[piosenniel]

Pio had ridden hard on her way back to Gondor, borne swift and sure on the back of Rochfalmar, the mare gifted her by Garulf when last she had passed through the Riddermark. She had hoped to find him at The White Horse, to bring him news from Eriador and to ask of recent happenings to the south. Alas! She did not see him as she entered the door to the Inn, though she stood for some moments allowing her eyes to adjust from the bright daylight to the interior of the room.

‘Falmar she had left with the stablehand, instructing him to wipe her down well, and see her comfortable and fed in a clean stall. She flipped him a silver penny from the Shire, saying the twin would follow if she found her mount brushed well tomorrow and her mane and tail combed free of tangles. He pulled at the yellow lock of hair that peeked from out his knitted cap, saying that she would shine like the sun. ‘I shall hold you to that, good Sir.’ she returned, a smile lighting the countenance of her travel-grimed face.

She stood for a while in the entryway, taking in the sensual attractions afforded by the Inn. Lanterns and bright banners delighted her eyes, as did the vases filled with holly and hypericum. Amaryllis,the white of it in stark contrast to the red of the begonias, and the boughs of evergreens which festooned the windows and counters . . . reminders of the constancy of of life, of hope, and of beauty in the face of shadow. Pio plucked a sprig of her namesake, holly, from a nearby vase, and fastened it in her raven-black hair, laughing as the sharp leaf pricked her finger. ‘Pretty, you are.’ she said, ignoring the drop of blood that welled on her skin, as she wrapped a lock of her hair about its stem. ‘Pretty . . . and dangerous.’

The Elf shut her eyes, taking a deep breath, and reveled in the scents that assailed her. Spices, and fruits, and the deeper aroma of a holiday feast being prepared in the Inn’s generous kitchen. She could, even now, see the sure hands of Fróma, as they mixed the ingredients for the stuffing. Her mouth watered at the thought of it.

The ebb and flow of words ran over and round her, pulling her attention like an insistent wave runs over the strand and pulls the sand and pebbles along in its retreat. Bethberry was here! She heard the low, welcoming counterpoint of her voice beneath the competing talk. Opening her eyes, she saw her standing at the bar with a young man in a ragged cloak. In the light of the lanterns, his red hair glinted with gold against the somber black of his clothing.

Pio made her way to where the Innkeeper stood, waiting until she had finished speaking to her guest. Then catching her eye, the Elf motioned her to where she stood, and pointed to two small casks she had brought in with her.

‘For you, Bethberry, a present from the Shire for your celebration. Mead from the wild flowers that grow on the slopes of the Evendim. One a Cyser, made with that very honey and juice of the finest apples from the old orchards round Hobbiton. And the other, Metheglin, to cleanse the spirit, flavored with thyme, rosemary, a pinch of silver sage, and bay leaf from the Old Forest.’

Pio placed her right hand over her heart and bowed to the keeper of Rohan’s finest inn. ‘May good fortune follow the Riders of the Riddermark. May their herds prosper with all the grace and swiftness of the Mearas of old.’