[piosenniel]

Derufin had refused the offer of willowbark powder as she knew he would. Casual conversation flowed between them, shallow topics that held no threat of painful memories. He was skilful at this, as was she.

Her long years had taught her much of that strange habit of Men – to let a thing fester deeply, pushing it down into the recesses of their being until it ate at them and in the end consumed them. It was curious to her that those of so short a span of years would do this. Better to open a wound to the light and the clean, fresh air of the present. Let the healthy tissue fill back in until only a small scar is left as a mild remembrance of the pain.

Pio turned the conversation back to her immediate needs at the Inn. In less than a month it would be Loendë, Midyear’s Day. The twins would be born then, Mithadan would be arriving soon. Would Derufin consent to overseeing the stable duties, be the hostler as it were for the Inn. He had traveled much and the beasts ridden by some of the guests would be easier for him to accommodate than a Shire-bound Hobbit.

There was a small room, comfortable enough for one person, attached to the stable if he would like his privacy. Say the word, and she would have some of the lads in the Inn take one of the Man sized beds down the stairs and over to the stable quarters . . .

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

Daethaur approached as Dreufin considered Pio’s offer. "Pio", he asked . . ., "Why do you have the ingredients for a drink that no one but a Balrog would want? Have others of my kind ever come through here before?"

Pio laughed in delight at the question. ‘Why, indeed? I was taught well by an old friend of mine to be ready for anything. So when a passing merchant from the far North hauled out a heavy Dwarven steel box, saying it might be something I would need one day, I took him at his word and bought it from him. And now look, it has turned out to be true.’

She directed the Balrog’s attention to a cross-stitched panel hanging over the mirror at the bar. In flowery, Elven script was neatly stitched, white threads against a black background:

No one can see all ends . . . *+* Ancalimon *+*