman and the other dwarf, he fell forward. Right into Ruthven. The two fell into the mud, Oin on top of Ruthven, Ruthven underneath and mired into the deeper part of the mud.

"Now look what you've done," wailed Finky, who was aghast at the tumble the old woman had taken.

He stood up and reached over to help her up.

"Oi!" she retorted, her arm pulled faster than the rest of her body could move. She jerked her arm back and Finky came with it, falling on top of the two of them.


"Oooph," complained Oin, who was still trying to get up off Ruthven, but whose feet kept getting caught in her shawl.

"I will box your ears," retorted Oin, "for falling on me." With that he tried to knock Finky on the left side of his head but Finky ducked. He hit Ruthven instead, his hand covered in mud.

"Watch your hands, you meddlesome dwarf," yelled Ruthven as the mud from Oin's hands spread over her face. She grabbed at Finky, whose shoulder was the only thing she could find to give herself a firm grip as she tried to stand.

"Mind your knee," Oin grumbled as she half raised herself and he turned to fend off the offending knee.

"What are you doing throwing mud at her?" Finky cried as he lifted his hands up.

"I'm not throwing mud at her. She assaulted me," cried Oin, bent over into a position of some defense.

"Fie she did!" retorted Finky. "You're harming an old woman!"

"She's done me a damage!" moaned Oin. "And you'll pay!" He reached out to pull Finky's beard, now caked with mud.

It wasn't hard to tell where this drama would lead...

[bilbo_baggins]

As Oin grabbed Finky's beard, Oin tripped again into the mud.

"As I said, we should hlep miz Ruthven, Oin. It would be the only kind thing to do," Finky pleaded, hoping that Oin would relent.

"No," said Oin, still trying to stand up out of mud, "we are not going to help any strange women with their business and cart loads!

"Oin, I am ashamed to call you a fellow dwarf!"

"Finky, you are going to get it for that!" So Oin got up and began to chase Finky around the cart.

"Oh, stop it both of you!" Ruthven said suddenly, obviously exasperated at the sight of them. "You're acting like toddlers!"

"With good reason, though! He has insulted my honor and my authority; such action needs acounting," Oin stopped and replied haughtily, knowing a way out this mess was not going to be easy for Ruthven.

Ruthven would need to have a certain way with words...

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen listened with a smile on her face as the minstrels played their tunes. The afternoon had fast arrived, and the Innkeeper began to wonder where the day had gone off to. When nightfall came, Aylwen would announce the festivities of the next few days with a speech, in remembrance of the War of the Ring four years past and the celebrations that would take place in honor of the heroes of Rohan.

The celebrations would last long into the night and the next day would be full of contests, feasts, and dances down at the marketplace of Edoras. Hearpwine's contest, which would determine the king's new bard, would take place mid-morning, and would last near to the afternoon with all the hopeful minstrels that would attend. Aylwen had faith in Hearpwine, with his courage and spirit.

That night would be full of stories and tales, and perhaps songs from anyone willing to contribute. The stories were never the same, and always had different meanings than any that came before. Somehow, Aylwen felt like the songs and stories meant more during the annual celebrations. They were gifts to the dead and the living heroes as testimony of the population's gratitude for their service.

Indeed, the festivities will be quite enjoyable...Aylwen thought happily as she went on serving the patrons and working in the ledger.