[Envinyatar]

‘Ancalimon?’ Derufin looked expectantly at Piosenniel, but the Elf remained decidedly unforthcoming on the subject, repeating only that he was an old friend.

The Balrog had gone back to his drink, leaving in his wake the faint smell of sulfur and charred things best left unidentified. Derufin threw open the window to let in the clean smelling airs of the fair day. Sunlight streamed in, picking out the shapes of water drops beading on the side of the pitcher. Light as if from tiny diamonds played about the pitcher’s surface, casting the occasional brief rainbow on the table’s smooth surface.

Derufin drew his thick finger through the beads, and they puddled in random pools on the table. His eyes caught the sight of yet another guest riding up the path to the Inn. A Hobbit on a fat Shire pony. He stood up, smiling at Piosenniel.

‘Well, then! Here’s my first customer.’ He stretched, throwing the tired, tight feeling from his muscles. She looked at him, her brow furrowed, wondering what he was saying.

‘The stable, m’lady!’ He grinned and bowed to her. ‘Meet your new hostler and jack-of-all-trades!’ Derufin pushed his pack and cape toward her. ‘If you’ll have them brought to my quarters in the stable, along with that proper sized bed, I’ll go see to this fine Shire mount.’ Slapping the road dust from his breeches, he strode out the door, a welcoming smile on his face.

Derufin held the bridle of the pony as the Hobbit dismounted. He looked up at the Man, a skeptical look on his face.


‘Welcome to the Green Dragon Inn, my good Sir!’ came Derufin’s genial greeting. ‘I’m the stable’s new hostler.’ He took the reins from the speechless Hobbit. ‘Now if you’ll allow me, I will see that your pony is cared for while you slake your thirst on the Westfarthing’s finest brew!’

The Hobbit, shaking his head in amazement, watched as the Man clucked gently to the pony, urging him along to the stable with the promise of fresh hay and a crisp carrot.