NOTE: This story is technically a Companion Story, as like 87% of it was written by the Blogging Brother. However I did put the “frame” around it and I’d like it to be canon for these characters, so it’s here in the main series. Without further ado…

The Story

“The song one!”

“Oh but you’ve already heard that one.”

“Tell us again!”

“Yeah, yeah, we want to hear it again!”

The four grandchildren at her feet began to chant “again, again!” Her daughter-in-law shot her a pleading look from the other end of the sofa. She dramatically hemmed and hawed, then closed her eyes for just a moment. She took a deep, happy sigh, glided her wrinkled fingers across the many crystals resting along her neck. When she opened her eyes again, the mischievous glint told them they’d won her over.

“It was a dreary evening…”

“Just like this one?!” “Anna, shhhhhhhh-“ “Don’t shove me!” “I didn’t, I jus-“

A raised silver eyebrow, then silence.

“Ahem. It was a dreary evening… maybe a little like this one. But this was a long time ago—back when the mountains were so tall you could climb up to touch the stars! When the ocean was so young the sea nymphs still had to show the waves which way to go! Back when the world still had mysteries in it… parts unknown, parts unseen…

In those days, there had been great battle. The fields where they fought, soaked in mud and blood, were still littered with fallen friend and foe. Warriors, grasping their steins—”

“What’s a stein?”

“It’s a beer mug, lovie. Like the one your daddy’s got there, but these were made out of wood, or bone, or minotaur horns.”

“Ohhhhhh, okay.”

“Grasping their steins with bruised knuckles, the backs of their necks still slick with salt and sweat. Lifeblood dripped from their brows and blades. Their eyes were tired, but bright with life. Their wounds were not yet cleaned or stitched or even counted. But they gathered. Warriors always gather after battle, if only to remind each other they are still alive.

The Keeper of the tavern poured generously. There would be no accounting of glasses or gallons tonight. Perhaps not tomorrow either. Perhaps not until fresh graves had been dug, been filled, been mourned. No, the rescued lives of her family and her village were enough to cover the cost of every barrel in her cellar tonight if need be.

But would drink be enough? To celebrate, to commiserate? Could mead and ale wash clean the sweat and scars? Could another round pay tribute enough, properly thank the gods for their favor?

As she poured, filling stein after stein for the warriors—men and women both, you know, who had gone out not knowing if they would return carrying their shields, or carried on them, or not at all—she began to hum, to court the hearth with a simple, old melody. Warm us, her heart whispered, hear us and heal us.

The murmurings between tables quieted to hear the gentle croon. Then from the bar came a husky basso voice, like honeyed bourbon over broken glass. One old warrior turned away from the Keeper and toward the gathered survivors huddled in the mead-hall. His face was strong and sharp; you could imagine he’d been handsome many frays ago.

Hear now, shield-fellows,

  How the worlds were wrought!

Worlds woken wide

  From the wound-dark night

Before spear-song started

  Before sword-teeth bit

Before iron answered

  The oath of flesh

There stood the Long Night

  And the Door-That-Endured

As he sang ancient words following the Keeper’s contralto melody, the corners of the mead-hall closed in, as if the living and the dead that night were gathered to hear the tale together once more.

No hand had hewn it

  No high god held it his

It waited, wind-worn

  Where war-roads cross

Where shield-broken slain

  Seek boast and bench

Where rain-gods rumble

  Over rainbows and roof-beams

The murmuring from the tables picked up again, on key this time, joining the old warrior in remembering what could never be lost, no matter the battles raged.

East-born came Harliot

  Hearth-ward and horn-ward

Keeper-of-Drink

  Cup-warden of the Door

She-who-stands-steady

  Storm-still, wound-wise

Her eyes held ashes

  Her hands never shook

She brewed not barley

  But battle-rest

“Why does she have so many names?”

“Because the one who tends the bar is sacred. She doesn’t just pour drinks; she offers safety and rest and companionship to anybody who stumbles into her inn. She’s a good listener, too, unlike you children. Let me tell my story.

The man kept singing with his companions and the mead-hall Keeper helped them stay in tune.

Then through the threshold

  Strode the Stranger

Blade-bare bairn-bearer

  Burdened with loss

No helm hid her

  No hawk-banner flew

Yet Sorrow sat near her

  Like a shield-sworn friend

Men say she smiled

  As seers smile seldom

Knowing how many heroes

  Would be hewn in time

Harliot horn-lifted!

  Hall-silence deepened

Set she the stein (“there’s that word again!”)

  On the counter-stone

“Drink, road-weary one

  The fight is long.”

“Now the tradition was, in those days, that when you sang this verse, you’d raise your drink as high as you could—good, like that—and keep it up until the song was over.” 

The Stranger drank

  Shuddered the Door

Nine Winds woke

  Wandering found ways

Stars seized shields

  From the ember-field

The whale-road of heaven

  Widened with fire

Worlds rose in foam

  Fates burned like sparks

And birth-bells rang

  Under battle-clouds

“Nana, what does all that even mean? What’s a whale-road?”

“Where did the world come from? And all the stars, and the moon and the sun? These people believed what the song said: the whole universe was born from a single, perfect act of hospitality. That means always treating your guests well, because one day you might be their guest, too, as we all are guests of this world.

‘Thus,– sang the gathered company, standing now despite their weary legs and wounded arms, deep rumbling voices joining high tenors and a few striking sopranos,

Thus began battle-turning

  With peace first poured

From that cup we drink

  Ere each storm and spear

No mind for mercy

  No heart for fear

Remember, remember

If the Keeper’s cup

  Ever falls from her fingers

If the Stranger

  Stays far from the Door

Then thunder flees and forgets

  The throat of the sky

The war-gods grow wakeful

  Wine-less, and cold

And the world-hall will darken

  Without drink, Door, or dawn.

They repeated the last bit once more, 

And the world-hall will darken

  Without drink, Door, or dawn.

There was a moment of quiet, the Keeper’s quiet hum the only sound.

The wind halted. The stars hushed. The sea stilled. All waited, just for a moment.

And then the old man downed the rest of his ale in one gulp, slammed it onto the bar, and roared with laughter! Soon the whole company was laughing, knowing they lived one more day and the world kept turning and the ale kept pouring, and the Door stood always open.

“ANOTHER!” shouted a voice, and the Keeper’s hands went back to work.

Soon every man’s horn was full again, the torches burning bright against the dark. The Keeper’s son produced a fiddle and struck up a livelier tune, and suddenly the night was not so empty, and the dawn was quite near indeed…”

A round of tiny applause was her reward. She cherished it.

“Nana, will you tell us about the Pour-lady?” “The pourer, Anna!” “That’s what I said!” “It’s not!” “Is too!” “Is not!” “Is-“

“Perhaps if we all brush our teeth and wash our face and tuck ourselves in, I will come around and give you each a little hint about the Pourer’s story, how about that?”

“OKAY!” chorused four voices, setting off the beat of four pairs of feet racing through halls and up stairs.

“Thank you, Pepper. They love your stories, though how you remember all those words every time is beyond me. Say, speaking of mead and ale… can I get you a refill?”

“Oh, that would be lovely, dear.”

The Word

Keening (noun): A traditional, mournful vocal lament for the dead, characterized by a high-pitched, wailing cry

One could argue that above you’ll find a ballad, not a keening, but if one said that to me, I would turn my nose up and say they missed what I feel is 1/3 of the point, though they would technically be correct.

The first draft of the song from the story above was texted to me just last night, a creative ear-worm that apparently attacked my brother while he was trying to work on something else. But that’s how writing (or really any creative endeavor) goes sometimes, isn’t it? Some part of you is working in the back of your mind on something it cannot or will not let go of, and when it’s ready, shoves itself to the front, refusing to be ignored! When I saw it I thought “well that’s officially part of the Grudgery world now for sure” and also, don’t we have someone known for passing down stories? Pepper always comes through for me.

It also felt so appropriate to the vibes the past couple days. Yesterday was Memorial Day, and it has been raining for a solid week. The world is… the world right now. Perhaps a little keening and sharing of ballads will restore us in the same way it restored our warriors.

Happy reading!

P.S. Said brother has pointed out that he did in fact say kenning last night, not keening. I like my note here though, so I’m going to keep it and steal kenning for a later time, even if it does fit this story perfectly well.