She is singing. In all my days I have never heard such. She has been singing for half the day. The first real sounds I have had from her ... and she is singing. As we neared the glooming hills and narrow passes she opened her lips ... and a thread of colour came forth. The sound comingled with the cries of the suprised birds, enticed them to open their throats and join her.
I thought immediately to stop her, I did not want some bleating whine about her unfortunate circumstances, or a lament to her lost freedom. But, it amuses me now to let her sing. Yes. I am amused by what she attempts. A clever little bird.
I watch the affect of her songs on my men - how vigilant I must be. The song she began with, I will admit, suprised me. Some hobbit ditty I sumise, a nonsense song of ale and pies and some bumbling cook called Mahonia. Her litany of recipies and the unfortunate result on their victims. My mens' fingers cannot help tap out the beat of the chorus. Clever Celebhir. She catches their attention with a childish tune, lulles them with a simple, unthreatening melody. I ride on, watching the display.
As I suspected, she moves on: A tavern song, a song of men in the fields, a song of northern men, of the sky ... of the waves, the sun... yes, here it comes... songs of the stars, of love and virtue, of the forests ... she is weaving her music into my men, they have little eye for the road now, nodding in time... she sings on, of the brotherhood of Men and elves... I see her eyes flicker to me - yes, little bird, I hear all you sing and I watch... of amnity... of captivity... yes.
I see you, and I see one of my Men - will this ever end- his eyes soften as he listens. I see him lean a little in his saddle towards her. A fool ... she weaves her song about him... tempting ... seducing... all that I have read and heard of their deception and evil - I see it played out before me as my man is glamoured by her.
A risk. Yes. But by risking I now see what she is capable of. She will be placed in the silent towers. I will not have her corrupting more with the witchery of her voice. But, she sang. She spoke, though it were music. I will have her for my own minstrel, she can sing for my pleasure as I eat. I find that ... a pleasurable prospect. She may serve me. Yes.
She spoke, though it were music, and I will listen through the glamour to her words. They may yet be something there. Her first sounds since she was taken in the marsh, something more than just her yowling battle cry - 'Caluinilhir!'. A lord, a star, a lover, a memory? I will unravel her. There is enough to damn her ten, a hundred times over in her gear, but every thread is golden. I will have it all, and soon, by whatever means I must.
