Eorling Mead Hall

[Firefoot]

Léof had perked up considerably as the situation sunk in: he had won. He had actually beaten all those other horses, many of them probably more well-bred or better-trained. He was receiving a great deal more attention now than before the race; one man had actually offered to buy Æthel and had offered a sum that would have bought his father’s plow and maybe the two draft horses with it! Léof had politely declined, saying that Æthel was not for sale. The man had been persistent, then asking if Léof’s services as a rider were available. Léof had explained that he was an ostler, not a jockey; but not wanting to disappoint the man too much he had said that perhaps he could occasionally ride some races for the man.

But between that man and a passel of girls fairly fawning over him and making him quite uncomfortable, Léof had been quite relieved to find Gárwine approaching with a large grin on his face. Eodwine’s approach had been greeted with a little more trepidation, but now Léof grinned abashedly at the lord’s words.

“Thank you, lord,” he said, “but I might advise you against breaking my other foot – you’d be left with an ostler that couldn’t walk at all!”

“Not that you wouldn’t try,” inserted Gárwine.

“And probably get my neck wrung for my troubles!” laughed Léof. His spirits were too high to be dampened by such kidding, and he realized now that he had forgotten to be annoyed with Gárwine, nor could he find it in himself to do so now. Soon the jesting died down, and Léof recalled the tired horse at his side and, rubbing her nose, said, “In all seriousness, this girl deserves a rest and a hot mash, and I’d like to get her back to the stable.”

[Folwren]

Away - Wistan's Farm - Dunstede

Thornden looked slightly embarrassed as Wistan offered him some ale, pausing a moment as he put the note into his pouch. Finally, he shook his head. “I greatly appreciate your offer, sir,” he said, “but your good wife and daughter in laws have already served me quite well. I had at least two cups of tea, sir, not to mention the biscuits they continued to hand me. Thanks mightily. I can’t be staying longer. There are still many stops to be made before dark, you’ll understand.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Wistan replied, nodding. “You had better be on your way, I guess. A good day to you, then, Thornden.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” He bowed his head slightly as he stepped back and left the house. His horse stood waiting for him as he gathered the reins and mounted and then, without a look behind him, he road out towards the road again.

“Good heavens, Thornden, my lad,” he said to himself, glancing up at the sun. “You can’t be staying around people’s houses that long or else you’ll not get back until tomorrow, or else return without the full amount, and that wouldn’t be very good now, would it? They were friendly folk though, weren’t they? I hope they will come to the Mead Hall. They’d be a welcome addition to the regular company.” He grinned broadly at the thought.

“Cwen would then have quite a pick of young men for poor Rose,” he chuckled. “I wonder if she’s had much trouble lately? Probably not out here. The farm is so far from many people, and I think by now if any of the neighbors were acceptable they would have been decided upon. . .”

And so with such thoughts of his last visit running about in his head, he rode on, quite confident now that most of his visits would go well. If they didn’t . . .well, he wouldn’t mind, he was sure. He could handle it, even if they wanted to put up quite a bit of trouble, he was sure he could handle it.

“We can try, anyway,” he told Flithaf. “The worse that can happen is if an old house wife chases me off with a broom. I can always explain to Eodwine. . .”

[Celuien]

Garstan thought hard. Eodwine was correct. He hadn't thought of the alder, but he had seen it. Lèoðern and Linduial had climbed into it one day, using a sturdy branch as a vantage point to look over the rear of the inn yard. There had to be some way of working around the tree. Garstan pictured the area in his mind. The tree stood near to the former rear wall of the kitchen, dangling branches over the building's roof. It was too close to the hall. Where could he move the kitchen without injuring the tree?

A deep frown crossed Garstan's face as he puzzled over the inn's geography. The rear was the only area with enough space for the expansion. Some 50 feet stood between the back of the building and the property edge, ample enough space for construction. But only 30 feet were on the sides. The kitchen would stand directly against the neighbor's property if he built there. That would never work. But there were no trees to the side of the building. Merely an open expanse of grass and shrubs, the same as the ground to the rear of the alder. If only there were some way to put the kitchen behind the tree and connect it to the main hall.

Then it dawned on him. There was a way. A little less convenient and a little more difficult to build, but a way to save the tree.

"My lord," said Garstan, "it seems that there is a way. Suppose the kitchen were built behind the tree. Maybe even with a window to look out upon it. And then suppose the hallway were built off the side of the Great Hall to curve around to the back and make a courtyard between the kitchen, hall and corridor. It would save the alder and make it the centerpiece of a sheltered garden. It would be more difficult to build, of course, and I would have to make a second stove in the new kitchen, since the old kitchen and its stove would become part of the great hall, but the tree would be safe. Does that meet with your approval?"

[littlemanpoet]

The group were walking in the direction of the Mead Hall as they talked. Saeryn had taken her arm from Eodwine's and was walking behind he and Garstan, and was holding Æthel's reins while Léof rode her. Garwine strode happily at Léof's side, and they were trading reminiscences of the race, reliving its moments from one point of view then the other. Meanwhile, Garstan was mulling and talking through the problem of the alder. Before they had left the grounds, Garstan posed his question. Eodwine liked the idea very much of building the kitchen a little farther back and making the alder the centerpiece of the new courtyard and garden. It would be a very sunny, pleasant spot, one that could be a special gathering place for the folk of his household instead of guests. It would be a good thing to have a pleasant place where people like Garstan, Searyn, Léof, and the others, could go knowing that it was theirs.

"Yes. I like it greatly. You have my yes to it. Show me a drawing of it to firm it in my mind as well as yours, to be sure."

"Yes, lord!" Garstan smiled, his step becoming lighter with the prospect of his idea being not only approved but given the go-ahead.

"My lord," said Saeryn from behind them, "you have somewhat to speak of to me."

"Oh?" Eodwine said, looking back. "What might that be?"

But before Saeryn could say what she meant, up ran Degas with Lèoðern bouncing dangerously on his shoulders, looking a little scared and even more excited for riding the wild horse of a man so high up and without a proper saddle. But Degas did not look as gleeful as the child. Quite the opposite. His face was white.

"What is the matter, Degas?" asked Eodwine. "Where is Linduial? I thought she was with you."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas hoisted Lèoðern above his head, bringing her down into his arms gently and smiling to reassure her. He'd been very careful, though he moved quickly enough to worry any father. Garstan accepted her with a paternal smile, a quick tickle, and a nod to Degas, saving his questions of her day for a moment better suited to an eruption of excited chatter. All present looked at Degas as he ran long fingers through his hair, catching his breath.

He looked around, his eyes haunted. Saeryn stepped forward, trusting the reins to Garwine.

"Degas... Lin?" She was afraid of the look on his face, his usually smiling mouth drawn tight, his eyes utterly bereft of the twinkle so often decorating them. He bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard still. He straightened to meet Eodwine's hard stare, unable to stand it more than a second or two before looking away.

"She..." He'd been preoccupied with the music, the tune still within his ears. She'd spoken to him as he showed Lèoðern the jewelry, but he'd hardly heard over the sounds of the crowd. He watched Lin's shapely figure move along the line of vendors, unconcerned that she would stray far.

"Degas, Degas," squealed Lèoðern, tugging at his hand. "Come and see!"

He'd knelt beside her, admiring to her satisfaction the litter of kittens she had discovered, smiling at her enthusiasm over their tiny grey forms, climbing over each other, their pink tongues licking spotted noses, worrying only about the light pink her pale skin was turning.

"Would you like a pretty scarf, my lady?" he asked, standing and swinging her up into his arms. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened adorably. A vendor, wide from the sampling of his own wares, smiled at the young man and his companion, pointing toward a stall a dozen yards away. Degas nodded his thanks and, with the girl's head on his shoulder, he worked his way through the crowd.

"Pick anything that meets your fancy." he said, setting her down to better inspect. This vendor was an austere old woman, sharp eyes keen. The transaction went smoothly and, with Lèoðern's burning neck now safely covered with brightly colored silk, Degas turned to find Lin, Lèoðern's hand in his.

He scanned the crowd, eyes searching for her unmistakable form. Her bearing alone should have been enough to find her, with those in her presence acting in such a way that would turn any lovely young maiden's head. He thought of her posture as he looked for her. Her back straight, her shoulders squared; she presented an imposing figured when she cared to do so. He couldn't get enough of those moments when she relaxed with a carefree laugh. He felt his chest warm those times that her cold demeanor broke and she favored him with a shy smile, though it was such a rare occurence that he often thought he had imagined it all.

His meandering thoughts were brought quickly to an end when he realized that she was nowhere to be seen. His usually relaxed gait shifted into a stride as he lifted Lèoðern again to move faster.

"The Lady of Dol Amroth?" he asked those he passed. "Have you seen her?"

Trying not to panic, Degas worked his way smoothly back toward the Hall, eyes scanning the crowd for familiar faces. If she had lost him when Lèoðern had drawn his attention to the kittens, if she had merely wandered too far and lost her way, Linduial would return to the Hall. Degas hoped beyond hope he would see her smiling, sharing a gossip with Saeryn in the sun, or some such female action, upon his return; his chest felt heavier than usual, the hot sun doing nothing to dispell the shiver now dancing across his shoulders.

He'd found Saeryn and Eodwine both, accompanied by several others of the household. Lin was not with them. He tried to speak again, afraid to meet Eodwine's gaze again. He spoke to Saeryn's waist, voice hesitating, trying to keep his words light enough that Lèoðern, eyes happily following the erratic flight of a butterfly, would not be upset by them.

"We were separated. I had hoped to find her at the Hall." His words carried a weight that revealed his worry and Saeryn responded, her own light voice laced with nerves.

"Eodwine--" She could see the Hall in the distance, the view broken only by visitors to the city as they passed. Marenil sat outside and all was calm there. She could not see Lin.

[Formendacil]

A new stranger stepped over the threshold of the being-renovated Eorling Mead Hall. He stood an impressive four foot six, sported a two foot-long, red beard, and muscular arms wider around than some people's legs. He carried a massive pack, off of which dangled various hammers and chisels, and at his side he sported a wicked-looking bearded battle-axe. His name was Náin, son of Narin, son of Nori, and he was a Dwarf of Erebor.

The first thing that Náin noticed, as he entered the Mead Hall, was the general absence of people. He presumed, rightly, that they were all about in the streets of Edoras, entertaining themselves or being entertained by others, at the horse fair.

He dropped his pack to the ground, the steel heads of his hammers clinking on the stone, and the pack itself landing with a thud that belied the idea that it was filled with mere clothing and food. He stretched, looking around, but saw no one.

Making use of the time he had until someone discovered him, Náin opened up his pack, and began digging around, eventually pulling out a rather crinkled piece of parchment, which he hastened to try and smooth out with his massive, muscular hands. Once again, he read the words inscribed thereon:

"To the Eorl of the Middle Emnet, Keeper of the Mead Hall," it read, "from Thorin III Stonehelm, King of Durin's Line, King Under the Mountain, Lord of Erebor, with greetings.

We have long conversed with our Royal peer, King Éomer son of Éomund, Lord of the Riddermark, regarding the establishment of a colony of our people in the realm of the Riddermark, for the mutual benefit of both our peoples. Our well-renowned kinsman, the Lord Gimli son of Glóin, begins even at this time to establish the Dwarven colony in the great fortress of your people known as Helm's Deep.

Having received so much in the way of aid and assistance from your King, we have desired to repay him in some small way for his generosity, and have sent a renowned sculptor of our people, one Náin son of Narin son of Nori, who bears this letter, to the city of Edoras to adorn it with such statues and scuptings as he may in thanks for the friendship between your people and ours.

Having informed the King Éomer of this intent, he has directed us to send our servant Náin to seek the hospitality of the Eorl of the Middle Emnet's Mead Hall. We trust that he shall be an honourable representative of the people of Erebor, and commend him to your famed hospitality."

And the letter ended with a crest portraying an anvil and hammer, surmounted by a crown with seven stars- the emblems of Durin and his heirs, and the signature of Thorin III Stonehelm.

Náin turned the letter over somewhat nervously in his hands, unsure of what his welcome would be like. The Mead Hall appeared to be in a state of either disrepair or major renovations, and he was unsure if the Eorl would be eager to accept a guest, although he was willing to help with the construction if needed. Though his chosen field of expertise was sculpture, he was well-enough versed in basic masonry and smithying- as are nigh on all Dwarves, among whom such crafts are widespread and well refined.

Still, Náin was a Dwarf in a strange land, and uncertain of his welcome. The Lord Gimli had by his exploits and friendship with King Éomer made the Rohirrim friendly to and somewhat familiar with the Dwarves, but they were not the Men of Dale, accustomed to their everyday presence. And since he had taken his leave of Gimli and the Dwarves making for Helm's Deep, he had been uncomfortably aware of his alienness.

It is therefore, perhaps, somewhat natural that upon someone entering the Hall behind him, he was somewhat startled, and jumped in the air, hand on his battle-axe, only to realize that all the other person had said was:

"Excuse me? Can I help you?"

[Kath]

Kara had been in the kitchen with Frodides for most of the day, preparing food for the meal for the rest of the Hall's inhabitants upon their return. Thanks to Saeryn's relentless checks on the state of the cupboards they had enough food to serve a small army, but with all the excitement of the horse fair Kara thought that the young ones in particular would be especially hungry, and set about making a larger meal than normal. There was not much she could do in the way of hot food, as the stove was not yet fully complete, but the makeshift oven outside was still burning gently and gave more than enough heat to cook some essentials.

She was just coming back from the oven, bearing a tray of bread rolls this time, when she heard clanking and a thud from inside the Mead Hall. She stopped and listened for a moment, but could hear nothing else. Looking around she couldn't find evidence of anyone's return, be it Thornden's horse or the squealing of Lèoðern. Cautiously she made her way round to the front of the Hall, and peered in through the door and caught sight of a figure in the shadows. For a moment she thought it was Garstan's son dressed in a child's battle costume, but as she got closer she realised her mistake and blushed, glad that she had not made the comment out loud, for many Dwarves were notoriously sensitive about their height.

He seemed not to have noticed her, being engrossed in a letter. She didn't wish to startle him, so stepped forward slightly as she spoke.

"Excuse me? Can I help you?"

Her attempt failed however. As the words left her mouth the Dwarf spun round, hand on axe. Kara let out a sharp shriek as he did so, dropping the tray. Bread rolled everywhere, and the Dwarf immediately lowered the axe and held his hands up, trying to gesture that he meant no harm.

[littlemanpoet]

"We were separated," Degas said morosely. "I had hoped to find her at the Hall."

"Eodwine--" Saeryn murmured in a nervous tremor, not finishing her thought. She was looking toward the mead hall where Marenil could be seen sat outside. Linduial was not with him.

"Where have you searched, Degas?" Eodwine asked, his voice tight and low, his words as gently spoken as he could manage.

Degas looked at his feet, then slowly lifted his gaze to meet Eodwine's eyes with a reddened face. "From the shops to here. That is all." His eyes flitted nervously for another place to look before he blinked them back to Eodwine. He blurted, "I asked many on the way and no-one has seen her!"

Eodwine swallowed. This was not good. It was not like Linduial to be hidden in a fair. It was her way to promenade and draw attention. If she could not be found, something ill had happened. A weight as of lead settled inside Eodwine. What could have happened to her? he wondered. Captured? Kidnapped? Worse?

"Degas, I charge you to search the fairgrounds, every inch. Leave no possible hiding place unsearched. Garwine, go with him. Saeryn, Léof, Garstan and I will go to the mead hall and seek for news of her there. Do not return to the mead hall until you have asked any who might know. She must be found! Do I have your yes?"

Degas looked pale, but nodded. Garwine spoke his yes, and the two left at a trot. Eodwine started off at a quick pace, Saeryn tugging at the reinds of Æthel to keep up. Garstan carried Lèoðern in his arms, jostling her gently; she was crying, having sensed the bleak tenor of the exchange between Degas and Eodwine.

What will I do? Eodwine thought. If she is murdered I am no Eorl worth the name. If she is captured, I must rouse a rescue party and bring her back to safety. If she is kidnapped, I have little wealth. He shook his head as he strode to the mead hall.

When they came there, Marenil looked up.

"Marenil," Eodwine called, "has Linduial been here in the last hour?"

"Nay, lord, she has not." Marenil's face fell and creased in sudden worry. "Is she lost?"

"Aye." Eodwine apprised him of all that had happened in the last hour, forgetting in his mood the horserace just won by Léof. Nobody mentioned it.

[Anguirel]

At the Horse Fair

Manawyth stood among the rest of the tussling throng, their long, yellow locks swaying about, making him conscious of his own dark ones. He had known Dunlendings to have rinsed their hair pale, but he was not yet ready to stoop to such artifice to embrace a people still not his own.

"A fine stallion," he called out, swallowing some of his lilt. "He's seen much battle, my lords..." He tugged on the black horse's halter gently.

"I'll bet," a loud, coarse voice answered. "Probably 'gainst us, waelsman..."

Manawyth swallowed the "strawhead" that had risen to his gullet and ignored the cry. Instead, his eye roving the crowd, he caught the glance of a tall man-at-arms with a sword at his side, a freeman at least, and by the look of his garb in the service of some great patron, perhaps one of the Eorls who attended the King.

"Sir, you seem a judge of quality..." the Dunlending started. The man of Rohan returned his look evenly, brazenly, and Manawyth bit his cheek slightly.

"How much would you take for it, trader?"

"Sir thegn, if you prefer to pay in kind, I am a singer with a borrowed instrument. I'll swap this horse for a harp o' gold with the best, most supple gut."

"A singer. Your folk have always been inventive," the stranger acknowledged. "You have a deal. Keep your horse back and meet me in Goldwine Street three hours from now, and you will have what you ask for."

***

A long wait, seeming ever more estranged, Manawyth thought, as he remembered the continuing excitement of the Horse Fair not so far off. In contrast, the Goldwine-way was almost emptied. Beside him, the horse tossed its head in apparent anxiety.

"That's him!" Manawyth heard in the distance. At first he thought his acquaintance from earlier in the day had come back with his master. He was not so far wrong in this, for amid the mob of men appearing on the street the stern fighting-man could be seen, and a haughty nobleman on a white horse was not far off. But evidently they had not come alone, and there was no sign of a harp. Besides, it was not the soldier who had shouted, but the coarse man who had insulted him before. This could not be a good sign.

Manawyth automatically felt for his blade, then remembered that, to cement his position as a cleansed man of peace, he had sold it.

"There's the wolf's-head Dunlending with his stolen horse!"

That made Manawyth start, because it was so true and yet so false. The black horse had never belonged to him; but certainly never to any of these Rohirrim either.

"You lie, churl," he yelled back. "I will swear on it."

"What worth is a waels' word," a proud voice cut in, "when set against that of Cuichelm of the Mark?" It was the splendid Rider, who had slipped easily from his horse.

"Men, take hold of his arms," the nobleman cried, his voice seeming ugly when raised in anger, rather than left in languid smoothness. "Adlaf...take that horse back to my stables...we shall try this wretch after he has spent some time in suitable...quarters..."

"Stop, off, get off, you forg..." Manawyth flailed his arms impotently, but caught the errant word even now. "I mean-halt! I am under the protection of the Eorl of the Mid Emnet!"

"How quaint," Cuichelm answered laughingly. "He's one of those new men, isn't he? Perhaps he commonly feels sympathy for outlaws..."