~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ Part Three ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
The harp was in the hands of the Swan, but I exchanged my lute for a fiddle. I rosined my bow as I was given a few short words of instruction from the Swan and I nodded, resting my instrument under my arm and striking up a beat with my foot upon the floor. It was unusual, but he wished to sing while I played and I simply agreed to all of his requests. The crowd joined, tapping feet and clapping hands and singing along when they knew the words as the Swan led them in song:
"Well life in the forest has always been good,
From Mirkwood's green trees into the golden wood,
Where there's a silver tree everywhere I stood,
Thank Eru I'm not an Elven lord!
Well I love my daughter and I love my wife,
I never asked for nothin' but a simple sorta life,
I can shoot with a bow and hunt with a knife,
Thank Eru I'm not an Elven lord!
Well, I got me a tall tree, but I like to travel,
I like to tell stories, and I try not to battle,
I can walk on snow an' all that other fiddle-faddle,
Thank Eru I'm not an Elven lord!"
Here now we began to play, Canary and Swan. My fiddle was frantic to keep the pace that was set as deeper notes were plucked from the harp in time with the beat:
"More often are my hands upon bow than harp,
But about all of that you'll never hear me carp,
I just keep the strings tuned and my weapons mighty sharp,
An' thank Eru I'm not an Elven lord!
I'd sing and I'd strum if I could all the day,
But the Lady of the Woods wouldn't like it that way,
So I see to my duties before I head 'round to play,
An' thank Eru I'm not an Elven lord!
Well, I got me a tall tree, but I like to travel,
I like to tell stories, and I try not to battle,
I can walk on snow an' all that other fiddle-faddle,
Thank Eru I'm not an Elven lord!"
Quite a few of the patrons were no longer in their seats, those of the race of men danced heartily around the large room while those who were as greater kinfolk to me were either following along as best they could or being instructed by those who knew. Many of the elves were dancing with women, the men dancing with ellith, and we were delighting in the response from our song:
"Well, some elves now they like to have power,
They think about rings and taking down towers,
I'll trade all that for grass, trees, and flowers,
Thank Eru I'm not an Elven lord!
An' other elves I know sit around and grouse,
Buildin' up realms and livin' in a homely house,
I'd rather sing a tune an' make love to my spouse,
Thank Eru I'm not an Elven lord!
Well, I got me a tall tree, but I like to travel,
I like to tell stories, and I try not to battle,
I can walk on snow an' all that other fiddle-faddle,
Thank Eru I'm not an Elven lord!"
I dared let my eyes sweep to the table my partner had stopped at and was pleasantly surprised to see the King of Mirkwood clapping along. I nudged my companion and the Swan looked up, catching a nod from King Thranduil. The Swan tilted his head in answer back, but it was innocent enough that I doubted any really noticed the gesture as he began to sing again:
"Well, I once knew of a famous Elven prince,
His Ada said to me as he turned his head and winced,
"Just do what you like, son," -- an' I haven't stopped since --
"An' Thank Eru you're not an Elven lord!
Twas my Ada who first taught me how to use a sword,
Later made my harp when he saw me gettin' bored,
He taught me to fight and how to strum a chord,
Thank Eru I'm not an Elven lord!"
As we finished, much cheering and applause rang through the room. Some even continued to dance about, hoping and calling for one more song. When finally the crowd was calmed and my fiddle put away, the Swan had already begun to strum thin, sad strings of notes along the strings of his harp.
Sitting down next to the Swan, I leaned my head back against his shoulder, careful not to disrupt his playing. Tragic as the tale I was to sing was, for the moment I felt content and quite happy. It reminded me of the many days he and I would spend traveling alone together, and how there never seemed to be enough of those days to look forward to.
He began to speed the notes, but they remained somber as I began to sing with a clear voice, yet beneath the words was a hint of desperation. As always, I knew how the song was to end – just as it had happened in life.
Glorfindel - chief lord of the golden flower
Guarding the gates of Gondolin, you help to keep the secret tower
Surrounded by the Echoriath, only entrance is the Way of Escape
The Head Captain is Ecthelion; he is warden of the seventh gate
But when you fought that balrog, did you know that you would fall?
When you heard Mandos call, calling, Glorfindel?
Glorfindel - when did you know you’d fallen?
When Gothmog was in the king’s square?
When Morgoth knocked the walls in?
You missed the Gates of Summer
Namo called you to his halls, calling Glorfindel
Glorfindel - your blade struck like thunder
You fell into the precipice
As Gondolin was plundered
But when you fought that balrog, did you know that you would fall?
When you heard Mandos call, calling, Glorfindel?
Glorfindel - you raced around the mountain
You could see the horde approaching,
Did you know they took the fountain?
Telling Morgoth the location, was one of Hurin’s great regrets
You thought the city was hidden away, but Maeglin betrayed all its secrets
And when you fought that balrog, did you know that you would fall?
When you heard Mandos call, calling, Glorfindel?
Glorfindel - You were brought up by Thorondor
Flowers bloomed amid barrenness
Of the stones you’re buried under
But when you fought that balrog, did you know that you would fall?
When you heard Mandos call, calling, Glorfindel?
Calling, Glorfindel?
Calling, Glorfindel?
As I finished a faint murmur went through the crowd and many of the elves bowed their heads in remembrance of those lost in battles great and small. The Swan whispered the name of one final song to me. As I slowly sat up and looked to my companion, I saw there was a tear even in his eye, but his mask hid this and only moments later he began one true final cheerful song - something livelier that brought the crowd back to their feet as I gracefully raced to retrieve my fiddle. I couldn’t help but grin as the Swan traded his harp for my lute before we began to sing, trading lines as we went:
“What do you do with a drunken elf, when he arrives home in the wood?
You could explain his wrongs, with some songs, but you won’t be understood.
So what do you do with a drunken elf, when he arrives home in the morn?
You hang him in a tree all by himself, that’s what you do with a drunken elf!
What do you do with a drunken dwarf, when he arrives home to his cave?
You could take his mug, and think you’re smug, but I doubt that he’d behave.
So what do you do with a drunken dwarf, when he arrives home in the noon? |
You shove him in the sea right from the wharf, that’s what you do with a drunken dwarf!
What do you do with a drunken man, when he arrives home to his house?
You could forbid him out, but he’ll sit and pout, and consequently grouse.
So, what do you do with a drunken man, when he arrives home in the eve?
You lock the door as fast as you can, that’s what you do with a drunken man!
What do you do with a drunken orc, when they arrive home the next day?”
Abruptly we stopped, and the Swan meekly said, “Um, good morning dear, you’re back early...” A roar of laughter followed before I said, “The next day? That had to be some party!”
“What do you do with a drunken horse, when he arrives home to his stall?”
Again there was a pause, and I spoke first this time. “Apparently, the party was in Rohan.”
Groaning, the Swan said, “Why don’t I ever get invited to parties like this?”
“What do you do with a drunken horse, when he arrives home to his stall?
You’re probably the one who is the drunk, so don’t you mind at all.
What do you do with a drunken friend, when you’re done singing this song?
You can say it’s bad, but we already know that, and it isn’t very long.
So, what do you do with a drunken friend, when we leave you now?
Well, now we’ve come ‘round to the end, so sing it again with your drunken friend!
Now we’ve come ‘round to the end, so sing it again with your drunken friend!”
After the last tune was finished, we bowed and smiled and packed our things to the clapping and cheering of men and elves. They began to sing songs of their own as we walked to the bar, stopping one final time to see to our tab, only to have it waved off and a bag of coin tossed in our direction.
We waved one last time to the crowd, offering exaggerated bows as we exited the merrymaking that continued in the inn. Out of the corner of my eye I had noticed the King of Mirkwood watching us from the corner of his, and I had a feeling he waited only for our departure before he made his own.
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Canary, The by Zhie