[piosenniel]

Isil rose into the bright sea of stars, resting just barely above the horizon. The little lamps strung from the trees and eaves of the Inn had been lit, their soft light blending into the pale light of the waning quarter moon. Little jewels . . . they pushed back the shadows.

The party had wound down, become a quieter tableau. Hobbits sat in small groups talking, laughing, telling stories. Smoke from their pipes drifted up into the darkness, the full heady scents lingering in the air. The rise and fall of the voices hushed as Mithadan stood, and taking Piosenniel by the hand drew her into the center of the gathering. Each of them held a little one, nestled in the crook of their arm. She smiled at him as he bent to whisper a few words in her ear, and kiss her cheek. All eyes were on him as he turned round, smiling at the folk who ringed his family. Holding his son securely in his hands, he held the little one up for all to see.

‘This is my son, Isilmir, named for a forebear of my family, one of the Faithful who escaped the fall of Númenor, and sailed to the safety of Middle-earth. Bid him welcome, if you will, friends.’

Hands reached out to take the baby from him, and on a great wave of arms the little one was passed from one to another, the murmur of his name, rising and falling, before and behind.

‘And this is my daughter, Gilwen, Star-maiden – her name reflecting the ship that bore such unlikely companions as we were through dark waters and into the light of true friendship. Bid her welcome, if you will, friends.’

Again the sea of hands reached out for her. Pio blinked her eyes and gasped, as this time it seemed unseen hands were also there, from those left behind. And there, just at the edges of her vision, it seemed a pair of golden eyes blinked once or twice, and there in the darkness a brief, toothy smile of approval winked into being and was gone.

At long last, Gilwen and Isilmir were brought back to their parents. The rise and fall of conversation picked up, as congratulations were offered and talk turned to the namings of babies that had occurred in the various speakers’ families. Mithadan was clapped on the back, and offered a pipe and pouch, and saluted on his fine family.

Pio sat on the steps of the Inn, a little one on each knee. Their grey eyes regarded her in a serious manner as she watched the reflections of the sea of stars swim on their surfaces. ‘Isilmir,’ she whispered, drawing her son’s attention as she kissed the little fingers he had wrapped tightly round her own. ‘My little jewel.’ She bent to kiss him on his brow. Fëanen, I name you. Spirit of Water. She turned to her daughter, calling her softly as she kissed her, also. ‘And you, Gilwen, my precious gift.’ Fëasolmë, I name you. Spirit of the Wave. She smiled at both of them. Welcome . . . welcome, indeed . . .

Too soon, they grew tired, announcing their needs with insistent cries. Excusing herself, Pio took them to their room and nursed them to sleep. Gilly had followed after her, and took each as they finished to lay in their cradle. She smoothed the dark hair on each little head, whispering their names to herself and to them. ‘Sleep well,’ she murmured to them, ‘I will be here when you wake.’

Pio drew her from the room and back out to the yard. Music was playing softly, and Prim brought out the last of the sweet, Dorwinion wine. ‘Saved the best for last!’ she laughed. ‘To you!’ she said, raising her glass to Pio, and was echoed by Gilly as she raised hers. Pio smiled, holding her glass high, and nodded back at them.

‘To life,’ she said quietly, clinking her glass against both of theirs. ‘To wondrous life . . .’

[ August 04, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]