Chapter I: All in a Night's Work
Ossian blundered blindly through the stables. It was in the waning hours of night, and even with overcast skies he could perceive the moon ebbing slowly in begrudging deference to the coming dawn. Cursing as he attempted to saddle his horse in the dark, he could already hear the angry shouts and see the swaying light of jostled lanterns as a mob drew ever nearer to the stables. Ah, Bree! He muttered. Never a dull moment in this seemingly sleepy little town!
The bard had just finished a performance at the Prancing Pony only a few hours earlier, a rousing rendition of ballads, lays and instrumental accompaniments that brought down the house. The Pony was still abuzz over the strange occurrences that had happened only a few weeks before: vanishing hobbits and black horsemen and surly rangers! And the Pony's proprietor, one Barliman Butterbur, still edgy from such a harrowing experience, was quite satisfied with the great minstrel's act, as it "Let the ill-winds a' blowed over," as the innkeep told his servant Hob. For Ossian always had an open invitation to play at the inn by invitation of the inestimable B. Butterbur anytime he happened to wander into the northern provinces. Nothing to do with the bard's artistry, really, but if it was one thing that the plump innkeeper enjoyed more than all else, it was the jingle of coin, and Ossian brought in the crowds.
Well then, where were we? Ah yes, having just finished a performance only a few hours earlier, Ossian had merely enjoyed the perquisites of minstrelsy thereafter. She was such a sweet thing, how could he have known she was married? He supposed he could have asked, but does one ask the bees if their honey can be tasted? Ossian shrugged and smirked as he managed to fasten the last buckle on his saddle and made sure all the straps were secure. He then bounded atop his steed and carefully guided the sleek stallion through the stable doors.
The villagers were in plain sight now, and by a stroke of ill fate, the moon managed to break free of the blustery clouds and cast telltale radiance upon him. Spotting the rider, the aggrieved husband swore up a blue streak and ran towards the amused bard. Ossian waited patiently astride his horse (the horse waited patiently as well - it had been through this type of discomfiture on may occasions). The husband found himself at last standing before the looming bard, and he hesitated. Looking nervously about, the man suddenly realized he had outdistanced his comrades and was now alone with Ossian.
"Well," Ossian drawled nonchalantly, "is there something I can assist you with?"
The man frowned mightily, but did nothing. Evidently, Ossian's renown as a duelist had preceded him and caused the husband pause.
Ossian, noticing the man's friends getting dangerously close, bowed from the saddle and gave the man a wink, saying, "Dear friend, 'tis been a pleasure meeting you, witty conversationalist that you are. But I fear that all may well change when your cronies arrive. I enjoyed having your wife - I hope she enjoyed being had."
The husband let out a bellow of inchoate fury and rushed towards the smirking bard, only to be felled with a well-placed boot heel to the face. Ossian dropped a small bag of coins at the dazed man's feet to assuage his wounded pride and added, "In my defense, I must say there was no sign of marriage banns at the point of entry." He then sped off eastward into the remains of the night, the winking lights of the howling villagers soon fading into darkness.
"Hmmm," Ossian said, to no one in particular, "where shall I be off to then?" He smiled and then laughed aloud. But then the bard suddenly remembered his errand, and in a more somber tone he answered himself, "Well then, as I am heading east, I shall seek for Imladris! Perhaps the Elves have news of he for whom I seek. If anything, the dining is good there, and Elrond's folk are more hospitable than their suspicious kin in Greenwood the Great, east of Hithlagaer."
Ossian thought of the prospects of traveling so far afield, and he glowered sadly. He then shrugged and gave his horse a kick. "For duty and country." he sighed.
Ossian rode hard throughout the day and made for Weathertop, arriving sometime after midnight. Not bothering to eat, still he started a fire, and curled up and caught brief snatches of fitful respite wrapped in a heavy cloak against the chill winds of Northern Eriador. At dawn he awoke in an ill mood and with a kink in his back.
"Cursed stones of Arthedain," he grumbled, "they could not withstand besieging Angmar, yet they manage to defeat my slumber!"
He tossed a rock in disgust and guided his horse to some prime forage. Hungry himself, Ossian cursed again. His quick exit from Bree had left him without proper victuals for such an arduous trip. Feeling rather too lazy to go hunting, he sat on a tumbled granite pillar and watched his horse contentedly munch away on clumps of grass that forced their way tenaciously through the broken stone - refuse of a lost civilization. Seized by a sudden fit of minstrelsy, he sang half-heartedly:
Feast among the bones
The fallen thrones
Crowned with barrow-green.
Supt thy fill, fallow roan
Off this plate of stone
Garnished with barrow-green.
Yet starving, I write this tome
In ancient Dunedain's home
Unable to digest this barrow-green.
Ossian's forehead furrowed and an immense frown curled his lip. Terrible meter, horrid rhyme, he thought. Never was he very creative without proper food or drink. He must reach Imladris 'ere he starved!
After his steed was fully sated, Ossian again continued his journey down the great East-West Road, making for the Ford of Bruinen. Welcomed he would be at the venerable Homely House of Rivendell; for though he was but a mere mortal, the last of the great Numenorean Bards was always a fixture of Elrond's court when he passed that way. Whether the elves truly enjoyed his gift, or whether perhaps they found the presumptive mortal merely amusing, Ossian could never quite tell. Yet Imladris was one of the few places left in Middle-earth where he had not been thrown out, banned or exiled, which was really saying something!
Suddenly, it hit him! In his scandalous retreat from Bree he had left his lute in his room at the Prancing Pony! Cursing each one of the Valar by name, Ossian wheeled his confused steed about in a great cloud of dust and gravel, and made off westward again. His stomach was in knots, not for lack of food, but rather for his instrument, his heart and his one true love: the lute made by the great Mahatan of Lebennin.
Ossian would reverently and obsessively wipe the beautifully polished instrument down each time before commencing to tune it. He loved the look and feel of his lute almost as much as the rich sound that flowed melodiously from its perfectly shaped bowl. The fluted birds-eye maple neck, the rich, dark luster of the lebethron base counterpointed handsomely by the flawless light amber graining of the mallorn top, and the black ebony fretboard intricately inlaid with mother-of-pearl from the shores of Dol Amroth to match the windings.
"Treat her like a woman," said Mahatan, the master luthier who had crafted the piece, before reluctantly delivering the instrument into Ossian's eager hands. "Caress her gently when you make love to her strings, and she shall only sound the better through the passing years!" How right the master luthier was! Like a fine Dorwinion wine, the lute's characteristics mellowed as it aged; yet each note was as clear as a tolling bell on a cloudless summer day.
And the anxious dream of a simple piece of wood and catgut assuaged Ossian's hungered cravings all the miles he backtracked to Bree. A piece of simple wood! There was only one like it in the waking world. And the cost! Let us just say if Ossian had not extorted a king's ransom from the self-styled Lord of Umbar for some dubious services performed, the lute would not have seen the light of day. But as he neared Bree, Ossian's attention was brought to bear on a lone traveler, Elvish or so he seemed.
"Continue on as you were rider. Your business is no concern of mine, nor mine of yours," the Elf growled warily. Yet Ossian stomach rumbled mightily and he thought of that wonderful Elvish invention, lembas. Did all Elves carry such manna? Ossian was uncertain, but his mouth was now watering, and needing to regain his strength before re-entering Bree, he dismounted his steed and bowed grandly.
"Well, speak your part then," said the Elf with a sigh. If anything, Elves were always polite. Haughty, perhaps - disinterested, certainly - but polite nonetheless.
The starving Minstrel bowed again, but a little less formally due to his stomach cramping. "I am Ossian," he said with much gravity, "Royal Bard of the Stewards of Gondor and Adjunct Loremaster of the Great Archives of Minas Tirith."
The Elf looked Ossian up and down. Certainly the man's outlandish garb marked him as a Southron. And tall he was, with sea-gray eyes. Perhaps he was a scion of ancient Numenor. Taking Ossian at his word, the Elf bowed in return, "I am Adurant, originally of Doriath, but late of Mithlond. How may I be of service to you?"
Ossian's eyes widened. A Sinda - walking alone on the Great East-West Road? There is a tale in this and that is for certain! Ossian thought with a smile. With a nod, the bard sang in pleasant baritone:
A! Luthien! A! Luthien!
more fair than any child of men;
O! loveliest maid of Elfinesse,
what madness does thee now possess!
Now it was Adurant's turn to smile. That a mortal bard had the effrontery to sing of Luthien to a Sindarin Elf bespoke not of rudeness in this case, but of arcane knowledge and a respect for lore. That he knew lines from the Lay of Leithian confirmed the man's rather pompous title. Adurant finally laughed with delight and said, "Never would I have thought to hear songs of long lost Menegroth in the lands of mortal men! But come; will you not supt with me?"
Ossian gave a satisfied smirk. "Well, I had just eaten quite well a few hours earlier," he said, lying through his teeth, "but never would I turn down the hospitality of the Eldar!"
"Contextually, I am not of the Eldar."
"But you are Sindarin?"
"Yes, but although the Sindar are of the Teleri, we were not of the group that completed the journey to the Blessed Realm; ergo, we are not Eldar."
"But your King, Thingol, wasn't he of the Eldar?"
"Well, yes. Formally, I suppose."
"Damn Elvish technicalities."
"Even I sometimes get confused."