Eorling Mead Hall

[Celuien]

If Degas knew the beginning and middle to the tale told in his song, surely he would know the end, if ever it were to be written. She shook her curls and smiled softly, still puzzling over the unfinished story.

"Someone has to know what happened to them. Will you tell me the end, if you hear it? And will you sing me another song? Please."

~*~

Garstan and Garmund stirred inside the Hall. The latter was eager for the day to begin, already anticipating games with Cnebba once chores were finished. But Garstan feared the new day, not knowing how to behave to Linduial after their scene the evening before. He knew, after a night's rest, that he had most likely overreacted and caused her unnecessary discomfort. He hoped that Linduial would understand.

[JennyHallu]

Lin stood silently in the doorway to the stable, heart full of an emotion she did not yet know how to handle. She had run out with a saddlebag she'd forgotton had been stashed under her bed, and heard the whole of Degas' song. Now she watched Degas smoothing Lèoðern's pretty hair, and listening to their conversation, unwilling to break the spell by speech. Farahil was in the stall with her mare, and Lin wondered fleetingly if Garstan had spoken to him yet, and what he thought.

But not even the looming threat of that particular conversation could spoil her joy right now, and as Degas straightened up she met his eyes with her own starry ones, as eager as the child to hear his answer.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Of course, my lady; you shall be among the first to know. And what sort of song should this be?"

"A happy song."

"Oooh," he nodded, looking past Lèoðern and into Lin's wide eyes. He wished he could read her thoughts. He wished he knew what emotions, if any, had been stirred by his song; if she had even understood its significance past the sleepiness of dawn. He wanted to go to her, to hold her close, and whisper into her ear what he had said in song, but now could not be the time. "A happy song. That I can do."

He looked back down at Lèoðern and tapped out a beat on his knees, one hand twice as quick as the other, and smiled to see the little girl before him mimicking the motions with limited success. He let Lèoðern take up the beat when she had mastered it and chanted softly and slowly, rather than singing, playing a few notes with one hand as he spoke the light rhyme and snapped his fingers lazily on the downbeat.

She flaps her wings
And lands on things
With painted gown
And blackened crown.

The flowers of fall,
The grass so tall,
They call her name;
She plays her game.

Dancing swift,
Her feet she'll lift
In thoughtful care
Into the air.

When winter's here,
Sleep 'til next year
And wait to see
What new there'll be.

In spring she wakes;
First flight she takes
To greet the sun
And everyone.

Wings whisper song;
She floats along
Up in the sky...
Look, she goes by.

By lucky chance, a beautiful butterfly chose that moment to flutter through the courtyard, and Lèoðern's delighted laughter danced through the air. Farahil came to stand behind Linduial, and she did not see him. He watched Degas as he pointed to the butterfly, seeing the child follow his finger and watch the delicate creature cast a magical spell over the girl. Degas wondered at what luck had made the butterfly come just then, as if planned, to punctuate his words so beautifully.

He smiled and looked at pretty Lèoðern, laughing with her. She would have a story later, that he could be sure. He set his instrument carefully upon the ground, leaning back against the great stone Falco, and wondered if Lin was still watching. Hesitantly, he stole a look, and Lèoðern followed his gaze.

She jumped to her feet and ran to Linduial, speaking excitedly.

"Did you hear 'egas talk about the pretty butterfly and then it came! Did you see it come? It flew by! And he sang about a harper that promises to wait for a lady but he says he does not know the rest of the story. Did you hear him sing about the harper? And the butterfly came!"

As Lèoðern spoke, Farahil silently went back to his work, and Degas saw him. He wondered at the man's thoughts, and knew that he would never ask him what they were. But now Lèoðern asked Lin if she had heard... perhaps she would speak and Degas could hear what she would say.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine woke to the sound of a lute and voice. "Do you hear that, Ké?" He turned over; she was not there, only in his dreams. He sighed.

a man still haunted by his past

He peaked out the window; the sun was just rising above the plains of the East Emnet. He got up and stretched, donned his clothes, and washed his face from the bucket he had refilled last thing before abedding. He wondered how Saeryn had slept.

I would not have my sister taken into courtship

He wondered more what she thought.

...it is better that you refrain from the asking

But Linduial was leaving this day, and he must speak with her. There had been no chance earlier between her own healing and his court duties. He hoped catch her before they left. Fool, all you needed was to have Marenil ask her to wait. Why had he not thought of that? Oh, he knew why. He passed through the kitchen, bidding Kara a quick good morning and snatching a bite of bread from the tray she kept out. Many a friend had told him that once he got a thing in his head, all else flew away on the wind.

I hope you find what you seek

He wondered what that was, and knew the answer quick as that: peace of mind. He needed to know whether Ké was alive or dead. Yet the finding out must wait, no matter how it gnawed at him, no matter how she haunted his dreams. Are you real, Ké, or just me wishing in a vain dream?

I hope all three of us do.

Or something like that. ...find what we want ... He wondered what Degas wanted.

He heard a child's excited voice. "Did you hear him sing about the harper? And the butterfly came!" It was Lèoðern asking Linduial. Good. He was not too late. He held back just shy of the stables, choosing to wait a moment.

[JennyHallu]

JennyHallu's post


Lin looked down at Lèoðern with an effort, grinning easily. "I saw the butterfly, you little squirrel. A lovely thing, don't you think? I heard both songs actually, and I must admit my favorite is the first. I myself am rather curious to hear the ending." She looked again to Degas, eyes shining with hope.

Lèoðern looked back and forth between her friends with confusion, aware somehow that something was going on between the two. The silence was full of expectation, and Lin began to wonder whether she had perhaps been forward in thinking the song was for her. Would he say nothing to her?


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Taralphiel's post


Lys looked up worriedly. The morning had wrung out sunshine through the cold for some hours, and Lys had woken startled. He had expected to be woken the night before! Had Thornden forgotten to collect him?

Lys tried to sit up, holding at his waist gingerly. He looked to the corner of the room, and saw Thornden slumped in the chair by the door. He had likely snuck in later that night, and Lys did not wish to wake him. He sat and watched him carefully, smiling at his steady breathing and calm expression. Lys saw him most often with creases of worry lining his brow, and Lys felt guilt for being the cause of those lines.

Thornden stirred and lifted his head. His eyes opened and his chest expanded as he drew a deep breath of air.

“Oh, Lys! You are awake,” he said, noticing the boy at once.

“Yes,” Lys said softly. “Thornden, why didn’t you wake me? We did not go to eat dinner in the Hall, like you promised.”

Thornden had forgotten, until that morning when he woke up, and he felt sorry for it. Lys saw it immediately as the familiar wrinkles of worry returned. Lys quickly muttered a few apologies, until Thornden got up and walked to his bedside. He gently laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Now, now, Lys! Do not be sorry. I’m the one who should ask pardon. The court of yesterday turned bitter-sweet. Our Lady Linduial is leaving this morning for home, and there were some changes,” he paused slightly. “I am not to be appointed to Lord Eodwine’s side in the rank you supposed. I did not wish to disappoint you...”

Lys shook his head thoroughly at Thornden’s words. “I could not be! You have taken care of me all this time. I am no blood to you, nor have I any thing or promise to serve you benefit for being so kind. You have given freely, and nothing you could do would make me feel disappointment. You are all at the once my family, and, mayhap, my Father…”

Lys stopped after this, and lowered his head. In all of the healing his body was yet to endure, Lys knew he could feel safe in the care of Thornden. And with no family in his free memory, Thornden was all he had.

[Laiudanama]

Beside the road, just over the wall, there was a soft rustling: the sound of someone moving deliberately quietly, a sound practically designed to attract attention. Silence for a moment as an eye peered through a gap in the stonework, then silence for a moment more as the eye withdrew. Then, with a swift motion, the owner of the aforementioned eye grasped a sturdy branch of the overhanging tree firmly, braced his feet against the wooden wall, and pulled himself up and over in a sort of half-abseiling fashion, landing squarely in the mud on the other side on a pair of well worn walking shoes. The boy, a scruffy, dark haired youth of about nineteen years, wrinkled his nose, shifting his feet disdainfully as water seeped through the battered soles and into what remained of much-patched socks, then shrugged, to no one in particular: after all, these feet had seen more than little mud in the past few years, and particularly in the last, particularly eventful month that had led up to his standing there in the only muddy patch of the road for miles, it seemed, shaking long, untidy brown hair out of his eyes to survey the building in front of him: the Eorling Mead Hall.

Not that Trystan, young vagabond that was was, knew that was what this rather splendid, barn like building was, of course; and neither did he particularly care for that matter. What mattered to the boy, at that particular moment, was firstly that this building was as far from Gondor, and thus that dratted city Minas Tirith and his unwanted pursuers with it, through street as his legs could carry him, and if he didn’t find somewhere to rest during the day he would surely collapse; and secondly, upon closer inspection, that it was some kind of Inn – and where there is an Inn, there are people…and where there are people, there’s profit to be made.

Trystan turned and tugged a forelock ironically at the tree which had so assisted his passage over the wall, his sharp eyes slanting slightly in self-amusement, then picked up his dirty leather satchel where it had fallen beside him, slinging it over his head and across a skinny chest, and began to approach the wall with the careful, almost stealthy walk of one who is more than prepared to run at the slightest sight of any human life. Thank the stars it was still relatively early in the morning, he thought, gratefully; there were few people around, it seemed, leaving him time and space to maybe grab a handful of something tasty and find somewhere to lay low for the rest of the day. And a beautiful early morning it was turning out to be as well, he mused to himself, sniffing the air appreciatively and taking in the soft scent of dew and sunshine; the kind of morning where one could almost be glad to be alive, no matter what their position – whether a lady combing her golden hair in an ebony tower by the sea, or, indeed, a scrawny vagabond on the run from gods-only-know what punishment, with stealing and cheating becoming a way of life.

Not that the aristocratic sorts within any sort of dressed-up Inn would recognise that; too lazy to get out of their beds, he added, bitterly, his jaw setting angrily. Still, all the better for you, Trys lad; get in, grab, get out. Easy, right?

Stealthily, the young man approached the buildings, keeping close to the wall as he crept along, always ready to run. Approaching a tall, wide open door, he paused, checking for any sound of life. Suddenly, a giant, wet snorting noise made him duck, hand to his boot, wide-eyed to the ground, looking around for the threat…

…and found it, regarding him with some amusement in it’s big brown eyes from within the hazy gloom inside the door. From over a stall wall in fact, contentedly munching on hay as it watched this strange boy crouched on the floor with interest. Trystan unfolded himself, sliding the slim knife back into hiding in his boot and glared at the his equine companion venomously. The horse tossed his – or her? Petty thieving was Trystan’s trade, he barely knew one end of a horse from the other, he was a city boy through and through – head disdainfully in reply and turned back to grasp another mouthful of hay in yellowing, tombstone teeth. Trystan wrinkled his nose slightly at the sight but, despite himself, stepped forward tentatively into the gloom of the stable building, a surprisingly peaceful place, all dust and gloom and the sounds and smells of contented steeds. He approached his new found friend and smiled slightly, pushing his hair once again away from a handsome, bony face.

“Hey, hey…” he whispered softly, his eyes flickering over the beast’s face in a kind of admiration and fascination. “Bet you weren’t expecting to see me, eh? Handsome boy, yeah?” The words were fairly meaningless, but somehow just being able to speak to something living, and for once not in his own defence or to give another spiel of lies, was surprisingly comforting. And unlike most who Trsytan met, this one was unlikely to judge him – or at least, not audibly, and not to a court. He, or she, was truly a beautiful creature too, even Trystan could recognise that with his very limited knowledge of all this animalian. Then a new thought struck him, a sudden idea which seemed to fall into place to solve all of his problems, and he suddenly looked anew at the horse.

“Handsome indeed, aren’t we?” he said slowly, a plan forming. Carefully, tentatively, he began to stretch out his hand, long fingers reaching towards his nose. He grinned slyly as his hand rested on the animal’s coarse, dappled fur. “And probably worth a pretty penny too, aren’t we, eh…?”

The sound of singing, sudden, unexpected and pure, made Trystan jerk suddenly and the would-be horse thief hurled himself backwards into the opposite stall in a defensive crouch, hand once more on his boot; but this time, in his haste, his fingers fumbled and the knife slid out of his hand and into the walkway between the stalls on either side of the stable building. But it wasn’t the sound of a harmless, tuneful ditty that kept Trystan crouching there rather than rising to get the knife: it was the realisation, suddenly, that he was no longer alone in the stables – and he wasn’t counting the horses…