A/N: I wrote the song at the start of this chapter shortly after writing “A Humble Gift” four years ago. It was my intention to write a sequel to that story, chronicling how Pippin got his singing voice back, but that idea quickly went nowhere and fizzled out after a few paragraphs. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to blow the cyber dust off this song and share it with you all. The second song was originally posted in “A Mid-Year’s Walking Trip”.

Chapter 24: A Night of Song and Dance

The sun rose hot o’er plains forgot
A shield maiden sang a sad song
The wind blew cold that day of old
Her soldier had been gone too long

Then late one day the dogs did bay
The shield maiden looked to the West
And there he came, banner and flame
To the woman that he loved best

Wounded and worn, at side rest his horn
His horse limped with a broken shoe
He rode home fast, to maiden at last
To his land under skies of blue

There he laid down on fur soft brown
His lovely maiden beside him
His woes and fears, he spoke to her ears
And she wrapped them in garland trim

They danced and sang with joyous pain
Until day faded into dark
‘Neath stars of white they knew love’s might
And woke to a lone meadowlark

There they stayed the rest of their days
They never again knew sorrow
For ev’ry night underneath moonlight
They danced and sang until morrow.

Wulf and Penda ended their song to cheers and applause. They took their bows and jumped down from the singing bench. They would sing more later, but now they needed to wet their palates with the fine, golden ale of the popular Eagle’s Peak Inn, or the Peeking Eagle as the locals called it. A trio from Lossarnach replaced them on the bench, and they launched into an invigorating battle song, a favorite by the enthusiastic reaction of the patrons.

Wulf and Penda brought another pitcher of ale to their table and poured the drinks before plopping down with satisfied grins. “A man could get used to this,” Wulf said, waving at the bustling tavern.

Merry leaned forward over the table. “You could get used to sleeping on a bed of nails,” he quipped, voice raised to be heard over the din.

“It’s no different than sleeping in a ditch or quarry,” Wulf shot back.

“Why would anyone sleep in a quarry?” Penda asked. “Even if it were dried up, one storm would be all that’s needed to fill it up again.”

“That is a quandary,” Wulf said and winked at Merry. “A quarry quandary.”

“Will you be singing tonight, Master Bag?” Offa asked, hoping to stop Wulf before he could start his pun routine.

“What say you, Pip?” Merry asked, sitting back to address his cousin. He looked at Pippin hopefully.

Pippin smiled weakly in return, fingering the beads in his pocket. He could have sung, he really could have, but this was not the audience that was awaiting him so eagerly. If he was going to break his silence, he was going to make it count. “I’m not much in the mood for joviality tonight, Mer,” he said. “I’m sorry. I should have stayed home with Frodo and Sam, if that is where they’re staying, that is.”

“What do you mean?” Merry asked, dropping his voice. “What do you know?”

“Nothing specific,” Pippin said. “Only, Frodo is plotting something, we know that much. What better time to finalize any schemes he might have than when we’re both gone?”

“If that’s the case, there’s not much we can do about it now. Besides, he agreed to this little assignment, and I for one want to see this one through,” Merry said.

“Maybe this assignment is the prank,” Pippin mused.

“Of course it’s a prank, but it’s for Strider, not for me,” Merry said, looking worried.

“He could turn it around on you,” Pippin said. “That’s just his style, you know.”

“It was my idea!” Merry said. He scrutinized his cousin. “Besides, you’re forgiven of your lack of involvement in my prank, so he wouldn’t include you in a prank on me.”

“He probably has that figured out already,” Pippin mused. He sloshed the beer in his mug and watched the foam swell against the edges. “They’re up there right now, plotting against you. I just know it.”  

Gimli handed the diamond to Frodo and instructed him on how to dangle it over Sam’s supine form. “Keep your hand still, move it up his body with your arm from your shoulder. Wherever the diamond swings, that is where there are imbalances.”

“Can’t he just put the stones in the same places as on himself?” Sam asked, watching the diamond with skeptical curiosity. Now that he was on the receiving end of this unusual treatment, he had a better understanding for his master’s hesitance with the procedure. It was a more intimate process than he had imagined.

“Everyone is different, Samwise,” Gimli said. “Using the wrong stones, or even the right ones in the wrong places, will do more harm than good, young master. Now, to know which stones are best to use, I’ll need to know what’s been bothering you other than the dreams.”

“Not much to tell really,” Sam lied.

“Humph,” Gimli grunted. “Dreaming, then, and a certain stubbornness when it comes to your own needs. And the day that you don’t worry about your master is the day it rains mithril and waterfalls turn to crystal flows.”

“Here’s a spot,” Frodo said. The diamond was swinging in a circle over Sam’s lower belly.

Gimli nodded and eyed Sam narrowly. “That would be the worrying. The stones never lie.”

“Everyone worrits,” Sam mumbled.

Frodo continued moving the diamond, and Gimli noted each spot where it would begin to swing or bounce. When they were finished, Gimli took the stones that he had given Sam already and searched his own pouch for more. “The same stones can be used for different things, but some stones are stronger than others. The nature of the imbalance, be it too strong or too weak, determines which stones to use.”

He looked at the stones he had and scratched his beard. If only his father had had more time before the Quest to teach him about the stones. If only Gimli had thought to write it all down, so that he could be certain now of which stones to use. There had been no time though, and now he must rely on his memory as best he could to guide him. “If any of the stones feel wrong to you, let me know right away.”

“How will I know?” Sam asked.

“The area where the stone is sitting will grow too hot or too cold, or you will start feeling more worked up than relaxed,” Gimli said and picked up the bloodstone. He placed this on Sam’s lower abdomen where the diamond had circled, then picked up a citrine stone and placed this below the ribcage, over the liver. “How are you feeling so far?”

“Fine enough,” Sam guessed. Truth was, so far, he wasn’t feeling much of anything. The stones were cold, but as they were stones he didn’t think much of it. He glanced up at Frodo. His master was watching Gimli’s every move with intense attention. “Breathe, Master.”

Frodo let out his breath but didn’t break his observations. Gimli picked up a ruby next and placed this over Sam’s heart. Sam’s own breath hitched almost instantly when the ruby touched his chest, but Gimli waited. Sometimes, the stones only appeared to be too strong if the imbalance was great enough, and the diamond had jumped quite erratically over this area. After a minute, Sam shook his head.

“I ain’t much liking that one,” he said. He felt his heart would burst out of his chest if it wasn’t removed quickly. Frodo picked it up and handed it to Gimli. “Thank you, sir.”

“Should we maybe stop?” Frodo asked.

“Nay, the lad will be all right,” Gimli said and chose the green tourmaline next. “Just needs a different energy than the ruby.” He put the tourmaline in the exact same spot and Sam relaxed. Gimli grunted and went back to the pile of stones. Aquamarine went at the base of Sam’s throat, sodalite on his brow, and around his crown an amethyst and a diamond.

“It’s like a rainbow,” Frodo said, looking at the stones. “How do you feel?”

“All right, so far,” Sam said.

“Don’t resist it,” Frodo said with a smirk. “You’re supposed to be clearing your mind, remember.”

Sam managed a frown without upsetting the sodalite on his forehead. “Aye, I remember,” he said, though he had been holding himself rigid up to that point. No doubt, Frodo had noticed. He made an effort to relax and closed his eyes against the distractions in the room.

“How long should they stay on?” Frodo asked.

“Ten minutes should do it to start,” Gimli said. “His imbalances are not as drastic as yours were. We don’t want to overdo the treatment and send him off in the opposite direction.”

“Thank you, Gimli,” Frodo said.

“You may keep the extra stones as well. I’ll write out a list of their general uses and a chart of their placements on Samwise,” Gimli said and left the room.

Frodo sat next to Sam and pulled out his pocket watch. As he waited, he wondered how Merry and Pippin were doing at the inn, and if they had fulfilled their assignment yet or not.  

Merry shoved aside all the doubts that Pippin had so helpfully put into his brain. He was here to have fun, among other things, and he wasn’t going to let Frodo’s pending prank ruin that for him. He turned towards his guard-brother, Cuthred, who was sitting across the table. “Will you join me in a song then?”

Cuthred grinned. “I don’t have much of a voice.”

“No one will notice, or remember in the morning if they do,” Merry pointed out. “Do you remember the one I taught you?”

Cuthred nodded. “I should be able to get through it without embarrassing myself.”

“Oh, go on! Embarrass yourself!” Osric said. “It’s so much fun!”

“Speak for yourself,” Ludeca said, grinning in the direction of the doorway.

A lone patron had just entered, a shapely Haradrim woman from the way her robes hugged her body. She stood uncertainly and slowly looked about the tavern until she at last faced the direction of the Rohirrim’s table. It was Jamila, the beautiful dancer who Osric had been fawning over for the last two weeks.

“Go on, then,” Ludeca said, giving his friend a nudge. “Talk to the girl. This may well be your last chance, and since you don’t mind making a fool of yourself…”

“You think I won’t?” Osric said and gulped down the last of his beer. He stood, then sat, then stood again. He took a step forward and abruptly turned heel. “I need to use the privy.”

“Coward!” Penda shouted after him.

“Let’s hear this song then,” Wiglaf said.

Merry and Cuthred stood and approached the bench to await their turn. As they waited, Merry talked Cuthred through the lyrics a couple of times to be sure the man remembered them correctly, but there was no need. It was clear that Cuthred had been playing modest earlier, for he remembered not only the words but the tune as well.

After deciding to better acquaint himself with his guard-brother, Merry had wasted no time in approaching the gentle-mannered Rider. He quickly discovered that while Cuthred spoke little of himself, he enjoyed speaking about events, tales and topics of philosophy. In this manner Merry learned much about the man in a few short hours after their practice session the other week. They had spoken after every practice session since then and Merry was growing quite fond of the man, who reminded him of his uncle Merimac in many ways.

Of the man's personal life, Merry knew as much as the others had told him. Cuthred had been raised in the Eastemnet, the only son of the accomplished horse-breeder Goreham. Cuthred had joined the éored of Lord Denholm of Bradlangden after his youngest sister disappeared five years ago. He soon became one of their fiercest warriors, though he had no prior practice with a sword or spear. He enjoyed listening to the songs and stories of the other soldiers, but never volunteered any of his own except on the rare occasion when the need to speak struck him. As it turned out, that was primarily the reason that Erkenbrand paired him with Merry for the guarding of the tombs.

“I was hoping you might be able to loosen his tongue,” he told Merry yesterday after a late practice. “He’s been more willing to speak at least, if not speaking much when he does.”

So Merry had sat him down yesterday and taught him the Shire song they were about to sing. Afterwards, Cuthred had sat in silence for many long minutes, looking out to the West, until finally he spoke. “She was as a mother to me, my sister. She raised me after our mother died. A very level-headed girl, Cwenhild was, strong of mind and brave of heart. She disappeared on her way to a neighboring ranch to dine there with her betrothed. It was daylight so she went alone. We thought she would be safe, but we didn’t know about the Uruk-hai then. It wasn’t until that evening that we discovered she never arrived. We found the place where she was taken and followed the tracks all the way to the Anduin. We could only assume they took her to Mordor, for whatever purpose they have there of maids. She did not deserve such a fate, nor did any of the other women who were taken so. We could only hope that she need not suffer long.

“I can never fully vindicate her, but I know she understands that. I saw her once, about a year ago, saw her as clearly as I see you now. She was standing on the edge of a field we were marching through, and she was wearing the same dress she wore the day she disappeared. The sun shined golden in her hair, and she locked eyes with me and she smiled. I watched her as long as I could, until I bumped into the person in front of me. I looked away for only a moment but it was long enough. She was gone.”

“Is that why you volunteered to be part of Théoden’s vigil?” Merry had asked, suppressing a shudder at the mention of Cwenhild’s ghost.

Hobbits enjoyed a good ghost story and there were local legends in every town of spooks and haunts, but no one truly believed them. “After all,” Fatty Bolger had once said on some long ago night in their youth, “what’s the point of hanging about the living if you can’t eat anything?” After the things Merry and his friends had seen and learned during the Quest, they were no longer so quick to dismiss such stories.

Cuthred had nodded. “We could not bury my sister, but I will see our King put to rest. He ensured that no other maid would have to suffer as she did.”

The Lossarnach trio finished their set and stepped down from the bench. The whooping and hollering grew louder when Merry and Cuthred took their place. Merry held up his hands until there was silence, then looked up at his friend, questioning. Cuthred nodded.

The song was a plaintive old tune from out of history. It was sung, with mild variations, throughout the Shire. It was considered conservatively to be a burial song, but Merry knew of many occasions when it was sung simply for the loveliness of it.

With grass ‘neath my feet,
And sky wide above,
With birds in the trees,
The jay, lark and dove;

Hum a pretty tune,
Down the lonely lane,
’Til the moon shall rise,
O’er the hill and plain;

Then to bed I go,
Under star-filled night,
Sleep in calming peace,
’Til the dawn’s first light;
 
Homeward bound I am,
To yellow round door,
Where my love awaits,
To greet me once more.

When next shall I walk?
Not ‘til I am old,
I’ll slip ‘way in sleep
Down that final road.
 
Round my grave they’ll come,
But I’ll still be there
To watch over them
With all heart and care.

By that road I’ll wait,
’Til she comes to me,
My sweet bonny lass,
Forever lovely;

One by one they will
Come to us my love,
And down eternal road,
We’ll walk in stars above.

Merry saw many tears, including Pippin's, watching him from his perch at the table. Well, he couldn't have that.

“This next song is what we call a bath song,” Merry announced with a wink in Pippin’s direction after the subdued applause. “It’s good for splashing about and getting the floor wet.”

Cuthred stepped down and returned to the table, leaving the bench for Merry to entertain the tavern. The man sat next to Pippin. “You don’t sing, Master Pheriannath?”

“I do but not of late,” Pippin said. “I am waiting.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Cuthred said, “or you’ll wake an old man and wonder where the time went.”

“I’ll be more likely to wonder when I became a man and bemoan the fact that I won’t be able to sneak into the kitchens for a midnight snack without smacking my head on the ceiling and waking all the Smials,” Pippin said, grinning. He laughed both at his joke and Merry’s ridiculous rendition of the bath song.

Cuthred laughed with him. “Forgive me, Master Peregrin, I forget at times that you are hoblytan.”

“You are forgiven,” Pippin assured him.

He noticed then that Osric was trying to sneak past the table. He watched the man’s progress around the room; Osric was heading in the direction of Jamila, who had settled at the bar to watch the bustle and listen to the singing. Her pretty face was the picture of both bewilderment and fascination, and she did not at first notice Osric standing next to her.

“Someone should remind him not to touch her,” Pippin said with a point of his chin.

The Riders looked towards the bar and Ludeca stood up. “Osie!” he shouted over the din of the room. When Osric turned around, he continued in Rohirric. “Keep your hands to yourself, man, if you want to keep them both.”

Osric’s eyes widened in shock and he nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Good call, Sir Knight,” Ecgberht said, patting Pippin on the back. “Our lad seems to have forgotten that rule.”

“I’ll bet you a set of horseshoes he doesn’t last five minutes,” Wulf said.

“I’ll take that bet,” Wiglaf said. “A bridle and halter says he’ll woo the lass, hands free of course.”

“You’re feeling reckless,” said Bealdred. “I’m with Wulf on this one.”

“Anyone brave enough to back me?” Wiglaf asked.

“I’ll bite,” said Ecgberht. “Count me in.”

“I’ll go and see what I can find out, shall I?” Pippin volunteered. He slid down from his seat and inched towards the awkward couple.  

Frodo removed the stones from Sam’s relaxed form and gently shook his shoulder. “Are you still in there?”

“Aye, I am,” Sam said in a dreamy tone. He hummed, sighed and stretched his toes.

“How do you feel?” Frodo asked. “Did it help at all?”

Sam opened his eyes and stared benignly at the ceiling. “I ain’t so sure about helping, but I feel normal enough. I feel, well, I ain’t knowing how to say it exactly, but I feel, if you follow.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” Frodo said, feeling worried himself. The stones never affected him this way. They left him rejuvenated and refreshed. Sam looked like he had been sneaking bites of rum cake.

“I feel happy that the war’s over and we’re here in this city, meeting such grand folk. I’m happy Strider is king and he’ll soon have his queen, though I’m hurt he didn’t tell us about that. I'm sad that the Haradrim will be leaving soon. They’re a grand folk, noble and kind, like I thought they might be that day in Ithilien when we saw the oliphaunts. I feel tired, since I ain’t slept proper in so long, but rested, like I could close my eyes right now and just drift off to sleep. I’m worrit, and that’s a fact. about you, and Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry, and even myself. When we get home, what will they think of us, and will Rosie still be wanting to marry me, if she hasn’t figured me for dead and gone off to marry someone else already? I feel lonely for home and my family, but I won’t get to see them as we’ll be going to Crickhollow, and that makes me sad too. Oh, but to get my hands in some dirt and start building you a garden, Mr. Frodo! That will be grand. And I could really use a bath.”

“Goodness, Sam!” Frodo exclaimed. “That is quite a lot to feel, but we all feel like that, I imagine. You’re in good company in that respect. Now, close your eyes and relax. I’ll ready a bath for you.”

“You ain’t got to be doing that sir,” Sam said. “I think I’ll just rest now and take a bath in the morrow if there’s time.”

“There won’t be. Best to take a bath now,” Frodo advised. “I’ll fetch you when it’s ready.”

Sam closed his eyes and hummed again, a little smile on his lips. “Can it have bubbles?”

Frodo laughed, bewildered but amused at this sudden change in Sam. He had never known his friend to be this open. Usually it was like pulling dragon’s teeth to get Sam to admit to anything other than being hungry. “It can have as many bubbles as you like,” he promised and retreated downstairs to the bathing room. If this was the result of using the healing stones on Sam, Frodo might just have to do this every night!   

Pippin reached the bar and stepped back into the shadows where he could not be spied or stepped upon. He perked his ears, singling out the Rider’s babble over the din.

Osric was speaking rapidly, or was trying to. His face was turning red and his hairline was growing moist with sweat. Jamila was watching him with that same expression of bewildered fascination. She didn’t seem to know what to make of him, and no wonder, Pippin thought. Osric barely made sense even to him, and he could speak the language. Then again, it was equally possible that Jamila could too.

“And I was thinking that it’s silly really to not do anything so…” Osric prattled. He wiped his hands on his pants, stuffed them back in his pockets, and started over. “So I thought I’d come over and see how you were and… Perhaps maybe you need an escort back to your lodgings not that I’m suggesting that, well… The beer is a good brew, but you don’t drink. The water’s good. It’s very good. Very wet and clear.” Osric took a deep breath, let it out and blurted, “Will you be dancing?”

“Dance?” Jamila said. At last, a word she could understand. Her smooth brown forehead puckered at this and she glanced at the bench where Merry was now singing the ever-popular The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon. She looked down at herself. She was wearing the traditional robes of her people, which allowed for dancing if not much form. She started to move when Osric smacked himself in the face.

“No! I don’t mean dance right now! I meant tomorrow night at the farewell feast, but you don’t have to dance now,” he said, horrified at his unintended implication. “I mean, you’re obviously relaxing and didn’t come here to perform. Maybe we could find a booth and talk, not a covered one I think because, well… Don’t want anyone thinking… We could or, maybe you’re expecting some of your friends. Are they your friends? Would you like something to drink?”

Jamila looked back and forth between him and the bar, where he was pointing. The barkeep noticed them and came over with a pre-filled glass of water. He plopped it down in front of her with a resigned sigh and moved on to the next customer. Jamila lifted the glass and drank gratefully. 

“Tank yoo,” she said and smiled prettily.

“You’re welcome,” Osric said and let out a deep breath. He smiled back and the conversation, such as it was, lulled awkwardly.

Pippin checked his pocket watch. Three minutes.

Osric began to falter, stepping backward, when the seat next to Jamila suddenly was emptied. Seeing an opportunity, he sat next to her and ordered an ale. She noticed then the tattoo on his arm. She reached out but didn’t touch.

Osric noticed the movement and looked at his arm. “It’s a symbol of my people,” he said of the mark, a staff thrown through a horseshoe. “It means valor in battle.”

Jamila lifted the right sleeve of her robe. Around her upper arm was a tattooed band of the phases of the moon. She lowered the sleeve and sipped her water. “In Khaladmonbed, I… was marked. I am… Moon.”

“Does everyone in the House of the Moon have that mark?” Osric asked.

Jamila shook her head. “Only Khaladmonbed. Only… honored?”

“Is that the name of the palace?” Osric asked.

Jamila nodded.

“You’re a slave? Do they treat you well?”

Jamila shrugged. “I good. I… listen? No bad talk.”

“And the ones who don’t listen?”

She shrugged again. “They not good.”

“That’s five minutes,” announced Penda in amazement.

“She isn’t wooed yet though,” Wulf argued.

“I have to disagree,” Wiglaf said. “She’s still talking to him, isn’t she?”

“She’s being polite,” Wulf said.

“She is,” Pippin said, returning to the table. “But I think she likes him also.”

“If she laughs, then we can consider her wooed. Agreed?” Ecgberht said.

“Agreed, but it has to be a genuine laugh, not a fake one,” Bealdred said.

“What does a fake laugh sound like in Haradrim?” Pippin asked.

“Much like it sounds in any language, I would imagine,” said Merry, returning from his performance. A traveling bard had replaced him on the bench and people were now getting up to dance. “Osric is actually talking to her?”

“And managing to keep his dignity, more or less,” Ecgberht said with a laugh. “We are now watching to see who will win the bet: will he woo her or no.”

Just then, Jamila’s chiming laugh floated towards them from the bar. Wulf and Bealdred sighed in defeat while Ecgberht and Wiglaf took a celebratory swig of their mugs.

“Of all the wonders,” Merry said and drank the last of his beer. He held up his mug to call for a wench. “There might be hope for us yet, Pip. All we have to do is go home and get a lass to laugh at us.”

“That’s easy. Getting them to stop laughing at us, that’s the hard part,” Pippin quipped. “Well, since we won’t be able to do either tonight, what do you say to a game of pennies?”

“Pennies?” Offa asked.

“You’ve never played? It’s quite simple,” Merry said and was about to explain the rules when he was distracted by the arrival of the bar wench. He watched her pour out more ale then smiled up toothily at her. “So, what are you and your friends doing tomorrow night? Would you like to go to a ball?”

“Looks like Master Bag disagrees with you, Sir Peregrin,” Wiglaf said with a laugh. “So, pennies?”

“Oh, yes,” Pippin said, taking over the instructions. “It’s quite simple. You take pennies, toss them into the air and catch them. You want to catch as many of them as you can before any of them hit the ground. You start with one, then go up to two, three, four and so on until someone fails to catch them all. The other person wins.”

“Wins what?”

“The pennies,” Pippin said. “I put in the first penny, then you put in the second, then me the third and so on. Merry and I will demonstrate, then whoever is brave enough can challenge the winner. That is, if Merry is quite through ordering more drinks.”

“That’s a taller drink of water than he’s used to, I wager,” Wulf said, causing everyone to laugh. He patted Merry on the back and waved the wench off to her next customers.

Merry frowned to see her go but happily returned to the conversation all the same. He and Pippin demonstrated a round of pennies, with Pippin winning at the count of seven pennies. One by one, the Riders challenged him only to lose. It didn’t help that they each inevitably ended up throwing their pennies in every conceivable direction but up.

“The trick is to throw them as straight into the air as possible,” Merry instructed Cuthred for the fourth time. “You’re flicking your wrist too much. You’re tossing pennies, not dwarves.”

They gathered quite the crowd over the course of the evening. People began betting on who would finally beat Pippin, and when Merry played him again, who would beat Merry. They became so involved in their game, that none of them noticed Osric and Jamila leave the bar and step out into the moonless night.

To be continued…
 
 
 

GF 7/18/09
Published 8/30/09