The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[littlemanpoet]

Falowik walked Kirsúl back into the stable, brushed him down, and made sure he had water and grain before he wandered back of the Inn to where Uien sat. She had not moved, still bent over her piece of wood that was slowly, slowly turning into a shape under her knife; a somewhat rounded shape, with three lumps coming out one side.

"What are those?" Falowik asked, pointing at the lumps.

"I do not know yet," Uien replied, looking up. Her grey eyes were large, her pupils shrinking under the sun's bright light. She was smiling at him. She seemed still at peace, at least in the peace that came with a making.

"Settles the mind, does it?"

"Aye." She nodded. "Come, sit by me." She patted the ground beside her.

"Thanks, but the sun is almost at noon and my stomach is growling. Join me for noon meal?"

She shook her head, her smile not fading. "I am not hungry. My work is my food; at least today."

"What will I say if Cook asks after you?"

She smirked, for both knew that Cook's ire would not go unspoken if Uien missed yet another meal. Light as a feather and she'll blow away if not for me!, Cook had been known to say. "Tell her I am still full from breaking my fast this morn."

"Well enough. Maybe I will bring out a morsel."

She smiled once and her head dropped, busy with her work; as if Falowik was not even there. He shrugged and made his way to the Common room.

It seemed dark within after the brightness of the noon sun, not a cloud in the sky. Falowik cast about for a place to sit.

"More water, girl!" cried a man in a grating, unfriendly voice. From the pouch at his belt he drew forth a silver penny and pushed it to the edge of the table. The hand that pushed the coin was scarred and mottled. The man seemed to want no company. Like me a year ago, Falowik thought. Leave him be. But much had happened to him in a year. Much good. Maybe it would not hurt to just sit at the same table. Why not?

Falowk made his way past many strangers, for he and Uien had spent more time outside the Common room than in, these last few days. He sat at right angles to the man.

"Good day!" he said, glancing at the man, unable to keep his eyes from widening at the scars that mottled the man's face as wells as hands. Like meat on a skewer! Falowik moderated his expression as quickly as he could, putting a smile on his lips. He looked right and left and said, "It gets busy fast here. I hope I may sit at this table to eat?"

"Suit yourself," the man said coolly.

"I am Falowik Stonewort of Bree. What are you called?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

For the next half hour, Miz Bella checked the work that was brought to her desk, offering words of encouragement to each of the children. Willy had been first in line. His work had been wildly creative with pictures splashed all over and lines of wobbly letters interspersed in the few bare spots left on the slate. Despite the craziness of his impromptu melange, Miz Bella could see that the lad actually had a good deal of talent when it came to seeing things and representing them with his chalk.

Closely inspecting the slate, she exclaimed, "Willy, I must tell you I like your drawings. In fact, I like them very much. You have a real knack for sketching. Usually, children who have such talent learn their letters very quickly because they can see how shapes and lines fit together. Next time, try putting the sketches on one side and the pictures on the other. That way, you'll have more room, and I can see both the pictures and letters more clearly."

Then Miz Bella checked over the slates from Reggie, Hanson, and Woody. She talked a bit about keeping letters like "B" taller than the rest, but for the most part praised the lads' efforts. "It'll get easier as you use the letters more. They are all very good for first tries!"

"As to how tall that bear was," Miz Bella directed her words at Woody, "you're going to have to figure that out on your own after lunch. You and everyone here. I'll give you some hints and some sticks for counting, and you can all have a guess at how tall the bear was. But for now I think it's time for lunch. I need one or two volunteers to go down and collect the soup and cheese in the kitchen from Cook and bring it back to class. Just come forward and volunteer and be on your way to the kitchen. The rest of you can go play in the garden while we're waiting for lunch to arrive. There's a nice enclosed area out there. Just try not to trample on the flower beds and stay inside the fence. And someone can fill our pitcher up with nice cold water from the well."

Miz Bella watched as several of the young hobbits scampered towards the door with a happy holler of relief. A few milled around the desk presumably waiting to volunteer. Miz Bella caught a glimpse of Camille and quickly interjected, "Oh, Camille, you were going back to the pond to bring your brother to school in the wheelbarrow. I've already spoken with Neviel and he says he'll be happy to help you..... And , by the way, I wanted to thank you and the other lasses for arranging those books. I've had a close look at them, and they are certainly unusual! There are many ways to arrange things and size and color are definitely one. Perhaps, sometime in the future, we'll talk about some other ways."

[Tevildo]

Miz Bella.... Camille walked over to where her teacher was seated and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Please, Miz Bella, I can get my brother on my own. I don't need Neviel to help."

"But Camille. It will go easier with the two of you."

"No, I would rather do it on my own." Camillle stared stubbornly at her teacher as she planted her hands firmly on her hips. "I would just feel more comfortable," she stammered and headed for the door before Miz Bella could object or Neviel could trail along after her.

***************

Camille headed out the door and cut across the courtyard, moving as quickly as she could. She did not like Neviel and felt relieved to be outside, walking towards the garden path that led to The Water. Hrumpf! What was an Elf doing in her school? Miz Bella should have told him he wasn't wanted. He was just too different.

Miz Bella had mentioned earlier that morning she planned to have the children run some races sometime today or tomorrow. Camille was an excellent runner and thought she might do very well. But how could she win against a gigantic eight year-old who was nearly twice her height? She had never felt comfortable around Elves, and, on the very rare occasions they had come across her path, she had tried to avoid them. Her brother's attitude was very different. Rory loved Elves with all his heart and would probably be enchanted by the prospect of having Neviel as a classmate and friend. Camille scowled to herself and pushed open the gate that led out of the courtyard and cut across the field to the spot where her mother's burrow lay.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Jon's tale wasn't sad anymore. He wished to forget the life he never had, and for once get rid of the ones who bound him to this world. "I dare not ask what Avalon's tale is. After all the last time I saw my Sarah was three years ago, now I have no one and nothing."

Dwaline puffed on his pipe as he pondered this tale. Avalon was now at the window and peered at John inquisitively. Dwaline nodded to her and she fluttered over and landed on his shoulder. The Dwarf gave a little Cram to her before turning back to John.

"Now that is a bundle of news and no mistake," he sighed, "the love you bare for this Sarah is obviously important to you. You shouldn’t let it die, even if you do. I was never a romantic; my wife and I had always been friends from childhood. But the bond cannot be severed even in bodily death.

If you're heart tells you that she lives, do not doubt it. Rejoice that she is alive. If Avalon holds some secret, I know not. But she is a bird full of more mysteries than even she knows."

[Lasbelinion]

‘What are you called?’

Lithmîrë turned cold grey eyes toward the speaker. The man asked a simple enough question. And how simply, too, had he announced himself. ‘Falowik Stonewort’ he said, the two words falling easily from his lips. A name that belonged to him and tied him to some greater line of descent. Or one at least that lay stretching behind him and perhaps before him, too.

And which one in his litany of names should he give to this man?

Maggot . . . muck-worm . . . cur . . . carrion . . . kindling . . . nasty bit of Elfspawn . . . foul Elf . . . filthy Elf . . . Elf dung . . .

Those last, at least, had paid some deference to his origins, his kindred. He swallowed the rising bile. Across the scarred map of his face flickered briefly a grim smile.

‘Lithmîrë,’ he rasped out, taking up his mug for a soothing drink, lest he begin to cough and choke with the effort of speaking. ‘Lithmîrë . . . late of Lithlad.’

[Amanaduial the archer]

"More water, girl!"

Aman bit back an immediate retort to the man's rude call after her. Turning slowly to face him, she was about to speak, then saw Falowik approaching the man's table, a friendly, amiable expression on his handsome features. He caught Aman's eye and gave her a small, enigmatic grin and shrugged. Aman raised an eyebrow but obligingly left Falowik to talk talk to the man and went to fulfill his request.

Bringing back a mug of hot water a few moments later (a strange requestm she had thought when she first arrived at the 'Dragon, but one that she found was quite common among travellers from afar), Aman placed it in front of the man, hearing him reply to Falowik's gently probing question.

"Lithmîrë. Lithmîrë . . . late of Lithlad." He began to cough, choking off the last of word of the sentence as his whole body was racked by a harsh cough, and, naturally concerned, Aman pushed the drink forward across the table to him. Without looking at her, he lifted it and drank deeply, his cough eventually residing. Aman pursed her lips but the man's violent coughing fit had softened her despite his rudeness and besides, it was such a beautiful day. Taking the coin and murmering something insignificant about the man needing to see a healer about that cough. "And my name is Aman, sir, not 'girl'; I am the Innkeeper of this establishment."

The man looked up, a sneer almost appearing on his scarred face, before he simply nodded mutely. Aman smiled, nodding back briskly. "Aye, well, a very good morning to you, Lithmîrë of Lithlad," she continued, then bustled away.

The day was fine and bright, all trace of the rainclouds that had hovered ominously over the Inn over the past few days having vanished now to leave the sky a clear, glorious shade of sapphire, the sun reflecting off the distant streams and rivers like gems. Looking up from a table she had bent over to clear of glasses and second breakfast dishes, Aman looked out of the window into the halflings' green and pleasant land, and smiled to herself as the sun beat warmly on her pale face: she looked tired from a night of thoughts and fitful dreams rather than sleep, but her smile was as energetic as ever, and her hair, unusually, was not pulled back from her face but instead hung in thick brown waves around her slim features. Sighing contentedly, Aman finished clearing the table and took them back to the bar, where Ruby was playing her favourite sport: poppling.

The sport of poppling is an ancient skill - a very art - that has been perfected unwittingly by those who were bored or simply in places of many people, over generations, in all the areas of Middle Earth. Ruby herself was a veteran, as was Buttercup, and the two hobbit waitresses often indulged themselves in a little light poppling - which was shortened, in some twisted way from 'people watching' - whenever they were able. Originally, the game had been called 'hobbling' - hobbit watching - but, as well as the rather strange connotations this word would have ("What are you doing, Ruby?" "Oh, just hobbling."), the Green Dragon's wide repetoire of customers meant that the term had had to be widely extended to a general 'people watching'. But enough on the history and finer details of Ruby's special brand of poppling, dear reader, for it is more in exactly who Ruby was watching, that sun-drenched morning, that brings us back to our story.

"May I ask who you're poppling upon this morning, Ruby?" Aman inquired in a murmur, her back still to the common room as she began to unload the tray of its glasses so they could be cleaned. Ruby looked sidelong at the Innkeeper then turned her attention back to the Common Room, never pausing in innocently wiping the beer glass in her hands. "I'm not sure I like the way you use that, Aman. 'Say it like it's peeking or somethin', rather than just poppling."

"Indeed, gods forbid that poppling be mistaken as peeking," Aman replied ironically, grinning slightly at the beer glasses as Ruby snorted derisively. "Anyway, excuse my misuse of the verb 'to popple', Ms. Brown," the woman continued, leaning on the counter. "I repeat, who are you watching?"

Now it was Ruby's turn to give the Innkeeper a sly grin as she turned her full attention back on her subjects, speaking with an air of studious authority. "Today's subjects, dear pupil, are a pair of men, thought, in my studied opinion, to be of Southern descent. One would appear to wear clothes of fine and splendid materials, and a medallion emblazoned with some odd and rather bizarre symbol - lord only knows what for, despite the finery this man wears, he is not exactly what one would call a gentleman: a strange and paradoxical being indeed, he does not actually appear to have shaved this morning - and nor has he actually paid for his own bleedin' tab, he's relying on that bard-y man who came in yesterday-"

"Who is Snaveling speaking to?" Aman suddenly became alert, interrupting what was turning into a muttered rant. Ruby grinned and stuck her tongue out a small way mischieviously. "Well now, that would be telling-"

"Ruby-!"

"Hey, hey, keep your hair on, just 'cos lover boy's talking to someone without your permission..." Ruby replied jokingly.

Aman raised an eyebrow. She could have laughed aloud at the hobbit girl's mockery - how surprised she would be to hear what had passed last night between Aman and Snaveling! No act of romantic love, that was certain, and there never would be either. Well, probably not anyway: it wasn't a regular occurence for granddaughters to sneak around mooning after their grandfathers...

The Innkeeper nearly laughed to herself at the image this conjured up in her mind, but simply contented herself with treating Ruby to an enigmatic smile without teeth. Sweeping away, Aman turned and quickly scanned the Common Room as she did so, focusing on Snaveling and his companion: a young man in the garb of one of the Southern Rangers, who weren't especially uncommon in the Green Dragon, considering their relative rarity. Deciding there was no time like the present, Aman braced herself and started over to them, notepad determinedly at the ready - she would have to talk to Snaveling this morning, she supposed, and there was no time like the present.

"...spoke of you once or twice when I was in Minas Tirith, and he asked that if I heard word of you or your companions that I would tell you from him that your efforts are noted by him with appreciation and love."

The end of Snaveling's words were caught by Aman as she approached silentlyt from behind the Black Numenorean. Guessing who he was speaking about, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes and leant down behind Snaveling, her hair slipping from behind her ear to fall in a brown-blonde curtain beside his face as she whispered, "Show-off."

Snaveling turned with a smile to Aman, his eyebrows raised, apparently surprised at how she had crept up on him. She smiled and bid both gentlemen a good morning before inquiring if they would like anything for lunch, which was to start in about half an hour, or whether they would like anything else. The ranger replied brusquely, "Indeed, a pint of ale please, barkeep; I would not like anything to eat as yet - I appear to have lost my appetite." The last part was accompanied by a meaningful glower at Snaveling. The latter grinned and glanced up at Aman before gesturing towards his companion with one hand and introducing him. "Aman, this is Valthalion, a ranger I had the pleasure to meet in Minas Tirith. Val, this is Amanaduial...the formidable Innkeeper of the Green Dragon."

The pause before Aman's position was almost unnoticeable and indeed, Val seemed far too preoccupied to notice it. Before Snaveling could ask for anything, the incensed ranger burst out again. "A Black Numenorian? I cannot believe it, Snaveling, that you could... And to think, that King Elessar himself claimed you as kin!"

"Maybe the king has learnt to forgive the differences of the past and does not see me as a threat," Snaveling replied softly, reclining comfortably in his chair as he ran his finger absent-mindedly around the rim of his beer glass.

Valthalion almost laughed aloud. "A threat? Well, why would you be to the king of the United Kingdoms?" he scoffed. "Why, at least you are basically the only Black Numenorian left alive - and if you have no children, maybe that is where the line will end!"

Snaveling stiffened slightly by Aman's side, but the Innkeeper merely gave one of her small, secretive half smiles. Now...now was the perfect moment. Was she really ready to reveal her secret, and Snaveling's? It was nothing to be ashamed off, not now that she had a past and life of her own, a family even, back in Rohan; she was not a Black Numenorian in the sense that those who had forced Elessar's ancestors into hiding were, but nonetheless Valthalion was rather mistaken in his prediction. Taking a deep breath, she reached out a hand and laid it hesitantly on Snaveling's shoulder.

"Not...not the last, I think Valthalion."

[Envinyatar]

Taking lunch to the children . . .

Derufin turned his head toward the door to the kitchen as it squeaked slowly open. Two small faces, Hobbit faces, peeked in - their curious eyes looking about the room. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked Cook, getting up from his chair to open the door so that the two stood fully revealed.

An older boy stepped forward, and addressed Cook in a firm voice. ‘Miz Bella sent us, m’am,’ he said. ‘For the soup and such,’ the other boy spoke up.

Cook looked them both over, them motioned Derufin over to where she had gone to ladle soup into a smaller kettle. ‘Mayhap you and Master Anyopâ could take the hot soup and the bowls, and the boys could carry the baskets of bread and the plates of cheese.’

Derufin agreed, and set about loading one of the boys with two baskets of fresh sliced bread, and the other with a small platter of sliced cheese. He held the door open as the two carefully picked their way out of it and down the steps, turning left as they headed toward the schoolroom’s courtyard. Derufin followed, the kettle of hot soup held carefully in one fist by its handle. Anyopâ loaded his pockets with spoons and a few knives and took up a small armful of bowls.

A few short steps later and they had entered the noisy little courtyard, where the children were playing . . .

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling was moved by Aman’s gesture of allegiance with him and he reached up to place his hand over hers by token of appreciation. He felt her fingers tighten on his shoulder and with that gesture he knew that she was content to have the truth of her parentage be told. Once more, Snaveling had to quell the sudden petty joy he would have in once more triumphing over Valthalion with the extent of his sudden good fortune – not just a King, but one with a beautiful heir of his own who respected him, and was not ashamed of her lineage.

He smiled at the young Ranger and answered the look of surprise on his face. “Aman is gracious, my young friend, in allowing me to reveal to you that my line is not doomed to fade. As Aman and I have only just discovered, she is my grand-daughter, child of my son who was lost as a babe and raised by a noble man of Rohan to think he was of that land. You should be honoured! For you are only the second person to learn of this, and the first among Men; not even the King Elessar himself is yet aware that the noble line of Numenor shall be preserved. Perhaps your coming here at this time is more than the working of chance, for it seems to me appropriate that one of Elessar’s own house should arrive to do my grand-daughter the courtesies that are her due!”

Aman pulled slightly at Snaveling’s shoulder, pulling him back somewhat from his boasting. “Nay nay, sir, do not demand that of the young man! I am still but a maid of Rohan and the Innkeeper of the Green Dragon, these are honours enough. I would not have you make me a princess, or have you force others to acknowledge me as one!”

“But you are one, my girl, no matter how you may feel about it. You are the last heir of Vanished Numenor and when my time comes to join my ancestors that is a burden that you must take up.”

“Still,” she said, and her tone was more stern now, “I will not have this man or any other treat me like royalty. Sit Valthalion!” she said, seeing him rise to his feet as though in preparation for a bow or some other courtly nonsense. “Do not listen to…my grandfather. He is, I fear, having some fun with you in the excess of his own pleasure at our having found one another.” She looked at Snaveling and smiled, but there was a familiar glint of iron in her eye. Snaveling looked to Valthalion.

“Aman is right, sir, I am but lighthearted, perhaps even lightheaded, in my joy. You well remember how I was before: to find myself so utterly changed…! But come, tell me of your own travels. It has been long since we last took a drink together at the Inn. Where have you been and what sorts of trouble have you been getting into?”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

With nothing to do with himself while the little ones were at their lessons Hearpwine wandered out of the classroom humming a tune beneath his breath. It was an old tune that he had been toying with of late, for he had never been entirely happy with it. When played slowly it was a melancholy and even dour, but when played quickly it became a odd jig-like piece that lumbered about without really giving life to the song. It was odd, for he enjoyed the tune but had yet found a way to use it in performance, so difficult was it to match with an appropriate song. He had decided, after much thought, to alter it as best he could so that he could sing it for others – but he was proceeding cautiously with the alterations, for one did not simply change a piece of music without great care!

As he paced about the yard his stomach growled slightly. He had breakfasted well, but he had been so long on the road that one good meal was not sufficient to satisfy him, apparently. He passed by a window to the Common Room and glanced inside and while there were a number of people about talking and drinking it did not appear as though luncheon was being served yet. His stomach gave another growl and he decided to raid the kitchen.

He stalked through the doorway and found several Halflings busily at work with a number of other folk milling about. Hearpwine addressed a stout Halfling woman who seemed to be in charge. “It is early yet for luncheon, I fear, but is there any crust of bread of rind of cheese for a hungry patron? I would be happy to lend a hand to any task you might like in return for a bite – or if you like, I could give you all some music to work by!” His hand moved to his harp, his fingers already twitching at the prospect of music.

[Lasbelinion]

Lithmîrë set down his empty mug considering if he should call for one more. He’d been rude. He could read it in her eyes. But upon reflection on that fact, he found he simply did not care. Little chit! There was no room for manners, in that place from where he’d come. One grabbed what one could, and if by some small piece of luck, there were those beneath you; then, their service was simply expected. Just as he had had to grovel and obey those who stood over him.

One gets by, as one can . . .

His cough had abated; the pain eased in his arm and face. The fleeting rictus that passed for his smile came with a nod to the man who now sat at the table. ‘A pleasure speaking with you,’ he said in a less gravelly voice, the tone of scorn laid lightly beneath his words. Gathering his cloak about him, he stood. A few quick steps marked his retreat from the increasingly busy room to the wider outdoors.

His heart was pounding. What a fool, he thought, to think he could stand to be in the press of so many people. He found his way to one of the great trees that grew behind the stable. In the welcoming shadow of its branches, he sat down on patch of grass that spread out from the tree’s roots. His back found support against the trunk. He leaned his pack against his outstretched legs, and let his head rest back against the smooth bark. The quiet and the fresh, clean scents borne on the breeze comforted him.

Weary from travel, the Elf was soon dozing.

[littlemanpoet]

Falowik

The Elf with the mottled features took his leave in a courteous enough manner, though the scorn with which his tone was laced was not lost on Falowik. It brought back memories he tried to keep buried, from Bree. The same scorn had condemned him a half-orc due to his lack of any lineage, his mother having died giving him life, his father unknown. Thinking on it raised the bile in his throat. He was glad Uien thought better of him than that, though he deserved it not.

Uien

Uien allowed the sun to soak into her gown, her long blonde hair her only shade. Little by little the carving was beginning to take shape. Three figures, two taller, one half height and between the tall ones, stood on grass. She imagined that she knew who these figures were, or at least who they represented.

She was distracted by movement, and saw from where she sat, a figure move behind the stable and settle not far from her by a tree. He did not seem to notice her, and she did not call attention to herself. But there was something about him that was strange; she did not know what it was, and looked carefully with her Elven eyes. He had already fallen asleep. But his face was mottled and scarred. What from? She could not hold her thought back, her curiosity was so roused, and she probed the edges of his thought; he was an Elf! So dark! Hot lancing pain. Cruel, dark laughter. Uien shivered, reminded of her captivity in the mountain of Caradhras. She shivered again and pulled her thought away, looking back at her carving.

Her knife had not ceased its cutting while her mind wandered, and she was horrified at what lay in her hand: an woman of the Eldar and a man of the Eldar, and between them a child of the Eldar, who held them each by the hand. Is this what I want?

[Lasbelinion]

GET OUT!

Lithmîrë’s dark grey eyes flew open at the soft touch of the inquisitive Elf.

Bad enough the body is beset by His foul minions. Yet worse the breach of mind and spirit by the Master. But worse than all is to be dishonored by one’s own.

Stay out, young one. I do not appreciate your curiosity or require your aid.

He paused for a moment, her unguarded thoughts spilling out.

And it seems you have problems of your own.

As quickly, he turned away from her thoughts. Getting up, he moved away from her, seeking a quiet place to rest.

[Mithalwen]

Mithalwen returned to Inn and as she did so she reflected over the events of the morning. The village smith, Toby Flaxman, had looked surprised to see the elf again but not displeased and once she had tentatively explained the situation Mithalwen's day took a major turn for the better.

"Oh I know the lad, well enough, such a shame for the family - they haven't had a lot of luck what with one thing and another" he had said, " I would have tried to rig something myself if I had thought it would have helped - but I don't have so much practice with such complicated work - Shoeing horses and making ploughshares is more my line" he added. Mithalwen had looked at his round, good-natured face hopefully.

"Tell you what miss, I don't see why outsiders - begging your pardon - should have to do what we should do for our own, I reckon if you sort through my scrap pile you will find most of what you need and if I let you use the forge maybe you could give me a hand with some of my work - my lad strained his shoulder falling out of a tree at the wedding party and some tasks you need two for " . Privately, the hobbit had realised there was probably a lot he could learn from the elf.

They had set to work immediately. The smith's son Tim, though he was not up to wielding a hammer, was able to help Mithalwen find the appropriate materials from the pile of offcuts in the corner of the forge and then went to beg off cut leather from the cobbler for the straps.

In between paying customers, the two smiths worked at assembling the braces, Although onlookers found it a curious sight - the tall elf woman whos head nearly toched the forge ceiling, and the middle aged hobbit- but the pair worked well together. Mithalwen appreciated Toby's practical efficiency and he admired her skill at the finer tasks and was especially curious about some of the tools she used for them. The elf promise that they would make copies to suit his stature before she left "as a small recompense for your help" . From Toby, Mithalwen learnt more about how much Rory was likely to grow and was as a result able to simplify some of her designs.

All in all the elf's mood had improved as the morning went on. It looked like her stay would be shorter than she feared, her frustration at her failure with Aman and Snaveling dissipated with each hammer fall, replaced by the joy of working at her craft again. And it was a rare pleasure to work collaboratively in these days. The hobbits were merry company and she soon began to learn folk songs of the shire and exactly how the various Hobbit families were related.

The only blight on the morning had been Uien's unexpected visit. Mithalwen had been perplexed and a little irritated. Maybe they had been at cross-purposes last night and Mithalwen had certainly been distracted by other matters, but she had assumed that Uien's help would have been in treating the boy - using her skill in herblore and physiology to help Rory's limbs strengthen from within as they were supported from without by the braces. However she had seemed put out that Mithalwen had not needed her enchantments, that she had progreesed the work without her supervison and approval. Mithalwen had little vanity but she knew she was a good craftswoman and she was somewhat offended that Uien seemed to think that three thousand years practice of shaping wood and metal would not suffice for this relatively straight-forward task.

Mithalwen sighed - misunderstandings with mortals were one thing but now it seemed she was at odds with her own species. It seemed she had managed to upset everyone she had met at the inn so far - Uien, Aman, Falco.... Marigold she had not upset ... but she had concussed herself whilst in her care. Not auspicious.

She wished she had not had to return to the inn, so little did she want to see anyone, but to remain at the forge would be to impose on the Flaxman's hospitality as well as thier time.

She washed her hands at the pump by the inn door and then on impulsed soused her head under the cold water. THe forge had made her hotter than the sunshine. She wrung out her silver plait and entered the relatively cool and dark common room.

She saw Snaveling and Aman, presenting a show of unity to a man she had not seen before an dFalowik at a table. Both she avoided, and inconspicuously as possible gathered a plate of bread and cheese and some cool cider and retreated to the garden.

She saw another elf, but he evidentlyhad as little wish for company as herself so with barely a glance she found another shady spot a little way away.

[Nurumaiel]

Marigold blushed a little at Miz Bella's words, sensing that she had made some sort of mistake... though it seemed quite logical to arrange the books by how big they were. She said nothing, however, deciding that it wouldn't do any use. She had made some sort of mistake, and obviously Miz Bella didn't see how logical their manner of sorting really was. And that was that. She sighed, dropped her eyes to the ground, and continued her slow pace to the garden.

Haltred and Estella were already there. Estella had darted away in the manner of a frightened rabbit at the earliest opportunity, and Haltred had followed her. As Marigold approached them, having firmly decided to not leave them without friends, Estella clasped her hands shyly behind her back, dropping her head very low, and Haltred smiled in a friendly way.

Purples, pinks, reds, yellows... in fact, every colour of the rainbow surrounded them in the garden. The flowers had suffered a temporary ordeal during the hard rains, but as a result they blossomed out stronger and brighter than before. The blue sky, the yellow sun, and the fluffy white clouds that scurried here and there in a merry game of tag seemed to have bent down from their lofty heights to give colours to the wee things on the earth.

Marigold bent to pick one of her namesakes, and gazed for a moment into the rich, warm, golden glow before fastening it up in her hair. "I'm so grateful," she said, "that marigolds are rather orange, rather than yellowish. It's very hard to wear them in my hair even as it is, but they're a different enough colour that they look all right. Now, you know, my mother's hair was black, and her name was Lilac. She could wear lilacs in her hair and it looked beautiful."

She paused, and looked here and there, and smiled at a little forget-me-not, and beckoned to Estella, who advanced shyly when her brother prodded her on.

"Here, Estella," said Marigold. "These forget-me-nots will look beautiful in your hair. My papa always told them that when the sun was out and shining, a hobbit girl doesn't look proper if she doesn't have flowers in her hair. 'All the girls are little flowers,' he said. 'There are Marigolds and Lilacs and Buttercups, and they ought to look like it.'" She tucked the little forget-me-nots behind Estella's ear, and frowned a little. "I knew a girl who told a boy forget-me-nots were to give to your sweetheart when you were going away. And so that boy, because he was going to Michel Delving, gave me some forget-me-nots. I just looked at him scornfully. But I did tell him goodbye very nicely, because I don't think he wanted to go away. Forget-me-nots always remind me to think of and love my mother and father." She looked wistfully at the little flower, and then turned to Haltred with a bright smile.

"Are you enjoying school?" she asked.

"I am," he replied, and added with a rueful grin, "though I feel terribly stupid at times."

"Well, so do I," Marigold replied, with a little laugh. "I'm not very good at anything at all. I'm very glad my papa taught me a little of reading and writing. But soon we'll all know everything." She nodded her head, looking well-pleased with the prospect, and then snatched Estella's hand in a way that defied any protest. "Come on," she said. "Lunch is over there and I'm very hungry."

[littlemanpoet]

Is this what I want? She stared at the carving of a family of the Eldar. This Elf was not Falowik!

<GET OUT!>

The thought seared through Uien's mind like a hot dagger. She closed her eyes against the pain and put her hands to her head, dropping the carving and knife.

<GET OUT!>

The echo seared through the same path, burning its way into her thought. She fought for some sensation to sustain her, and reached out, her shaking hands touching grass. She pushed herself to her feet and staggered.

<GET OUT! Out out>

It echoed again, sending her falling to the ground, her face mirroring the pain of hot rejection. She crawled, fearing that she could not stand.

The echo came again and again. Though her eyes were closed, tears streamed down her face as she crawled she knew not where.

"Uien, what is-" <GET OUT! Out out>

Hands grasped her shoulders and started to lift her. Orcs! She cried out, fearing their evil touch, fearing their purpose, trying to get away. She needed to get out of there, to leave, if only she could find a way.

"Uien! It's Falowik! Look at-" <GET OUT! Out out>

She shook her head, weeping.

"Who has done this to you?" His voice was harsh.

<GET OUT! Out out>

"Falowik, <GET OUT!>-" His grip stalled on her shoulders, and he let go.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No, Laurëatan! Please <GET OUT!>- stay with me. Please...." she whimpered. But there was no answer. "Falowik?"

<GET OUT! Out out>

[Fairleaf]

Fairleaf & Lithmîrë

What’s this? she said waking from a light slumber.

She felt the weight of him as he leaned back against her. Lightly at first and then the full burden as he twitched his back, settling in firmly against her. She could feel him ease himself into her ridges and hollows, settling into the angle of her roots and trunk.

The day’s breeze ruffled through her leaves, rustling them one against the other. She could hear him sigh and relax further, until she bore the full burden of him. His breathing slowed, deepened. He was asleep.

She shifted a little, trying to see his face. Some soft tunnel of light was channeled down on him as she moved her branches. It touched gently on the right side of his face picking out his features. One of the Quendi! Elf-child.

So tired he looked. Beneath his eyelid ran dreams . . . and not pleasant by the soft moans and grimaces as pain or the memory of it passed through him.

Reaching down a leafy branch she could smell the sweet liquid he’d drunk earlier. Faint ginger and licorice were there; chamomile with calendula; wort and vervain in heavier doses for pain and a disquiet spirit. Wood betony and lemon balm to wrap it in a light sweetness. She was wondering why he would be drinking such a mixture.

A leaf strayed close to his cheek, grazing it. A sharp intake of breath, his lids fluttering against the intrusion. She feared he would wake. But he settled back into his sleep, turning as he did so to find another position of comfort. Fairleaf gasped aloud as the light revealed the other side of his face.

Fire!

Old memories of her friends and companions burned and gone when the Deceiver had come to the land of their fair gardens near the great river.

Who has done this to you, little one?

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Ah, I see our lunch has arrived!" Miz Bella strode forward to help the young ones with their armloads of food. Cook had been very generous. "Here, let's set the things up underneath the trees, " she added. "I've spread some blankets on the ground, and you can place the soup over on the little table just beside it." The children had finished their playing and were now drifting over to where the food was. Camille, however, was not back with her brother, which caused Miz Bella some concern, and the two Gamgeee children had not arrived. Still, for the first day, things had gone reasonably well.

She looked curiously at the two helpers who had come along with the young hobbits to help carry the load. "Thanks for your help, and give my regards to Cook for her kind gift. But I'm afraid you have me at an advantage. I have seen you around the Inn but I don't know either of your names. And there was something else I wanted to ask. The other day I heard someone talking about a performance they were planning for the Inn. Would either of you know anything about that, or who I should talk to? I don't know if it's anything the children could help with, but I know they would be very excited. We've even found someone who's willing to teach us some songs."

[Envinyatar]

Derufin talks to Miz Bella

Derufin introduced both himself and Anyopâ, saying he was the Inn’s general handyman and Anyopâ was a guest at present. ‘Though he’s been drafted into working with me this morning,’ Derufin chuckled. ‘Cook had need of firewood for the coming months and my friend here was in the right place at the right time . . . at least as far as I’m concerned.’

‘As far as the puppets and the play,’ he nodded toward where Woody was dipping out soup for his little brother Hanson. ‘You need to speak with their uncle. Gil, the one that brought them to your class. He and his group of lads are planning on putting together some sort of performance. I’m building the stage for it.’

He paused and looked at Miz Bella with a questioning expression. ‘I know you’re new here. So, I expect you don’t know about the Spring Faire that will be held here in a few weeks. I’m thinking that Gil and his friends will want to put their performance on then.’

Derufin gave the woman a nod. ‘We should be going now. There are still a few armfuls of wood to be stacked for the Inn. Talk to Gil when he comes to pick up his nephews.’ He and Anyopâ started back toward the door. ‘Oh, and if you don’t mind, could you ask him to come round and see me. We can talk about how he wants the stage built.’

[littlemanpoet]

Falowik left the Common room and came around the side hard by the stables, to return to Uien and see how her carving fared. He stopped short, for she was crawling on all fours along the grass; maybe she was looking for something. But no, her hair was draggling around her hands in the grass, as if she was crawling in her sleep! Which made no sense. He went up to her.

"Uien, what is wrong?"

He grasped her shoulders and started to lift her. She cried out in fear, struggling against his hold. Her eyes were shut tight and tears stained her cheeks. Something was very wrong.

"Uien! It's Falowik! Look at me!"

"Get out! Out! Out!" she cried in a harsh tone of dimissal, shaking her head, tears streaming, shaking her head.

What have I done? Or is she reliving something evil? Perhaps someone else has caused this?

"Who has done this to you?" His voice was harsh.

"Falowik, get out!" So she did not want him near. His grip stalled on her shoulders, and he let go. Maybe she needed to be let alone.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No, Laurëatan! Please get out!"

So confusing! No, don't leave. Yes, get out. Get out of what? Did she not want him in her memory? Did she not want him near her? Where were her carving and knife? They were not near her. Finding this a ready excuse to put some distance between himself and Uien as he had found her, he went looking, and found both knife and carving where she had been sitting for the last few hours. He picked up the carving and studied it. It was Uien holding the hand of a little Elf-child, who stood between her and an Elven man. It was obvious what this meant. She had discovered that she desired an Elven husband and child: not him. What else could she mean by "get out"? Get out of my life, that was what she meant. And now she was having such a strong reaction to what she had discovered, that it meant she must despise these last months with Falowik, finally having broken through the illusion that he was her heart's love. His legs became weak. He resisted the temptation to let go and fall to the ground.

He went back to her. "Get out! out! out!" she was still saying as if speaking the words of a spell. His heart went cold and the knife and carving fell from his hands, landing near her. He began to walk away. He felt for the necklace she had made for him, the one that would warm near his heart when she thought of him, and he grabbed it. He would rip it off his neck and cast it beside the knife and carving. But his hands loosened. Maybe he would keep it in memory. Maybe she would think of him, and maybe it would be a warm memory. If it was, he might return. If he could tell from the way the gem burned that she despised him, he would cast it away. It would mean that though she was his lodestone, she rejected him and his life was as dust to him and anyone else. One last stab of dismissal might be worth the chance that she would welcome him back. He took his hand away from the necklace, and walked away from the Green Dragon Inn, headed for the north wilds between the Shire and Annuminas.

[Esgallhugwen]

Atop the slope of a hill stood a black steed, but only for a moment as it continued its course casually walking along the path to the Green Dragon Inn. A lanky white wolf, no more then a year old, trotted neatly beside the rider.

The rider's hood was cast down and long waves of raven black hair wisped about in the fresh breeze. The horse stopped again at the sight of the Inn, had it changed somehow? There was a faint hint of smoke in the air, a fire long passed.

"A long time indeed, it is good to be back in the Shire among the simpler things", the voice spoke to both horse and wolf, smiling but the rider's eyes soon darkened.

<Get Out!>

The thought sent a shiver hot as flame down the rider's back, old scars felt raw and fresh, angry tears pricked Esgallhugwen's eyes. She wiped them hastily away and kicked hard into the sides of her horse, Morsereg, who sped down the hill like a north wind tearing up the dirt road and leaving high clouds of dust in his wake.

Something is wrong, terribly wrong, too familiar.

Her thought went out like a flash of light, searching. Uien. She found Uien! But why? How? Who had done this to her? She focused her thought on Uien and called to her, jumping from her horse.

<Uien!>

<Get Out! Get Out!> Was the only reply, she ran to the far end of the Inn by the stables and found her friend crawling in the grass trying to stand. Esgallhugwen knelt beside her and raised her hands, forcing Uien on her knees, she cried and writhed at this new person's touch trying to get free.

"Get out!", she cried and Esgallhugwen felt the heat of flames licking at her sides, she winced and tried to continue with her work.

<Uien, mellon, listen to my voice>

But still she twisted and cried, "get out, what have I done, get out", her grip on her friends wrists tightened holding her in place. <Listen to my voice, what is wrong?>.

"What have I done, Falowik, get out!", her cheeks were stained with tears and her lips trembled with fear. "Where is Falowik?", Esgallhugwen held her gaze, using what skill she had.

<It is I Esgallhugwen Elenglin, do not be taken by the shadows, come back to the light Uien Aduial, do not leave the twilight that you love so. Listen to me and come back to the light!>

Uien stopped struggling and looked at Esgallhugwen seeing her there for the first time, she whistled to the wolf, "go and fetch Falowik, mellon". "There are things I must teach you" Eswen said plainly letting go of the other's wrists. "But first I believe hearts are in need of mending", she reached out at the curious wooden object that lay in the grass and examined it with a frown. "Is this what you want, or is this what you had and lost long ago with your own mother and father? Often the past haunts our kind, mellon and this carved object may not be the future".

[Amanaduial the archer]

Having asked Ruby to fill out their order, Snaveling invited his new grand-daughter to join them at the table and, with a confused sort of half-pride, the Innkeeper did so. Valthalion, denied of his bow, immediately scrambled to his feet and pulled the chair out for her hurriedly, and Aman resisted the urge to swat him away in embarasment. However, she was saved joining the two men, for at that moment, she heard a voice outside, shouting loudly. Looking around, she craned her neck to look through the nearest window, but was unable to see the shouter. Deciding to ignore it, Aman began to sit - then realised the voice was female, and not only that, but that it sounded unmistakably like Uien. And following the elven woman's shouts came the voice of Falowik.

What the-

Alarmed, the Innkeeper rose and excused herself hastily, hurrying towards the Inn door. She had never once heard Falowik and Uien argue, beyond maybe a few reproachful words from one to the other - that would then, miraculously, be taken up. But to hear them shouting at each other in public...it was unthinkable. Throwing open the door, Aman rushed down the steps, looking around - and saw Uien lying writhing on the floor, an elven woman kneeling by her side. Rushing to her friend's side, Aman was about to reach for the other's face, then hesitated, unsure of whether she was allowed to touch the elf - what if she was indeed having some sort of fit? Where bipeds were involved, Aman's knowledge of first aid was sketchy at best. Panicked, she looked up at the woman on Uien's other side, her eyes wide and hopeless. "What is wrong with her?"

The elf shook her head, not looking at Aman, apparently concentrating on Uien's face, and Aman noted that one of her hands grasped the other elf's tightly. Feeling reassured, the woman hesitantly reached towards the prone elf's face.

"Get out! Get out, get out!"

Uien's sudden, terrified scream made Aman start backwards, falling backwards. But as Uien turned her head towards Aman, the Innkeeper saw the terror in the elf's eyes. Horrified and shocked, she stared uncomprendingly at Uien. "What on Middle Earth..." she whispered.

Practicality taking over, she looked around for the one person who had to know what was going on: Falowik. But her surprise was about to double as she saw the man, Uien's true love, walking away from the Inn - away from his beloved Uien. Scrambling to her feet, Aman ran after him, calling his name but to no response: he did not even turn, showing no recognition of his name. Reaching him, Aman grabbed his sleeve and he spun around to meet the breathless, bewildered Innkeeper. "Falowik, what...what on earth is going on, Falowik?"

[piosenniel]

Cook addresses Hearpwine

Cook’s gaze followed the tall man’s twitching fingers and cleared her throat just before they reached his harp. ‘Well now, actually we’re just beginning to serve lunch.’ She looked toward the sink, where a jumble of pots and pans used for preparing the day’s supper were waiting to be washed.

‘We could however use a hand with those,’ she said, nodding toward the stack. ‘Oh, and help yourself to the soup and bread and cheese. Best to fortify yourself . . . if you’re going to tackle the scrubbing, that is.’

She clasped her hand across her ample middle awaiting his decision. From the sideboard, where they were loading up their trays with tureens of soup and bowls and baskets of bread, two bright eyed servers paused to see what the man would do.

[littlemanpoet]

Falowik had only reached the road when he heard a female voice yelling something behind him. It could not have anything to do with me. He strode on. He heard running feet behind him, and then someone grabbed his arm and spun him around. It was Aman, breathless and anxious.

"Falowik, what...what on earth is going on, Falowik?"

"What mean you?"

She frowned. "With Uien! What is wrong with her? Why do you walk away from her, leaving her in such a frenzy?"

He pulled away from her grasp. "You would not understand." He turned away from her.

She ran around him and stopped, standing in front of him, hands on her hips. Hobbits here and there turned their heads in curiosity.

"Make me understand!"

"She-" He looked away, unwilling to say the words that would bring home to his heart words he did not wish to hear. He looked at her again; her face was fierce. "She has rejected me."

Aman looked stunned, her mouth dropping. "No. It cannot be." She pointed back to Uien. "She is in the throes of some evil. She could not-"

"Little you know what she could and could not do."

"And you know even less!"

Falowik threw up his hands. There was no arguing with this young Rohirric lass. He moved to walk around her, but she moved in his way again.

"Stay, Falowik! Do not leave! I am sure there must be some reason."

"Some reason she has rejected me? I can tell you, she wants an Elven mate with whom she can have an Elven child. Did you not see the carving she has made?"

[WarBringer]

Val was still reeling over the news of Snaveling's ancestry, when he learned that Aman was his granddaughter! Out of sheer courtesy, Valthalion rose to bow to her, but Aman stopped him. In truth, Val did not respect either of them in the least, and also did not appreciate the way Snaveling threw around the name of his king as if they were good friends. Snaveling had asked him what had happened to him since they had last met, and he answered...

"Snaveling, my friend, I am a simple ranger, and will not waste your valuable time with news of my toils in the wild. The lord Elessar sent my companions and I on many a perilious errand throughout the far reaches of the land upon my return. About six months ago, myself and a company of Rangers were caught in a fierce battle with wild men, who outnumbered us two to one. We attempted to escape, and a rear guard was assigned, consisting of myself and my close friend Elthonian. We fought for hours, running, climbing, and sneaking all the while, trying to escape to the nearest outpost. Eventually, my good friend was slain by a great chieftain, and though I wounded him with many wounds, I was overcome and captured. They brought me to their city, where I was tortured and starved, as the men hoped to learn of Elessar's movements. They meant to waylay him! Still, I would not give in. One day, during one of my meager meals, I seized an oppurtunity and slew my guard with his dagger. I was able to sneak away from the camp, and find the spot where Elthonian fell. I buried him and returned to Elessar, who praised me and presented me with my sword, Raukorist. He even offered to allow to retire to my home, to enjoy rest and reward for my valor. I would not do it, having been shamed by the death of my friend and my defeat by the hands of the chieftain. I gathered my belongings, few as they were, and have wandered since then in search of that chieftain, who bore a tattoo of the great Eye on his chest. I live, that I may slay him and avenge my sworn brother."

Val took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and clenched his fist. He looked up, and Snaveling was taken aback, speechless.

Val managed a small smile, and said "As you can see, I have been busy, so please excuse my ragged clothes. For now, Snaveling, in light of your wisdom and your closeness to Elessar's councils, I ask you to teach me what you may, so that I may become stronger and challenge the Warlord whom I long to destroy. Teach me of his lineage, if you can discern it, and anything else I would benefit from. Do this, and you will have my undying friendship, despite our differences."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine laughed aloud and slung his harp back upon his shoulder. Pushing his sleeves up to the elbows he strode toward the pile of dirty pots and grabbing one in each hand brandished them above his head crying, “You are quite right, Mistress Cook, I should work for my food! Why, when I was a lad my mother would insist that I take the occasional turn in the kitchen – she felt that it would do me good to feel lather between my fingers. I don’t know if she was right about the good it did me or not, but many’s the time I was washing pots I would realise that there would be a good deal less sorrow and bloodshed in the world if everyone had to take the effort to clean their own mess!” And with that, he plunged the pots into the basin, sending a wave of sudsy water onto the floor. Cook rushed forward clucking her tongue and making to mop the water, but the Bard shooed her back with a wave of his hand. “Nay, mistress Cook! I will mop that up myself when I am done!”

He washed the pots as though he meant to scrub the black from their iron, and soon he was so deeply absorbed in his task that his aimless humming began to emerge as a full blown song that he was but dimly aware of singing.

Every person in the nation
Or of great or humble station
Holds in highest estimation
Piping Tim of Glanhir
Loudly he can play or low
He can move you fast or slow
Touch your hearts or stir your toe
Piping Tim of Glanhir

When the wedding bells are ringing
His the breath to lead the singing
Then in jigs the folks go swinging
What a splendid piper
He will blow from eve to mourn
Counting sleep a thing of scorn
Old is he but not outworn
Know you such a piper?

When he walks the highways pealing
`Round his head the birds come wheeling
Tim has carols worth the stealing
Piping Tim of Glanhir
Thrush and Linnet, finch and lark
To each other twitter “Hark"
Soon they sing from light to dark
Pipings learnt in Glanhir

With the final line he made such a vigorous dash at a frying pan that he sent another huge wave of water over the lip of the basin that soaked his feet. But he merely laughed at this and hung up the pan before he grabbed a towel and began mopping the floor with it. So lost was he in his work and music, however, the Bard of Rohan failed to notice that he was using one of Cook’s best hand towels to slop up the mucky water that he had spilled upon the floor.

[Witch_Queen]

Avalon

Avalon sat perched on the table looking at Jon. I can't help you. I know not who you are and I don't care what your dreams reveal. I can't help you even if you asked for it. Something tells me to stay away from you and I mean to try to keep distance between us. Avalon didn't know why but seeing Jon just made her wish to fly away and never come back to Middle Earth.

Avalon looked at Dwaline. "Dwaline I still don't like the look of him. Just something about him still doesn't seem right. The look in his eyes say he's lieing to make us feel sorry for him. I don't like it." Avalon had a feeling that something was going to happen and that Jon was going to be the one to blame for it.

I'm not letting him out of my vision if I can help it. I don't know what he's actually doing here but still something about the look of him...... He's up to something and I plan on finding out what.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Seeing that there was distress in the face of Avalon, Dwaline grew slightly suspicious of John. More so than he had done previously. Avalon looked worriedly at Dwaline, who nodded and looked back at John. He had spotted something in the eyes of this man and ever more it made him curious. Dwaline took another puff on his pipe before eating some more cram.

"Tell me," Dwaline said leaning forward, "What can Aman tell you about you're Sarah that you do not know. She has lived in the shire for many years. I know it well, and it is well known to be a place that takes in little news from the outside world." Dwaline did not hide the suspicion in his question, he wanted to see if John would react or become nervous at his plying further into his business.

"You see this inn?" he asked rhetorically, "Many travellers come and go here, they tell their stories, some are existing and filled with danger and mystery. But none become widespread tales about Hobbiton. My Friend, if Aman has heard the truth bout Sarah, there is no doubt that it has been mingled with lies. You may send you’re self on a wild goose chase. And believe me, Wild geese oft lead you to danger."

[piosenniel]

Cook staves off a further attack upon her domain . . .

Word had passed to the far reaches of the Common Room. Like a quickly retreating tide, they had rushed back through the aisles, their feet pattering against the wooden floor until they reached the door to the kitchen. Curious at their departure, a number of the long time patrons followed along in their wake. Until at last, there was a large crowd eddying about the door.

‘What’s going on?’ asked one of those in back, watching as two of the lasses cracked open the door a bit and peeked in.

‘It’s that tall fellow with the harp,’ began one. ‘Seems he’s been washing the pots and pans,’ added the other. They both giggled and turned round to face the eager group. ‘He’s managed to clean the pots, I think,’ one of them went on. ‘But, he’s also managed to get loads of water on Cook’s floor! And last I saw, he was bent over wiping some of it up with one of her best towels!’

There was a collective gasp, and thinking better of intruding on Cook in her plight, the swirl of lookers-on rushed out again into the far reaches of the Common Room. Distancing themselves from any fall out should Cook explode.

~*~

Cook, for her part, was actually doing quite well with the situation. It had confirmed for her that one of the main problems with Big Folk was that their brains being so far from their arms and legs, there was no feed back on the actions they attempted. Clumsy oafs! To be forgiven somewhat on account of their deficiency.

She snapped her fingers at the two horrified girls who were helping out in the kitchen. White faced, they drew near, wondering what she wanted them to do. The man loomed a giant in their eyes, but the fear of displeasing Cook steeled their backbones. They gave an audible sigh of relief as she instructed them to make a platter of ham and pickle sandwiches and fill a bowl with mushroom barley soup.

‘And a “Hark!” to you, Master Hearpwine!’ she said in a firm voice, planting one foot on the now wet and dirty hand towel. She handed him a dry towel and ‘tut-tut’-ed him as he made to use it for further wiping up. ‘Just dry your hands, dear,’ she said, speaking pleasantly as to one of her sons when they were younger. ‘Your work here is more than done by my reckoning. And an admirable job it was,’ she added. ‘These nice girls here have made you some lunch.’ She pointed to where Ginger and her companion stood at the now open kitchen door. ‘You just follow them out to one of the tables and sit yourself down and enjoy your food.’ She nodded at the girls to lead him on out. ‘And Ginger . . . you be sure to get him a mug of ale . . .’

She stood with a pleasant smile pasted on her face until the door had closed behind the trio . . .

[Mithalwen]

Even from her secluded corner of the gardens, Mithalwen was aware of some hubbub within and around the inn. She resolved to ignore it closing her ears and her mind to the sounds. If anyone wants me they will come and get me she thought. She did however take a second look at the strange elf resting a little way away, averting her eyes when she saw his scars, sure that even asleep she would not want to be stared out. She wondered what had happened to him - battle or mischance? She thought of her father and brother lost in Mordor long ago wondering if they would have borne such scars if they had survived.

Such thoughts were too painful for a fair day and she sought pleasanter ones. Her mind wandered back more than an age of the world and in the bittersweet paths of elvish dreams, Mithalwen's young self walked, with her brothers, the paths of a Lindon still ruled by Gil-galad.

[Arry]

Woody tries to get up a game of marbles after lunch

‘Hurry up and finish your soup!’ Woody nudged Hanson, causing him to slop a little of the mushroom barley broth on his tunic.

‘Hey! Watch out!’ Hanson rasped back. ‘I’m hungry. And besides, why are you wanting to get back to the schoolroom?’

‘Not the schoolroom! Let’s get our marbles out and play over there in the dirt.’ Woody scooted over to where Neviel was sitting. ‘Hey, want to learn to shoot marbles in the dirt?’ he asked. ‘Get Reggie and Willy. Me and Hanson will meet you over by the tall tree,’ he said, pointing.

Hanson came up a grin on his face, and eager to be off. Above his upper lip was a mustache of soup. He had abandoned his spoon altogether and slurped the remainder of the soup directly from his bowl.

[Kath]

Astilwen entered warily through the front door of the inn. She had heard a commotion as she approached and though it did not sound serious she didn't want to walk into the middle of a fight.

Though you would not guess it from her name Astilwen was a hobbit. Her parents had tended to look outside of the Shire for names for their children and she counted herself lucky that she had not ended up being called something a lot worse. Apart from her name she was as typical looking a hobbit lass as they come with curly brown hair falling down around her shoulders. She was quite a young hobbit, not yet come of age at 29, but she was free of spirit and with seven siblings at home she had not felt guilty when she left to explore the wider world.

Seeing that all seemed calm inside she walked up to the bar, unsure of what to do or who to talk to. She wanted news of "the outside" as her parents called the lands beyond the Shire and so chose to order a drink and wait in the hope that someone would take pity and welcome her.

[littlemanpoet]

Uien struggled against the tight grip of the orc; she knew what it wanted.

<It is I Esgallhugwen Elenglin, do not be taken by the shadows, come back to the light Uien Aduial, do not leave the twilight that you love so. Listen to me and come back to the light!>

Esgallhugwen? Uien stopped struggling and looked, seeing the Elven woman for the first time. Esgallhugwen whistled to her wolf, "Go and fetch Falowik, mellon". The wolf rushed away toward the front of the Inn.

Falowik? Where is he?

Esgallhugwen was saying something to her. "...I must teach you." Teach me what? Eswen let go of Uien's wrists. "But first I believe hearts are in need of mending." She reached out at the curious wooden object that lay in the grass and examined it with a frown. "Is this what you want, or is this what you had and lost long ago with your own mother and father? Often the past haunts our kind, mellon and this carved object may not be the future".

Uien shook her head. "I know not which it is, Eswen. I did not know what was in me that struggled so to show itself."

***************************

"Stay, Falowik!" said Aman. "Do not leave! I am sure there must be some reason."

"Some reason she has rejected me? I can tell you, she wants an Elven mate with whom she can have an Elven child. Did you not see the carving she has made?"

A white wolf came running up to them suddenly, and stopped between them, looking at Falowik. He jumped back, startled. The wolf lunged and grabbed for his wrist, pulling him painlessly back toward the Inn.

"Hey! What are you doing, wolf?"

The wolf paid no heed, but kept dragging him toward the Inn.

"'Twould seem," said Aman, walking behind, a grin in her voice, "that all Middle Earth conspires to bring you back to Uien, Falowik Stonewort."

"Wolf! Let go! I shall follow you! I promise." The wolf stopped, not letting go, and fixed Falowik with its eyes, suspiciously. "I give you my word, wolf." Falowik could not help chuckling a little, looking at himself in this fix from the back of his mind, caught by a willful wolf. It let him go and watched him closely. "Lead on, wolf."

The wolf led him to Uien and another woman. Slowly it dawned on Falowik that he knew this Elf woman. It was Eswen! And Uien was quiet, watching him as he approached. The white wolf came to Eswen, who scratched his head between the ears, thanking him for "bringing Falowik back". Falowik came to a stop just a little way from the two Elven women. He felt ill at ease, not knowing what to expect from the Elfwoman who had just told him to get out of her life; he watched her guardedly. Aman joined them, but all four seemed cast into a pall of silence.

[Witch_Queen]

Jon

Jon felt troubled by what Dwaline had to say. He didn't care anymore. Jon's life was already full of troubled times and now it didn't matter to him what either of the two thought. Jon wasn't sure what he suddenly sensed but something had changed in Dwaline's voice. "Dwaline I am here to talk to an old friend. Sarah and Aman didn't know each other at all. As far as Aman knowing about Sarah's death I don't even know if she has been informed. Like I said I came to the Shire seeking council with Aman. I believe even in the Shire there is no law prohibiting me from talking with an old friend."

Jon let out a smirk before picking up his mug of ale. Dwaline knows not what he's getting himself into. As for this wild goose chase... Even a wild goose is smart enough not to stand in the way of my path. Jon took a drink of his ale and turned his attention to the window. He didn't know why but he felt drawn to the outside at that time.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

"Indeed no," said Dwaline, "There is no law that I know of. But Hobbits are a strange folk, and their ways are queer." He gulped down the last of his ale and placed the mug flat on the table. Seeing discomfort in Avalon, Dwaline leant back on his chair and stared John straight in the eyes.

Ye fool, Thought Dwaline, thou hast many troubles on you're mind. Lies, thievery and murder. Turning his attention to the fireside, he began to think back to when his father was teaching him how to smelt ores and to fashion Gold. He shook his head and smiled.

"Something trouble you," said Dwaline, preserving some distress in John's face, "and I see that some great ting weighs heavily on you." John attempted to hide it, but he realised Dwaline was already beginning to delved deep.

[Lasbelinion]

His mind drifted to that odd space between waking and dreams. The herbal mixture he’d drunk down had eased the pain in his limb and face. But with the easing came also a haziness to his thoughts, bringing half dreams that lingered just on the edge of real.

Who has done this to you, little one?

Little one . . .

Was that the voice of his mother? He moaned, knowing that it could not be so. She was wrenched from him long ago.

Lithmîrë stifled another moan as he fought his way back to wakefulness. He sat up with a start, forcing his eyes to focus on the area about him. Ready to lash out at any who had drawn near him.

No one. At a distance was the odd tableau gathered about the nosy Elf who had pried into his thoughts. Some trouble had come upon her, it seemed, and an eddy of concern now swirled about her. He shuddered at the thought of all that emotion besieging him were he her.

But he was not.

He stood, dusting himself off as best he could, where a few fallen leaves clung to his cloak. Who had spoken to him? he wondered again. There was no one near he saw turning his gaze about the yard.

A ways away from his eyes caught the neatly laid out rows of a garden. No, two gardens, he could see, narrowing his eyes. One with the first push of spring vegetables; the other more of a jumble of varying plants laid out amid rocks and small paths. Herbs! Perhaps the one in whose garden they were would let him poke about in it and pay for what little he needed to get him to the Havens.

Lithmîrë pulled his cloak closer about him. A moment of light-headedness assailed him and he reached out a hand to steady himself against the trunk of the tree beneath which he’d been resting. The feeling passed as quickly as it had come. He withdrew his hand from the tree’s support; without thinking he murmured some small words of thanks.

[Fairleaf]

In a quandary over the Elf and his herbs

She watched him as he made his slow way toward the gardens that lay in the back of the Inn. Many of the herbs she had recognized from the hot drink he’d made and drank were in the Inn’s little plot. But some of them, the vervain and the betony, were not.

He favored his left arm, cradling it against his body, she noted as he walked. His fist clenched and unclenched periodically as if he sought to relieve some spasm that passed through it. So too his face, where the red ropy flesh twitched at times, pulling his face into a grimace.

There were other herbs he could use, she thought to herself. Ones she once grew in the gardens she had tended. In the little wooded hillsides to the north, she had seen them growing wild.

While the folk of this area slept, beneath the moonlight and the stars she could gather them. Along with the betony and the vervain he favored. Leave them for him as he lay sleeping.

But no, that would not do. She could not just leave them for him to try out on his own. There were two which were quite poisonous if not used in a proper manner. She would have to decide to speak with him should she gather them for his use.

The thought perplexed her. Perhaps he could get by with what he normally used. She watched as he rubbed his face, trying to ease the pain of the scarred flesh. Already the tincture he had drunk was wearing off.

No, she would bring him the herbs and she would teach him their use. And the One willing, he would keep her secret.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine knew he was being hustled out of the kitchen by Cook’s assistants, but he did not mind, for the sandwiches they were using as bait looked exceedingly good. He had heard about the Halfling’s love of food, and was pleased to see that their reputation for hearty fare – and plenty of it – was well deserved. Rather than going into the Common Room he stepped outside, hoping to get a breath of fresh air. He had been so long on the Road that to remain indoors was still unnatural. He stepped out into the sun and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He smiled, and opened his eyes again, casting about for a place to sit with his provender.

His attention was called to a small group of people beneath a tree, seemingly caught up in some drama and for a moment he thought of finding out what was wrong, but then the fair Innkeeper emerged from the Dragon and seemed to take charge. He allowed himself to watch her for a moment, for a pretty face always was pleasing to him, and it was particularly pleasant to see one of his countrywomen again. His mind wandered back to the previous night and to what he had heard his odd roommate saying in his sleep about the girl – he had not been able to make all of it out, but it seemed that they were related in some way. That this mere slip of a girl from Rohan was related to a Man of Gondor would bear some looking into…there might even be a song in it.

Turning about once more he saw an Elven woman sitting alone beneath another tree and without a moment’s hesitation the Bard moved toward her. “Elen sila lumen omentielvo” he greeted her, bowing low over his plate. The Elf looked at him with mild surprise at his facility with the greeting. Dipping her own head slightly she returned it, then adding in the Common Tongue, “Well met, sir, it is rare that a mortal should speak in the High tongue in so comely a fashion.”

Hearpwine smiled. “I speak little of it, so I try to make up for the limitations of my vocabulary with careful pronunciation.”

“And who has been your tutor?”

“I dwelt for a time in the land of Ithilien, where many of the Fair Folk came to heal its wounds after the War. There I would spend many hours with the Elves who cared for my company, desiring to learn of them whatever songs they might be willing to teach me. For I am a bard of Rohan, the Bard of Rohan now, and I am always looking for new songs with which to amuse my King. I am Hearpwine son of Æthelstan, and I would account it a great honour if you might allow me to take my meal with you so that we might speak of the lands and songs you know, which I do not.”

The Elf smiled and nodded her head, indicating that Hearpwine might sit by her. “I am called Mithalwen,” she explained as Hearpwine tucked into his meal. “I am an artisan myself, although I make objects of use and beauty not songs. Have you learned many songs of the Elves?”

Hearpwine grinned and set aside his plate, seizing upon even this slender excuse to perform. Drawing forth his harp he explained, “I cannot do it justice, Lady, but as it happens I have had one song upon my mind these last weeks and I would fain give it voice! It is like all the songs of the Eldar, both sad and joyful, and there was a time when I thought it fit only for high occasions, but experience has taught me that a fair song deserves to be sung whenever the spirit of it moves you, and seeing you here beneath this tree, so fair and alone…it reminded me of the one who taught me the tune.” He ended there, as though he were loath to speak more. This was his song:

Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,
Yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!
yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier
mi oromardi lisse-miruvóreva,
Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar
nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni
ómaryo airetári-lírinen.

Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?

An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo
ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë,
ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë;
ar sindanóriello caita mornië
i falmalinnar imbe met, ar hísië
untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë.
Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!

Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar.
Nai elyë hiruva. Namárië!

As he finished he drooped his head upon his chest and fell into silence. His food remained untouched by his hand.

[Mithalwen]

Elen sila lumen omentielvo”

Both the words and their volume roused Mithalwen from her reverie. Now she knew why mortals slept with their eyes shut. A star shines on the hour of our meeting? she thought bewildered as the midday sun, filtering through the branches, dappled the ground with light. Nevertheless she managed to find a tactful response , in Westron to be on the safe side. Though she guessed that this man's self confidence would not be easily dented.

“I dwelt for a time in the land of Ithilien..,

Oh so you learnt your Quenya from silvan elves... that explains much... few of them have much love for any of the works of the Noldor...strange that the king of Rohan should spare his bard for such a long time Mithalwen was grateful that unlike Snaveling, she did not have to mask her thoughts with this man - he might have a musician's ear for the sounds of spoken language but she doubted he had a nature adept for the osanwe kenta. She would have to be sociable - hobbits took their luncheon seriously she had learnt and the Flaxmans would not open the forge again for a good hour. The tormented elf had slipped away she noticed ... she wished momentarily that she had his skill in repelling company. She introduced herself, careful not to mention her specialism as a maker of musical instruments and then made her first error. Have you learned many songs of the Elves?” He will sing at me she thought ... and now he lectures me on the music of my people! Me fair? pah! Valar valuvar She sighed inaudibly and settled herself for the performance, drinking deeply at her cider and breaking the neglected bread and cheese on her plate into fragments.

It was a little bizarre to hear a mortal sing of Valimar but she supposed that the themes of loss and separation were common to all. As he finished she realised that this seemingly insensitive man was deeply moved. She had two options and after her clumsy handling of Falco, and Aman only one was possible.

"If you like songs in the ancient tongue - perhaps you will care for this, if you know it not already?

Men cenuva fánë cirya
métima hrestallo círa,
i fairi nécë
ringa súmaryassë
ve maiwi yaimië?

Man tiruva fána cirya,
wilwarin wilwa,
ëar-celumessen
rámainen elvië
ëar falastala,
winga hlápula
,rámar sisílala,
cálë fifírula?

Man hlaruva rávëa súrë
ve tauri lillassië,
ninqui carcar yarra
isilmë ilcalassë,
isilmë pícalassë,
isilmë lantalassë
ve loicolícuma;
raumo nurrua,
undumë rúma?

Man cenuva lumbor ahosta
Menel acúna
ruxal' ambonnar,
ëar amortala,
undumë hácala,
enwina lúmë
elenillor pella
talta-taltala
atalantië mindonnar?

Man tiruva rácina cirya
ondolissë mornë
nu fanyarë rúcina,
anar púrëa tihta
axor ilcalannar
métim' auressë?
Man cenuva métim' andúnë?"


Mithalwen sang soft and her voice had a sweet melancholy that fitted the melody and also it seemed the words though of those Hearpwine could understand but little. The elf was aware that she had now his full attention and smiled to herself on how the tables had turned and the audience had become performer. She translated for him a little haltingly for the words brought back many memories for one who remembered the downfall.

"Who shall see a white ship leave the last shore, the pale phantoms in her cold bosom like gulls wailing?

Who shall heed a white ship, vague as a butterfly, in the flowing sea on wings like stars, the sea surging, the foam blowing, the wings shining, the light fading?

Who shall hear the wind roaring like leaves of forests; the white rocks snarling in the moon gleaming, in the moon waning, in the moon falling a corpse-candle; the storm mumbling, the abyss moving?

Who shall see the clouds gather, the heavens bending upon crumbling hills, the sea heaving, the abyss yawning, the old darkness beyond the stars falling upon fallen towers?

Who shall heed a broken ship on the black rocks under broken skies, a bleared sun blinking on bones gleaming in the last morning?
Who shall see the last evening?"

As she finished, Mithalwen realised that her irritation had faded Anar kaluva tielyanna she thought

[littlemanpoet]

Uien looked at Falowik, who watched her in agitation. What do I want? She did not want to probe anyone's thought. She would not allow her heart to be so flayed again. Never! She swallowed, blinking back tears she did not want seen, not even by Falowik. Maybe she wanted a child; maybe not. It seemed to have lost its import.

"Eswen," she said, her voice sounding cold in her own ears, "tell me what happened." Eswen explained what she knew: she had seen Uien crawling, in terror and agony; she had seen Falowik walking away, leaving Uien.

Uien looked at him. "Where were you going, Falowik?"

"I - I-" he stopped and swallowed, and stood striaighter, regarding her. "North. You carved an Elvish man and child with you. Is that your desire?"

Uien bowed her head and sighed. "I do not know." She looked up at him, saw that he was smitten by her words; his throat worked. He needed her to come to his rescue, to save him from the despair he might succumb to. I have given my heart to you, Falowik Laurëatan. But she did not speak the words, nor send them into his mind, for there was something within her that she had not noticed before, something hard, as if a bit of iron was merged within her, and she did not wish to be always the giver anymore. Let him stew.

"Leave me alone," she said. "All of you!"

"Forever?" Falowik asked. She looked at him again. His eyes were narrowed, as if he expected her to say yes.

"No, Falowik," her tone made his name seem to mean fool. "Give me the afternoon." She turned from them and walked away.

"Uien!" called Eswen. Uien ignored her and continued across the back of the Inn, away toward the pasture. She came within earshot of an Elven song.

"Who shall heed a broken ship on the black rocks under broken skies, a bleared sun blinking on bones gleaming in the last morning?
Who shall see the last evening?"

It was Mithalwen, singing to a human man Uien had not seen before. The song was a beautiful elegy. It reminded Uien that her family had gone over sea and that she had been left behind, forgotten. Unvalued. Uien pursed her lips and swept by the two of them, her mind closed against the Elven woman, this lady who had asked for aid but gave none. Heart's friend? Uien had much to think about, to reconsider.

[piosenniel]

~*~ GREEN DRAGON INN FACTS ~*~

The Green Dragon Inn is located in Bywater, just off the Great East-West Road.

It is the 4th Age, year 12. By the Shire Calendar it is year 1433 S.R. (Shire Reckoning).

King Elessar is on the throne of the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor.

Mirkwood has been reclaimed by the Elves and is now called Eryn Lasgalen.

Paladdin Took, Pippin’s father, is Thain of the Shire. (Thain is an honorary title for the military leader of the Shire. The title has been held in the Took Family since the position was first established in 3rd Age 1979 with Bucca of the Marish as First Thain.) Paladdin Took dies in year 13, and will be succeeded by his son, Peregrin, ‘Pippin’, Took.

Samwise Gamgee is Mayor of the Shire, having succeeded Will Whitfoot in 1427 S.R.

The Innkeeper, in the Green Dragon Inn of this forum, is: Aman – a young woman from Rohan.

Before her, the Innkeeper was Piosenniel, and before her it was Dwarin, the Dwarf.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+

Other ongoing characters in the Inn:

Ruby Brown, Hobbit – not married – server and maid

Buttercup Brownlock, Hobbit – not married – kitchen assistant and maid

Vinca Bunce, widowed, Inn Cook (character played by Piosenniel)

Derufin, General handyman/jack-of-all-trades round the Inn; Man from southwestern Gondor (played by Envinyatar)

Zimzi (Zimziran), wife to Derufin; a skilled potter from Lindon(played by Pio)

Meriadoc - Stablemaster

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+

Ongoing characters from outside the Inn:

Halfred Whitfoot – local Shiriff from Bywater and Postmaster for this area of the Shire; his pony’s name is Dumpling.

_____________________________________________

Please Note:

No 'SAVES' are allowed in the Inn (except for modifications needed to be made by the Moderators or Innkeeper).

With the exception of the Innkeeper and the Moderators, no OOC (Out Of Character) comments are allowed in the Inn.

Only the Innkeeper, Amanaduial, or the Moderators move the timeline for the Inn forward.

Visitors to the Inn will need to read the posts that come before theirs to get an idea of what time it is in the Shire, what the weather is like, and what is happening.

No violence is allowed in the Inn or on Inn grounds.

Please be familiar with the rules for the Inn and Games in The Red Book of Westmarch, the first topic in the Shire.

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About Elves in Shire RPG's:

Please use this description from Tolkien when crafting an Elf:

Return of the King – Appendix F: Tolkien’s description for the Quendi (The Speakers) – the name given to the Elves by themselves after they first awoke in Middle-earth.

“They were a race high and beautiful, the older Children of the world, and among them the Eldar were as Kings, who now are gone: the People of the Great Journey, the People of the Stars. They were tall, fair of skin and grey-eyed, though their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finrod; and their voices had more melodies than any mortal voice that is now heard . . .”

Please use this as a guideline for describing your Elven character’s appearance.

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EVERYONE

Please be familiar with The Red Book of Westmarch which gives the rules for posting in the Shire RPG's and in The Green Dragon Inn.

Thanks!

Piosenniel, Shire Moderator