Post by Admin on Jan 9, 2021 1:23:54 GMT
Author: Archeress of Silverbow
Summary; A night in an inn, an inn saturated with memory and pain.
Rating; T
Thanks to JaguarJedi22 for her inspirational video of Empty Chairs at Empty Tables, which was my muse for this The second son sung does not belong to me and neither do the characters
The captain slumped at a table, his head bowed. The inn-keeper sighed, poured another drink and carried it over, placing it on the wood
“Here lad, on the house.”
Brown eyes, so dead and ghosted, looked up at him “Not White Tree.”
He wasn't sure whether it was a question or a statement but answered anyway “No,” he slapped the cup lightly, this is a good full-bodied red wine, fit for a conqueror like you.”
The man snatched the mug, taking a large gulp and choking on it. Those dead eyes blinked their lids franticly, clearly banishing tears, though whether they were from the choke or emotion he couldn't tell.
As the man gagged and spluttered the innkeeper reached over to rub his back “Easy lad, take it slow.”
His customer glared at him and took another gulp.
The evening was about normal, so he should have been busy with customers needing drinks, and shooing out in some cases. But he found himself glancing over to the ranger sitting on his own, making a special effort to take him his drinks, but seeing no real recognition in those eyes, just a deep bottomless grief, a kind which could not be spoken of, defied words. No, he thought the eyes see nothing except the empty tables between his table and the wall, ringed with empty chairs.
But for the one who looked they were not empty. He saw the Third Company sitting there, mugs in their hands, laughing and drinking, some celebrating the escape from Osgiliath, others buying an early morning of ale and wine, knowing they may not live more than a few days. Memory, it wasn't wine or ale he drowned in now, but memory...
He'd heard them out on the street, Rilben's fine voice, something between tenor and baritone, leading them in a song. By the time he pushed open the door they were all carolling, voices bouncing around the rafters.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow the war will be over
Tomorrow, tomorrow peace it will come
Tomorrow tomorrow I'll marry fair Jeanne
And raise up a brood, of sweet little ones.”
They'd slowly dropped into a ragged silence as each had seen him, flushing slightly. He'd waved a hand, excusing them, then glanced around the taproom and stepped closer
“I'm sorry friends, the steward... the steward has just insisted we take back Osgiliath.”
They all nodded, one speaking for all “When do we ride”
“One hour”
He'd turned away, got out of there before he broke down. And behind him, he'd heard the singing start again
“Drink with me, to days gone by
Sign with me those songs we knew
Here's to witty girls who went to out heads
Pretty Girls who went to our beds”
There was a muffled yelp and he had smiled slightly, knowing the trouble maker had likely been playfully punched in the arm. But it had been only half hearted, for he knew that the song was a farewell. Baring a miracle, none would return from their mission.
And still they sat there, drinking and laughing. But slowly, the singing faded and one after another, they turned their faces towards him. There was no accusation there, no blame, just sadness. As if in echo he heard the leader's last words, spoken in the stables as they mounted up.
“We trust you, Captain,...”
He felt as if he'd been knifed in the chest. That trust had been entirely misplaced. As he watched, the figures seemed to rise and walk closer to him.
“No, no”
The innkeeper spun around in panic, only to see the poor captain sprawling on the floor, desperately trying to get away from something. But to his eyes there was nothing.
“No, no, no, please”
He saw in his minds eye the company riding forward at a magnificent gallop, flying across the ground. Then came the hum of bow strings, the whistle of a flight of arrows and the screams began. Horses struck in the chest, men thrown from the saddles and striking the ground. He remembered the retreat call bubbling in his throat, but unable to use it. And because of his cowardice, being unable to stand up to his father, all those good men had died.
These men who now closed in on him, flashes of not quite hidden accusation in their ghostly eyes. They didn't want to blame him, but they did, for it was the leaders responsibility to see his men safe home. A responsibility he had failed spectacularly in.
“Why, Captain? Why?” That came from the one from which it would hurt most, the youngest most trusting one, who's wife was pregnant when he rode out.
He shook his head, helpless “Because I was weak, because I couldn't stand up to my father or you... but why you had to die, that I cannot answer.” He was amazed at how coherent he was.
Slowly, one after another, the advancing figures nodded and turned away.
“Faramir”
Another hooded figure burst in and bent over the collapsed ranger captain.
Now the innkeeper allowed his deliberate mind fog to clear and realised with a shock that he was looking at the former Steward's son. Concern blocked propriety and he moved forward.
“How long as he been like this?” The King's question was sharp and harsh
“Mere moments but...” The innkeeper hesitated then carried on “But he's been acting oddly for almost an hour. At first I thought he was drunk, but I've never seen a drunkard act like that. Like there were people over in that corner, and they were planning to attack him.
Aragorn sighed as he followed the innkeeper's gaze, pressing his hand to Faramir's forehead “What did you see, my friend?”
Almost in time with that the new Steward stirred, murmuring softly
Aragorn dropped his head closer, trying to catch the words “What did you say?”
“Third Company... used to sit there. They... there when I called them for Osgiliath... still there now.”
The king frowned and looked up at the corner, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just empty chairs at empty tables.
Summary; A night in an inn, an inn saturated with memory and pain.
Rating; T
Thanks to JaguarJedi22 for her inspirational video of Empty Chairs at Empty Tables, which was my muse for this The second son sung does not belong to me and neither do the characters
The captain slumped at a table, his head bowed. The inn-keeper sighed, poured another drink and carried it over, placing it on the wood
“Here lad, on the house.”
Brown eyes, so dead and ghosted, looked up at him “Not White Tree.”
He wasn't sure whether it was a question or a statement but answered anyway “No,” he slapped the cup lightly, this is a good full-bodied red wine, fit for a conqueror like you.”
The man snatched the mug, taking a large gulp and choking on it. Those dead eyes blinked their lids franticly, clearly banishing tears, though whether they were from the choke or emotion he couldn't tell.
As the man gagged and spluttered the innkeeper reached over to rub his back “Easy lad, take it slow.”
His customer glared at him and took another gulp.
The evening was about normal, so he should have been busy with customers needing drinks, and shooing out in some cases. But he found himself glancing over to the ranger sitting on his own, making a special effort to take him his drinks, but seeing no real recognition in those eyes, just a deep bottomless grief, a kind which could not be spoken of, defied words. No, he thought the eyes see nothing except the empty tables between his table and the wall, ringed with empty chairs.
But for the one who looked they were not empty. He saw the Third Company sitting there, mugs in their hands, laughing and drinking, some celebrating the escape from Osgiliath, others buying an early morning of ale and wine, knowing they may not live more than a few days. Memory, it wasn't wine or ale he drowned in now, but memory...
He'd heard them out on the street, Rilben's fine voice, something between tenor and baritone, leading them in a song. By the time he pushed open the door they were all carolling, voices bouncing around the rafters.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow the war will be over
Tomorrow, tomorrow peace it will come
Tomorrow tomorrow I'll marry fair Jeanne
And raise up a brood, of sweet little ones.”
They'd slowly dropped into a ragged silence as each had seen him, flushing slightly. He'd waved a hand, excusing them, then glanced around the taproom and stepped closer
“I'm sorry friends, the steward... the steward has just insisted we take back Osgiliath.”
They all nodded, one speaking for all “When do we ride”
“One hour”
He'd turned away, got out of there before he broke down. And behind him, he'd heard the singing start again
“Drink with me, to days gone by
Sign with me those songs we knew
Here's to witty girls who went to out heads
Pretty Girls who went to our beds”
There was a muffled yelp and he had smiled slightly, knowing the trouble maker had likely been playfully punched in the arm. But it had been only half hearted, for he knew that the song was a farewell. Baring a miracle, none would return from their mission.
And still they sat there, drinking and laughing. But slowly, the singing faded and one after another, they turned their faces towards him. There was no accusation there, no blame, just sadness. As if in echo he heard the leader's last words, spoken in the stables as they mounted up.
“We trust you, Captain,...”
He felt as if he'd been knifed in the chest. That trust had been entirely misplaced. As he watched, the figures seemed to rise and walk closer to him.
“No, no”
The innkeeper spun around in panic, only to see the poor captain sprawling on the floor, desperately trying to get away from something. But to his eyes there was nothing.
“No, no, no, please”
He saw in his minds eye the company riding forward at a magnificent gallop, flying across the ground. Then came the hum of bow strings, the whistle of a flight of arrows and the screams began. Horses struck in the chest, men thrown from the saddles and striking the ground. He remembered the retreat call bubbling in his throat, but unable to use it. And because of his cowardice, being unable to stand up to his father, all those good men had died.
These men who now closed in on him, flashes of not quite hidden accusation in their ghostly eyes. They didn't want to blame him, but they did, for it was the leaders responsibility to see his men safe home. A responsibility he had failed spectacularly in.
“Why, Captain? Why?” That came from the one from which it would hurt most, the youngest most trusting one, who's wife was pregnant when he rode out.
He shook his head, helpless “Because I was weak, because I couldn't stand up to my father or you... but why you had to die, that I cannot answer.” He was amazed at how coherent he was.
Slowly, one after another, the advancing figures nodded and turned away.
“Faramir”
Another hooded figure burst in and bent over the collapsed ranger captain.
Now the innkeeper allowed his deliberate mind fog to clear and realised with a shock that he was looking at the former Steward's son. Concern blocked propriety and he moved forward.
“How long as he been like this?” The King's question was sharp and harsh
“Mere moments but...” The innkeeper hesitated then carried on “But he's been acting oddly for almost an hour. At first I thought he was drunk, but I've never seen a drunkard act like that. Like there were people over in that corner, and they were planning to attack him.
Aragorn sighed as he followed the innkeeper's gaze, pressing his hand to Faramir's forehead “What did you see, my friend?”
Almost in time with that the new Steward stirred, murmuring softly
Aragorn dropped his head closer, trying to catch the words “What did you say?”
“Third Company... used to sit there. They... there when I called them for Osgiliath... still there now.”
The king frowned and looked up at the corner, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just empty chairs at empty tables.