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Okay, NOW Panic!  by Boz4PM

This chapter and the following one were conceived as ‘a whole’, in that I had intended for the events they cover to take up one chapter but, as ever, things ran away with me so I’ve had to divide it all into two. And, yes, this does mean (barring a crisis) the next chapter will not be long in coming (for once, I hear you cry).

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Chapter 42“Farewells and Feasting”


Penny walked back to the camp with Mireth’s arm about her shoulder and her own about Mireth’s waist, her head resting against her shoulder. Mireth was not the only one there to have been much moved by the ceremony and Penny was thankful that her own bout of tears had not seemed extraordinary in the least, certainly not compared to some of the wailing of the women of Rohan that could still be heard on the breeze behind them.

The funeral itself had taken all the morning and was still not completely over given the amount of people still walking up to the barrow, some singing, some crying quietly, others walking round it in a determined fashion perhaps mimicking the actions of the Riders of the King’s House in some way. The personal farewells would take some time yet, it seemed.

It was, technically, lunchtime if not a little after, but few had any appetite. Besides, come early evening the feasting would begin.

When Mireth had gently touched Penny’s arm and suggested they get back to the camp, the maelstrom of emotions, the impetus to weep that had engulfed Penny like a wave, was already leaving her almost as suddenly as it had arrived. It had left her feeling strangely numb: neither distressed nor grieving anymore, just filled with a weird, heavy, empty stillness in which she was barely aware of anything around her. She did not take in what, if anything, Mireth said to her as they walked back to the camp or who else might have walked with them. She just felt exhausted, drained. So much so, indeed, that once they had arrived and Mireth had left her in their tent, Penny lay down on her bedroll and quickly fell asleep.

It was a couple of hours later when Mireth came and gently shook her awake, saying they needed to get ready to head up to the Meduseld. Penny felt a little groggy but also, as she dressed and let Mireth tidy her hair, not so much numb anymore as calm. She still felt sad – her thoughts of the night before were still haunting her – but not nearly so upset and overwhelmed by them. The tears of the previous night and again this morning had clearly been somewhat cathartic, an unburdening, a means by which she could confront her situation and find some release for the pain it caused her to do so. It was strangely comforting to know she was not the only person currently confronting loss and change right now, even if others were doing so for many different reasons and none of them quite matching her own.

That said she was not looking forward to the feast. All she really wanted right now was to be alone, to sit and think and mourn, not to socialise and look vaguely interested. She wondered how soon she might reasonably be able to leave.

She also wondered how much, if anything, she would actually be able to risk eating.

Those who had been in the processional had been back in the camp for quite some time. As Penny and Mireth left the tent, Penny saw the little group standing about and talking in quiet murmurs nearby and realised that they had likely enough all been waiting for her to get her backside in gear.

While Celebdor took Mireth by the hand and lead them all off, Arvain and Lindir made comments to the effect of being glad to see Penny up and about at last and Faelon smiled warmly at her, apologising for having had to send Mireth in to disturb her rest but that it really was time to ‘shake a leg and get a move on.’ All three were clearly trying to make light of the situation and jolly her up a little.

The one person Penny most wanted to talk to or have some indication of how he was doing after the ceremonials (and whether he felt quite as peculiar and shattered by it as she did) simply managed to nod his head in her direction by way of greeting without actually looking her in the eye.

Which probably told her all she needed to know.

She wondered if he was looking forward to all this as little as she was. Probably even less, she suspected. The first opportunity she had to catch his eye she gave him what she hoped would come across as a reassuring smile and she was pleased to see he returned it.

They walked up to the Meduseld together as a group though in truth the entire camp was slowly emptying so they ended up forming part of a steady stream or large ambling crowd that was heading upwards towards the city. The mood amongst everyone was still a little subdued, but Penny did not feel quite so unsettled by it as she had even the day before. Indeed she and Lindir chattered away almost like old times. However as they passed by the barrow, two torches on either side of the entrance that would be lit the moment darkness fell and remain lit for the three days the wake would last, all conversation died and they, and those around them, continued their walk up to the gates in near silence.

Once inside Edoras, however, it was clear that the atmosphere was slowly changing both from the day before and even earlier that morning. Yes, it was still busy and yes, there was still a sombre feel to it all, as if people were talking in hushed undertones, trying to limit their laughter, and generally keep the noise down, but it did not seem nearly as oppressive as it had done. Indeed, as they neared the top of the hill and the Meduseld, they could hear the low hum of a crowd talking and chattering, even before they entered the large courtyard.

The sight that greeted them was quite something.

The entire courtyard in front of the Meduseld was filled with tables, chairs and benches, many with awnings stretched over the top of them which were tied onto lengths of rope that were strung across the space. The Meduseld itself was, of course, massive and could house a huge number of people, but this wake was to be for all who would wish to attend, and that included all the townspeople and many from elsewhere in Rohan, let alone all the guests from the camp. There were several hundred people to be fed, watered, and in some cases housed, for the next three days. For a feast this grand and spectacular the Meduseld alone was not enough.

There were already many people there, most of them locals, taking their seats, deep in conversation. While there was still the sense that, yes, a momentous and sad event had occurred that morning, the sheer fact of this many people together meant the atmosphere was more genial than one might have expected. Already ale was being served, and on one side of the courtyard the ground floors of several houses had been set aside to store and prepare the food needed to serve those in the courtyard. Women and serving boys were beetling back and forth from the houses with trays of tankards and jugs.

Later in the evening barrels would be rolled out into the courtyard, taps sunk into them and people left to help themselves, but in the meantime there was some sense of order and decorum, although the number of children and dogs currently running in and out of the tables (much as the adults tried to stop them) meant it inevitably was limited to some extent. One got the distinct impression, however, that the outside proceedings would be a tad more raucous than whatever occurred inside the Meduseld (for tonight at least).

Penny and the others joined the steady stream of lords, ladies and elves – those who were considerably better and richer dressed than most of those in the courtyard – making their way up the stairs to the great double doors of the Golden Hall.

The stench inside the Meduseld was much as Penny remembered it, but the atmosphere was very different from the last time she had been here. Many were already seated but any talking was being done only in low murmurs. In the gloom of the torchlight it all seemed terribly sombre and especially so compared to the courtyard outside.

Penny turned to say something to Mireth, intending to ask her once more for reassurance about what she should or should not eat (the latter list being far longer than the former, it had be said), only to find she, Celebdor and Lindir had moved away, Lindir towards the end of a table nearest the top table that, just as last time, was placed horizontally across the Hall directly in front of the dais that held the king’s throne.

In that same moment Penny found herself being ushered forward by the three Dunedain towards a row of tables near the middle of the Hall, and, to her consternation, not only that but towards the end nearest the top table (thus mirroring Lindir’s actions on the other side of the Hall). It appeared that all the Dunedain were to be seated together in one group, and as men of honour in their own right, by virtue of their own lineage, their being kinsmen of King Elessar himself, let alone their own already infamous feats during the War, they were to be positioned very well indeed in terms of the complex hierarchy of Meduseld seating arrangements.

Penny felt proud, honoured and hugely embarrassed to be included amongst them in equal measure.

Even so, she hesitated as they reached the two or three large, long tables set aside for them all, wary of sitting too close to the top table and thus in a position that, irrespective of whoever her guardians might be, she knew she did not deserve. It was barely a second’s pause and she had no time to voice her concern let alone even properly define it in her own head when without hesitation Arvain took his seat there and then where she stood, gesturing for her to sit beside him while Halladan sat on the other side of her. That Faelon continued on and sat very near to the top table told Penny that, were she not with them, Arvain and Halladan would likely have been seated in a similar position.

“Should you not go and sit with…?”

“No, no. Here is just fine, I think. Do you not agree, Halladan?”

“Absolutely. Ah… and here comes the ale. Good, good.”

Penny was somewhat surprised by how breezy Halladan sounded, and did give him a curious glance, trying to gauge how much of it might be false bravado, but was interrupted by the arrival of their cousin and various other Dunedain who came to sit opposite them.

Soon enough the hall was full and, as the drinking got underway and food slowly began to appear, a very long ballad, part spoken, part sung, began. It took nearly the entire meal to tell and many there seemed either captivated or else considered it of enough importance (or perhaps so much an essential part of the ritual of the proceedings) that they remained relatively quiet throughout.

Since drinking the water was out of the question, Penny allowed herself some of the ale – only one mug, though, and she made it last as long as possible – since it had been agreed that the fermentation should have killed most things in the water. Mireth (and Penny) had been worried about the possible state of cleanliness of the tankards or cups, however, so Mireth had given Penny a small cloth to wipe them with (since simply washing it out with water would have been less than useless and defeated the object entirely).

Penny’s sleeves were too loose, she had no pockets, and wore no belt, so in the end Mireth had suggested Penny keep it tucked into her neckline under the edge of her undershift.

It was only when it dawned on Penny, too late, that she was now seated entirely surrounded by men that she realised her mistake and instantly regretted taking Mireth’s advice. Thus when a pewter tankard was placed in front of her, and while Halladan was pouring ale out to all his neighbours, she tried to get the cloth out as surreptitiously as she could, trying to hide what one hand was doing by covering it nonchalantly with the other.

Once removed and she went to wipe the mug, however, she noticed a raised eyebrow being thrown in her direction from the cousin sitting opposite her and that Halladan seemed to be terribly interested in a wallhanging above his cousin’s head all of a sudden.

He also seemed to be waiting to fill her mug.

He had probably got the surprise of his life as he had turned to pour her some ale and found her with her hand stuffed down her cleavage.

Penny silently cursed Mireth under her breath and tried to look as unconcerned as possible, as if what she had just done was a perfectly normal everyday occurrence.

“Interesting what things women can keep tucked away in extraordinary places, do you not think, brother?”

“Shut up, Arvain.”

Arvain held out a hand for the cloth.

“Shall I look after that for you, Pen-ii? Might be better tucked into my belt than… elsewhere.”

Penny tried to look gracious and unembarrassed as she handed the cloth over while kicking him in the ankle under the table. Arvain just grinned at her.

Penny was very careful with the food, as per Mireth’s instructions and her own all-pervading paranoia. Even though several dishes did look delicious, she resisted the temptation ‘just in case’, though she did risk some very well-roasted venison that Halladan reckoned should be safe enough. Otherwise she basically stuck to fruit she could peel – two apples and a pear. She did turn to Arvain to ask for her cloth back to wipe the knife in front of her before she started but he just rolled his eyes and took his own knife from out of its scabbard on his belt and handed it to her.

The Dunedain then watched with some amusement as she tried to peel an apple with what was actually an elvish dagger. After the third time of the knife slipping and nearly taking the top of her thumb off, Halladan gently took both apple and knife from her.

“Here. Let me. You will be at it all night and have several digits missing at the end of it if you carry on like that. Did no one ever teach you how to use a knife?”

“A knife, yes; a dagger to peel fruit, no.”

There were quiet chuckles at that. Since in the wild Dunedain kept what they had to carry to an absolute minimum, one-size knife fitted all – it had to. However, even they had to admit that Penny had a point when she said she felt sure they did not use their knives for peeling fruit while sat in the middle of a spinney somewhere. Such delicate niceties were hardly the staple of your average Dunadan’s way of life, and especially not whilst out on patrol for weeks on end.

After the meal an even lengthier ballad-like story was told. No space was made for dancing – it was hardly appropriate to the proceedings - rather everyone stayed seated as they were, drinking and listening to the tale being told in a sonorous voice and with much enthusiasm by the man who stood near the top table, gesticulating every now and then, his voice carrying far with the superb acoustics of the huge arching roof above him.

Most seemed enthralled. A few chatted quietly (very quietly) here and there – mainly those who did not speak Rohirric and found it hard to keep their concentration for that long on something they really could not make much sense of.

Every now and then the orator would reach a particularly well-known passage and at such moments several voices round the Hall would join in, either in low murmurs as if those reciting it were muttering it to themselves almost absent-mindedly, or else out loud, even once or twice the men in question standing suddenly, as if carried away with the drama and emotion of it all, tankards in one hand, the other on their breasts.

Clearly whatever this tale was, it was one that the Rohirrim were terribly proud of, one that was much loved and considered a Great Tale worthy of being recited at the wake of a Great King.

Penny amused herself by looking round the Hall and seeing who was where and who she recognised. Legolas and Gimli were on the top table, of course, not only as members of the Fellowship but also as those who had earned great honour in the eyes of the Rohirrim by fighting alongside them at Helm’s Deep. Frodo and Sam looked rather uncomfortable at the top table, it had to be said, Sam in particular, but they certainly seemed to appreciate the Rohirric ale and had an entire jug to themselves.

The rest of the Hall was a little too gloomy in parts, what with the gathering dusk and the smoky torches, for Penny to see too far or too well. That and, of course, many had their backs to her given seating was on both sides of the long rows of tables stretching the length of the Meduseld. She caught Eleniel’s eye, who smiled and nodded in her direction, and that of Naurdir and his wife who was sitting fairly near to her. She could recognise one or two of the Rohirrim and Gondorians she had got to know during her few weeks travelling and had just spotted Fimorndír when she realised who was sitting next to him. Corunir actually had the cheek to not simply look straight at her but also to smile and incline his head in a manner that struck her as entirely too familiar and friendly. Penny glared at him and quite deliberately turned her head away.

If, as she had been looking round the room, a certain young Rohirric lord had studiously avoided her gaze and tried to make it seem like he had not even seen her let alone recognised her, she did not notice.

At last, and it really did seem like an hour had passed (at least), the reciter’s voice faded into silence. The murmurs round the Hall slowly rose to a dull rumble of quiet chatter for a few minutes. That it quickly became quieter once more, however, meant something else was happening of import, and the guests turned this way and that to see what might be up.

Eowyn had stepped forward bearing a cup.

Penny had not even noticed her leave her seat from the high table where she had been seated between Arwen and Faramir. Now, however, she was making her way slowly towards the top table carrying a golden goblet inlaid with pearls and jewels. She placed it in front of Eomer, bowing her head a little as she did so, and he smiled, reaching for it, and inclining his head in response by way of thanks.

Then another, older bard than the one who had just entertained them all stepped forward and this time Penny knew what he was going to say. Indeed, it was she who whispered to Halladan that what would follow would be a list of the kings buried in the barrows outside.

It was done with great solemnity and clear pride. You could have heard a pin drop, so silent did the Hall become at that point. Even the guests, for all they might not have understood the language, understood enough to know that this was an important part of the ceremonials.

When at last the bard had finished, Eomer stood, insisting that all there had their cups and tankards charged. There was a pause then as serving women and boys rushed about checking everyone had ale, wine or mead that needed it. When at last the bustling had come to an end, Eomer took them all in for a moment, then held the golden goblet high with one hand and loudly toasted Theoden King.

The echo with which his words were repeated indicated that not only had the toast been repeated in the Hall but that even down in the courtyard they were following his lead. They might not have heard the bard, but the doors were open to the Hall (if only to try and get some air in and smoky fug out) and word had spread that the toast was coming.

It was their final formal farewell.

The rest of the evening passed in the telling of tales and the singing of long, slow, sad songs (with the emphasis on the long). Indeed the entire point of the evening seemed to be these recitals (and drinking) rather than anything else. People did walk about a bit to stretch their legs or to go and talk to others in the Hall (at which point Frodo and Sam seem quite relieved to be able to escape the top table and join Merry and Pippin who were nearby), but again all in subdued murmurs and little laughter above a chuckle. Most there simply listened to the ballads and tales.

As the evening progressed more and more people began to join in, singing in progressively louder voices, or to even cheer certain parts of heroic tales and shout exclamations by which to punctuate the stories. For the most part, however, it was clear the focus of the evening was to remember the fallen heroes of old, that by so doing they might honour the memory of Theoden.

In some ways Penny was very glad it was all in Rohirric, and she wondered if Halladan was too. He was surrounded by his own kin, able to happily ignore most of what was being sung or recited round him. It probably made things slightly easier for him than it might otherwise have been.

That said, even if the mood was perhaps less sombre than it had been, it was still fairly intensely dark for all there was the odd shout or cheer. It was clear that the night would be a long one and much fuelled by alcohol. Indeed many would actually sleep in the Hall that night and for the few days that the feast lasted. Such was the tradition, but also there was not really anywhere else to put them.

As yet another slow song started up about fallen dead heroes giving their lives up in some great battle or other, Penny felt she really could not cope with anymore. Many of the Dunedain had left to talk with Rohirrim, Gondorians or elves. Similarly others had come to join their table. Thus when Penny muttered something about getting back to the camp it was Celebdor who said he would walk her back.

“Mireth was thinking of leaving soon also,” he explained. “I shall fetch her. We can all go together.”

Penny was already standing. Halladan, who had spotted her from where he was further down the table deep in conversation with a large Rohirrim who was missing his left arm from the elbow, came over to her. When he ascertained she was leaving he said he would also join her also. Penny did not try and insist he stay. She could see from the look in his eyes he was relieved to have an excuse to get the heck away from it all.

Mireth had been chatting quietly in a corner with Arwen, Eleniel, Eowyn, some of the Gondorian ladies-in-waiting and a small group of ladies of Rohan. When Celebdor explained the situation, Arwen, overhearing, looked up, managed to catch Halladan’s eye and beckoned the pair of them over whereupon she insisted on re-introducing Penny to Eowyn. Apparently Eowyn had been asking after Penny when they had first arrived and had been most pleased to hear she had made a full recovery.

“I am sorry I have not had a chance to visit you in the camp,” she said in her heavily accented Westron.

Penny managed to get out a clumsy response in faltering Westron to the effect that she need not apologise, that she knew she had been very busy, and besides she was honoured enough simply in knowing that Eowyn had remembered her and asked after her.

“You much honour are giving me,” she said, inclining her head.

The smile Eowyn gave Penny by way of reply was very warm and genuine.

As Penny turned to leave, Arwen stayed her briefly, standing and taking her to one side.

“I have had little opportunity to see you since Estel told me what you had decided. I am glad, Pen-ii, just as my father is glad on your behalf. You will be well cared for amongst the Dunedain. They are a people I know well, indeed that I love well.”

And she smiled a really rather interesting smile, in which the eyes spoke far more than her words or even her expression might, and Penny knew the glance she had just flicked across Penny’s shoulder was in Aragorn’s direction.

The following day the feast was not due to recommence until the afternoon. The morning was spent by the Rohirrim in preparing yet more food, getting more barrels in position, sweeping out the Hall and generally getting things in readiness for yet another prolonged drinking session.

With not much else to do, therefore, most of the guests in the camp stayed put reading, catching up on sewing, boot mending or oiling bows and the like. When the time came to head up to the Meduseld, Penny felt in a better humour than the day before. For all the elves seemed ever more quiet and reserved as the time to leave Arwen marched ever closer, the Dunedain were on their usual good form and the morning had seemed comparatively normal, certainly compared to the previous day, and that had served her in good stead.

As they passed through the gates, Halladan, Faelon and another Dunadan were in deep discussion with Lindir about songs and specifically trying to determine the choice of a song to be sung that night.

Penny looked at Arvain with furrowed brows.

“There have been invitations from the king for one or more of those amongst us to sing or recite something. The Rohirrim had their turn last night, with the best bard or musician from each area, family or tribe performing something by way of giving honour and paying tribute to the dead king and all the fallen of the War, and there will be more of it tonight it seems. It has been suggested that the Gondorians might wish to recite or sing something that is of their tradition, perhaps some from Minas Tirith and some from Dol Amroth, and the same has been suggested of the elves and us also. There are many hours to fill, of course, but it is also a great honour to be able to make a small contribution to their custom of honouring the dead in this way.” He indicated the four males ahead of them. “They are discussing which might be the most suitable choice. Faelon is likely as not to be the one to do it as amongst the most senior of us and someone who is well known for his story-telling, though he is trying to protest he had too much ale last night and is not in good voice this evening. Lindir has suggested a particular ballad that he himself wrote about the wars of our ancestors with the Witchking of Angmar, but Halladan insists it should be a song or tale traditional to the Dunedain that we ourselves wrote and have handed down through the generations, and I have to say I agree.”

“Lindir should sing his own song himself,” Penny replied.

“You hear that, Lindir?” Faelon suddenly flung an arm behind him. “Even Pen-ii agrees.”

“Yes, but I had already decided upon…” Lindir smiled and shook his head. “Oh, what does it matter? Yes, yes, you are right. What has been asked for is for each to represent their people in a manner fitting to their custom.”

Faelon did sing in the end. It was after the meal and actually from the direct prompting of Aragorn that he stood at last, not looking in the least bit sheepish but in fact proud to be the one to do it, and certainly not in poor voice as he had tried to claim earlier.

Penny listened to him with pride. She was not sitting near him at the time. The seating had been less rigid this evening (so the Dunedain were not all together in one large bunch like the night before) and no sooner was the meal finished than people roamed about quite freely given the atmosphere was not quite as sombre as the night before, if still relatively subdued still. Thus when Faelon had stood up, Penny had been sitting to one side of the Golden Hall with Lindir, Eleniel, Arvain, Rhimlath and a few Dunedain, Gondorians and Rohirrim. She recognised the song he sang as one she had heard the Dunedain sing once or twice before now while travelling from Gondor and several of them joined in at parts, even Halladan and Arvain.

Lindir sang, of course, as did a group of ellith and ellyn from Lothlorien who sang as a choir and whose voices were so astonishingly beautiful that Penny could see many of the men there moved to tears to hear them, and they were soon followed by Legolas who sang a song mourning the huge loss Mirkwood had suffered in the War of the Last Alliance which clearly had been written by a survivor soon after returning home.

Merry and Pippin sang a duet in their native hobbit Westron which was so close to Rohirric that most there understood it in large part. Hobbits being a people with little experience of war they had chosen a song about the passing of the fruits of autumn into the coldness of winter and how spring seemed so very far away – it seemed very appropriate.

They were soon followed by Gimli, who proved himself to have a very fair baritone. Even Rhimlath also got to his feet at one point, but was hastily pulled back down again by several near him, much to his fury. Two lords of Gondor, both well-known for performing, stood one after the other, one to sing a song, the other to recite a long piece of epic poetry. Nor were they the only ones.

Of course it was still largely a Rohirric affair (as was only right and proper). The sporadic and occasional contributions from the guests were interspersed amongst the various ones from the Rohirrim and while some of the guests’ songs were long, none were ever as long and involved as anything the Rohirrim had to offer.

There was no particular order to it all, either. The general form seemed to be that you simply waited for the pause after a song or recitation had ended and, if no one else had started, you stood and did your piece. If you noticed someone else had also stood up, then decorum dictated that you should indicate that they should go ahead while you sat down again to wait your turn once more (unless they ‘out-polited’ you by sitting down first, that was).

Occasionally Eomer might loudly ask ‘for a song or recitation from one of our guests’ if he felt there had been one too many contributions from his own people and too long had gone without a little variation. It had been on just such an occasion that Aragorn had leant forward and said Faelon’s name very loudly, gesturing for him to stand and take the opportunity to do the Dunedain proud (which he did, of course).

As Penny listened to them all, aware that most of the topics were much like the previous night – about warrior heroes, loss, battle and death – she began to find the same feelings welling within her that had been troubling her the past day or two.

She felt as they did, she told herself: she shared their grief in several respects. After all had she not also lost, albeit in circumstances entirely alien to that which they were thinking of? She was aware too of an acute sense of unworthiness in the face of it all. Not in the sense of self-loathing or self-pity, but rather as anyone who is truly ordinary might feel when faced with heroes who are themselves declaring others to be even more heroic than they.

Penny had, it must be admitted, allowed herself two tankards of ale this evening, if only because she had felt so well on just the one the previous night that she had felt she could probably risk it to no ill effect. She was not drunk, far from it, but it was affecting her judgement and certainly contributing to the rising tide of emotion beginning to swell within her.

Everyone there was contributing something, or having something contributed on their behalf, she was telling herself, and that was only right. It was only proper that they should do so. These dead, who had given their all, they deserved it. The Rohirrim were an honourable people and deserved such courtesy, such respect, as did their king. All had made that gesture towards Eomer, to his people, to Theoden, and by extension, to all who had died and all who had lost in this War, and what had she done? She who was, in effect, alone in representing her people, her time. She who alone knew the sacrifice those men had made meant that the future thought Sauron so distant a thing as to have never have existed at all. She who alone represented all those many people who knew of this story, had loved and admired it and the people within it, who had been in awe of the heroism, the loss, all that had been suffered in that cause. She who was herself grieving, who felt so deeply for those whom she had seen suffering around her, who had known and cared for one who had himself been cut down…

It was perhaps unfortunate that the Rohirric lord somewhere behind her chose exactly that moment to bring his lengthy tale of Helm to an end and sat down to much back-slapping and appreciative offers of ale from his friends. There was a pause that seemed to extend into a minute or two. Penny could feel the nerves tightening in her stomach, in fact could not actually feel her hands, as she slowly stood up.

She tried to ignore the bit of her brain that was screaming at her and asking her what in Hell’s name she thought she was doing. She just tried to focus on the fact that somehow, with every fibre of her being, however scary, however stupid, indeed however much of a prize arse she was about to make of herself, this was the right thing to do. She was the only one here from her people. Everyone else was making an effort, and so should she. The bottom line was that if she did not do this she would kick herself forever afterwards, and especially if anyone came up to her and, albeit jokingly, asked her why she had not sung something in her own native tongue.

She still could not believe she was going to do this, though.

Judging from the faces of those around her, neither could they.

“Pen-ii?”

Lindir said her name in some surprise, exchanging looks with Arvain and Eleniel, as if unsure if she really meant to do what he thought she meant to do. Perhaps she was feeling unwell, or wanted to head down to the camp, or be shown a latrine?

But the look on her face (much like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a juggernaut), the tense wringing of her hands and the nervous clearing of the throat alternated with swallowing told them the truth of it. She also had that determined air that told them there would be no stopping her (but then that is Rohirric ale for you).

Thanks to Lindir’s incessant nagging at her on the journey south, Penny had got into the habit of making a mental note of any song that came to her that might be suitable for public broadcast in terms of tune and lyrics and, perhaps most importantly, to which she could remember all (or most) of the words. Over the past couple of months, therefore, she had built up a potential repertoire of half a dozen songs ‘just in case.’

Of course, since they had left Gondor there had been no one asking her for songs, but she knew it was only a matter of time – once the weird atmosphere that had first oppressed the humans in the camp and then moved on to the elves had lifted – before the prods, the nudges and the gentle cajoling started once more. That was the way of things here – everyone was expected to sing something at some point or recite a poem and it seemed strange for someone to be so reluctant. It was a normal part of an evening’s entertainment. Penny had had to learn that no one would think less of her, or even care terribly much about the song itself or the state of her voice. That was not the point. That she had already sung many songs to Lindir as they had travelled had helped her overcome her nerves somewhat, but still…

She tried not to think about it.

Instead, before anyone sitting next to her could stop her, she turned slightly so she was at least facing the top table, stared at a point somewhere on the wall way above the throne, opened her mouth and just hoped she would start on a reasonable note so she would not have to squeak the high note in the second stanza.

Even as Arvain rested his hand on her arm and he opened his mouth to suggest she might want to reconsider, she started to sing.

She focused on the words. It helped to take her mind of the fact that, as she sang and people elsewhere in the Hall who knew her realised who was singing, and those who did not know her personally realised that she was ‘that woman who travelled with the elves all alone, yes, the one who got sick and nearly died and speaks no Westron’, the Meduseld was getting quieter and quieter. That it was immediately clear that she was singing in a tongue so foreign to them all that it had to be her own only added to their interest.

Everyone on the top table was watching her with a mixture of surprise and intense curiosity. Elrond had been about to take a sip of wine when she had stood up and for the first few lines of her song his cup remained frozen in mid-air. He glanced to Erestor seated beside him and as Erestor murmured in his ear, no doubt translating what he could catch of the meaning, Elrond slowly lowered his cup, the look of alarm on his face slowly changing to one of astonishment and then something akin to approval.

Halladan, seated next to Faelon on the table across from Penny and Arvain, had actually touched Faelon by the arm the moment he had seen Penny get to her feet. Faelon, mid-sentence, had turned to see what it was that had caught Halladan’s attention and then, much like Halladan, had stared in astonishment as this rather hesitant voice had quavered out of Penny. It had been quiet too at first, but it got a little louder as Penny realised that now that she had started she had better finish and also try and do the best job she could of it. That she glanced down to find Lindir giving her an encouraging smile helped too, of course.

The moment she got to the third stanza, though, she felt the emotion begin to well up inside her once more. As she had listened to the others singing, realising that, frankly, she felt she was letting the side down by not doing something, she had mulled over what might be an appropriate song for the situation, and in the end it was only because the song had suddenly come to her that she had got the courage to stand at all.

Yes, “Danny Boy” was clichéd, cheesy and so well known as to elicit groans from people in her own time - a song done to death, frankly - but as she had run through the options of songs she had squirreled away for possible public performance, the lyrics of this particular song were the most appropriate of any that she could think of: a young woman bidding farewell to her young love, a soldier, who is called away to war, and she promises she will wait for him no matter how long it might be while telling him to come back soon.

But as she sang of the woman warning her love that he might return only to find her dead and how he should then find her grave to tell her that he loves her, she wondered how many of the warriors there in the Meduseld had had to do exactly that; she remembered too what she had done herself for Halbarad, even considered how her mother would never be able to do the same for her though she no doubt thought her dead… Well, it was perhaps only natural for her voice to waver and hitch slightly at that point.

Everyone heard it and realised whatever she sang of was touching her deeply, that it clearly related very closely to matters about which they themselves had already sung or spoken of and the very purpose of the wake itself. Indeed, as Erestor and Gandalf, both able to understand the sense of what she was singing (albeit in very general terms), leaned to those next to them and whispered an explanation, those they spoke to looked back at Penny with something akin to sympathy and understanding in their gaze. Those nearest her could see the tears in her eyes, knew that whatever she sang of was sincerely meant in just the same manner as everyone else before her had sung.

As a consequence, far from being considered a fool as she had feared, many were touched and some were even moved. That she was the only human female to have stood up (let alone the only female to have stood and sung alone) was either instantly forgiven or put down to her having already shown herself to be ‘not exactly normal’ before now and so it was nothing unusual in that respect.

She sat down to stunned silence from those immediately around her and quiet, appreciative (if surprised) murmurs from the rest of the Hall (though with a few raised eyebrows and disapproving sniffs from a number of places nonetheless). She wiped a stray tear that had found its way onto her cheek and hung her head in some embarrassment and awkwardness, feeling that while she had done what she had felt she had to do, she also hoped everyone would forget it had ever happened as quickly as possible.

Frankly that was expecting a lot, and she knew it.

It was Eleniel who spoke first.

“That was quite lovely, Pen-ii. It took a lot of courage and you did well.”

She reached across the table to take Penny’s hand, and Penny felt such gratitude to her for that simple gesture.

“The song certainly seemed appropriate in tone, and you showed much pathos,” Lindir agreed, “but I do have to wonder what in Arda possessed you.”

Eleniel glared at him but Lindir opened out his hands in a gesture that both asked her what on earth she was upset about and also that he made no apologies.

“What? It was a somewhat extraordinary moment, Eleniel, you have to admit!”

Arvain nodded as he glanced at Penny.

“I cannot believe you did that.”

He was nothing if not honest but his tone of voice showed astonishment, perhaps even slight amusement, rather than disapproval. He added a smile to indicate he meant it in a supportive, friendly way rather than anything else.

“Neither can I, to tell you the truth.” Penny looked up at him, then at Lindir. “I… I just felt I had to. Everyone else’s people has paid their respects, and I… I just felt obligated to make a contribution on behalf of my own.”

Lindir nodded, understanding completely, but also feeling it might be wise to move Penny’s tankard well out of her reach. Penny did not notice. Her voice had fallen to an embarrassed murmur.

“Stupid idea… heat of the moment… act first, think later, as usual…”

“Not at all, Pen-ii. I do not think you need concern yourself,” Arvain said gently. “It was clear that it was well-meant and sincerely so. It was an excellent gesture.”

Lindir raised an eyebrow at him at the use of the word ‘excellent’ but said nothing.

“It seemed to move you much,” Eleniel said. “What was the song about?”

“I think I can tell you, Eleniel, or some of it, at least.”

Penny turned to find Erestor had left his seat on the high table and was standing behind her.

“There were some words I did not know,” he continued, “but I could guess at most of it.”

Even as he was talking, Halladan and Faelon appeared beside him. Penny was pleased to note that while they were looking nearly as surprised as Arvain and Lindir, they also both looked a little proud of her.

“Brave girl,” Faelon murmured. “Takes courage, something like that.”

“Shall I tell them, or will you?” Erestor smiled at Penny. “The kings have both asked for a translation, as have Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. Mithrandir is obliging them as best he can. I translated for Lord Elrond to the best of my ability whilst you were singing.”

Penny had not really thought through what the consequences might be of what she had done before she had started. The idea that her performance was being talked over and analysed by the great and good left her feeling hugely embarrassed and as if she had, frankly, humiliated herself. She shifted awkwardly in her seat.

Erestor looked at Eleniel and answered on Penny’s behalf.

“As best I could understand it, it is a song sung by a young woman as her love rides to war.”

Penny tried to avoid everyone’s eye as he spoke.

“She says she will wait for him, but if he is overlong away perhaps he will return to find her dead. Is that not so, Pen-ii? She urges him to come to where she lies, if that is the case, and tell her that he loves her still so that she might hear him and be comforted.”

There was a brief silence as everyone around Penny digested this information and both assessed its appropriateness (or otherwise), and also her reaction to it as she had sung it.

“It was the only thing I could think of that I knew and was even remotely in keeping with…,” Penny gestured vaguely around her, still not looking anyone in the eye, “all this. It is not just a king that is being mourned, but all loss, be it in this War or any other.”

She realised she could not hope to explain herself adequately now the moment had passed. She just shrugged and hoped they would understand. She felt a gentle touch upon her shoulder and looked up to see Erestor smiling down at her.

“It was well chosen, Pen-ii. It was a gesture that has been understood by those whose approval is most important here, both in terms of the sentiment expressed as well as that intended, and as such it has been smiled upon. You did well, albeit the manner of it was, perhaps, somewhat unorthodox.”

Penny looked confused. Erestor lowered his voice a little as he replied.

“You are the only mortal female to have sung, Pen-ii. Did you not realise? One or two ellith have done so, it is true, but none of them alone.”

Penny’s eyes widened and she could feel the flush creep into her cheeks as she looked at him in horror.

Erestor smiled once more and shook his head.

“Ai, Pen-ii. Your choice of song and the manner in which you sang it more than made up for any astonishment caused by your action.” He paused and grinned. “I have to say, however, that you gave Lord Elrond something of a shock when you first stood up. I am not sure he quite knew what to expect of you.”

He chuckled then and the others joined him.

Of course then they wanted a translation of the song line by line. However Erestor said it would have to wait since he had been sent to fetch her at the request of both Eomer and Aragorn.

Erestor led her behind the top table, so between it and the throne. That way she was not quite so exposed to the rest of the Meduseld where some were still eyeing her with interest, nudging each other and pointing.

Several members of the high table had already left their places and were mingling with their lieutenants and fellow nobles in the hall, so it was a relatively small group who welcomed Penny and requested a detailed translation of her song. It seemed Gandalf had only been able to manage so much since it was intention as much as anything that he picked up on, so whatever meaning her words had literally held in the last two stanzas had been confused for him by the strong emotions and thoughts she had had whilst she had sung them.

So word by word Penny translated it all for Aragorn (who translated for Eomer and Eowyn), Faramir, Arwen, Elrond, Celeborn, Galadriel, Gandalf, Legolas and Erestor. They did not ask her to sing it again, she was pleased to note, but all commended her on her choice and the sentiment she had tried to convey by her gesture. Those who knew her very well said so with knowing looks that spoke volumes. King Eomer in particular made a point of kissing her hand and thanking her for it, which made her blush furiously and, frankly, feel like she was some flustered schoolgirl. The expression on Elrond’s face was unreadable but his eyes were smiling, which Penny took as a good sign.

As she thanked them and hurried back to her seat, Gandalf gently placed his hand on her arm, staying her momentarily as she walked past him. He then paid her the biggest compliment anyone could have paid her.

“I know Halbarad would have been proud of what you did, Pen-ii, and the song you chose.”

“Not only Halbarad,” added Arwen in a quiet murmur, who had been standing nearby and had turned to join them as Gandalf had spoke. She took Penny’s hand and looked her in the eye. “I am sure your mother also would have been proud to see it.”

Penny knew from the look she was giving her that Arwen had read something in her thoughts as she had sung, that she could guess perhaps at what things were troubling her of late. Perhaps Galadriel and Gandalf had sensed it also. Penny glanced at Gandalf to find he was not looking at her but was nodding and smiling in way that showed he thought it well said of Arwen and agreed completely.

Penny looked back at Arwen, unable to speak for a moment.

“Thank you,” she said at last, barely above a whisper.

Arwen smiled, gave her hand a gentle squeeze and then let it go.

Back at the table, Penny tried to forget what Arwen had just said to her and to show willing when they instantly demanded they now be enlightened as to the meaning of the song. It was hard, though, to keep thoughts of her mother and family out of her head as she went through the words, and as she spoke a silence fell as they listened to her, understanding perhaps better her choice and her emotion.

Eleniel felt moved to say she felt it a very well chosen song. Faelon, Halladan and Arvain all agreed and even Lindir was forced to concede the point, indeed he began to insist she sing it once more all the way through. Penny protested when the others began to join in, laughingly, but their laughter only seemed to stand in sharp relief compared to how she was feeling and her show of bravado beginning to fail her in the face of their onslaught. It was Halladan who stood up for her first, though they had perhaps all realised at the same time that she seemed a little upset, saying they should ‘leave her be and another time perhaps.’ Lindir, with a sincere smile, immediately agreed and apologised for badgering her.

Pleased that it had gone done better than she could have dared to hope, but hugely embarrassed by the fuss and still somewhat shaken by Arwen’s comment to her, Penny left as soon as possible. Many of the elves were leaving already, or had already done so, and it was beginning to get late, so it would not at all look like it running away (though that was exactly what it was).

There was a potentially unpleasant moment as she left the Meduseld, however.

As she muttered a polite ‘excuse me’ to make her way past a small group of young men, Gondorians and Rohirrim, standing near the door talking quietly, one amongst them looked up, recognised her and inclined his head, smiling that over-familiar wide smile at her.

“Lady Pen-ii. That was fine display you made.”

Penny looked at Corunir coldly. She did not bother to try and work out if he meant it as a compliment or if the choice of the word ‘display’ had the same sort of double meaning it might have in English.

Since she had been stopped by him speaking to her directly (though if she had realised who it was who had spoken to her sooner she would have pretended not to have heard him and walked on by), it might have been expected, if only for courtesy’s sake by those nearby them, that she would respond, and she did briefly wonder if she could think of anything to say to him that would not involve raging or insult. However, when she realised she could not, she just turned and walked away from him without a backward glance. Little did she realise it (though she might have guessed had she stopped to consider it), it was the social equivalent of a rather public slap in the face, especially given the clear amount of loathing that had been in her gaze before she had snubbed him. Indeed had she glanced backwards she might have noticed Corunir looking hugely embarrassed and turning to those around him with a rather affected, nervous laugh and a grin since they were now looking at him with some curiosity.

Not that it would have troubled Penny in the least if she had seen it.

She wandered back to the camp with Lindir and Rhimlath. The latter’s only comments on her performance were that ‘it was a rather short song, was it not?’, that her voice was really far too weak for such a large space and that, frankly, she was extremely bold to have dared stand at all especially given others had had the sheer gall to hold him back from performing his famous (here Lindir muttered, “Do you not mean ‘infamous’?”) ‘Ode to the Fallen – An Intricately Penned Epic Spanning All Twelve Years Of The Campaign That Became Known As The War Of The Last Alliance.’

Penny blinked at him. If the length of the title was anything to go by, she suspected it would have been easily as long and tedious as the piece he had recited at Aragorn and Arwen’s wedding. No wonder he had been effectively sat on by those around when he had tried to get to his feet.

“What, all twelve years?” she said at last, somewhat bewildered.

At which point Lindir collapsed into hysterical sniggering.




Author’s Notes:


The lyrics for ‘Danny Boy’ are as follows (and it’s well out of copyright so fine to quote them in full):

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

But come you back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
I’ll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

“Danny Boy” is not actually an Irish song. The lyrics were written by an Englishman – one Frederic Edward Weatherly – and whilst they were set to a tune that he was told was called “A Londonderry Air” (though I’m not sure anyone has verified that actually was its name), as has been often pointed out, it’s nothing like a traditional Irish folk tune, and indeed the name ‘Londonderry’ in the title indicates not only Northern Ireland but ‘sympathetic/loyal to England’ Northern Ireland and thus it’s very likely the tune is English in origin also. I dunno why I am saying this, just felt it was interesting and of note while I was on this subject, that was all, especially given it’s often ‘done to death’ precisely because everyone thinks it’s Irish. Still a lovely song, though.

The detail re. Legolas’s song relates back to the fact that Thranduil brought back only one third of the Mirkwood army from Mordor, thanks in large part to his father, Oropher, not waiting for the signal from the Noldor (and Gil-galad) so they would all charge as one, but instead charging separately up Orodruin only to get himself (and much of his army) killed as a consequence.

My thanks, as ever, for your patience in waiting for chapters, your loyalty and dedication in sticking with this ever-expanding fic and thank you in particular to all those who get in touch, let me know their thoughts, responses in reviews and comments, etc.





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