[piosenniel]

‘You would be mostly right, m’Lady.’ A crimson stain spread up the neck of the axe-bearing woman, leaving small blazing chevrons on her cheeks. All eyes had turned to her as the Innkeeper spoke, and she was unused to such close scrutiny.

With a smile of welcome, Pio stood and stepped toward her, closing the short distance that separated them. She held her hands out to Zimzi, and drew her close, with a few whispered words to put her at her ease.

‘This is my friend, from Forlindon,’ she said, slipping her arm around the woman’s waist as she turned her toward those gathered at the table. ‘Her name is Zimzirân, and she’s come to see the Shire . . . to see if it is all that I have told her it is.’ Pio pointed those out about the table. ‘Zimzi, this is Ruby . . . and Buttercup . . . and here, just coming in from the kitchen is Cook.’ Zimzi nodded to each as she was introduced and extended her hand in greeting, repeating each of their names with a smile of recognition.

‘And here is someone new I have just met . . . one Beren . . . a man of some interest, or so I have been told.’ Pio winked quickly at Buttercup, who colored and spluttered and fell to fiddling with her apron as if it were the most interesting item she’d seen in years.

‘Of course, you must recognize this lady of the Mark, do you not?’

Zimzi’s grey eyes took in the Innkeeper, filing away her features. ‘Of course . . . of course! This is your good friend . . . from the east! Amanaduial.’ She stepped from the protective circle of Pio’s arm and held out her hand, a smile lighting up her eyes. ‘So very good to finally meet you! Please, call me Zimzi.’

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

‘Now that’s a pretty name, isn’t it?’ Ruby leaned in close to Buttercup and Cook, one eye on Mistress Piosenniel’s new friend. ‘Sounds like something from far away, doesn’t it.’ Cook nodded her head, saying the name softly to herself. ‘I don’t believe I’ve heard another like it,’ she said, rolling the sibilant word about on her tongue.

‘Yes, you have,’ said Buttercup, who had been sitting quietly since her introduction. The two Hobbits looked at her, waiting for one of her rememberings to surface into words and sentences. She turned to the two and spoke low. ‘Mistress Piosenniel used to tell us stories . . . some of them about that land that sank beneath the sea . . . the one where the greedy men were drowned and the ones who had remained friends to the Elves and faithful to their promise got away in their ships to come here.’ Cook and Ruby waited patiently for her to go on. Somewhere along the line, they knew she would tie in Zimzi’s name. It was not a long wait.

‘The greedy King left his wife when he sailed West to try and invade the Blessed Lands. She was drowned when the Lords of the West submerged the Men’s island in a great wave.’ Buttercup drummed her fingers on the table for a moment and chewed her lip, dredging up the name that hung on the edge of her lips.

‘Ar Zimraphel – that’s what the bad king named her! Zimraphel . . . but her name was really Míriel.’ Buttercup beamed as the last connection fell into place. ‘That’s where her name is from. Zimzirân . . . from the old language of the Big Folk, from Westernesse . . .’