[piosenniel]

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

The wine did not reach her lips. Nor the smile her eyes. Gilly and Prim drank deeply from their glasses, refilling them as they chatted on about the party and who had come, and what was the latest gossip from the Inn. Pio waved off the bottle as Prim tipped it toward her still filled glass. Her hand crept to her forehead, and she begged off from their company, saying she had a headache from the long day, and would they excuse her if she went to her room. Gilly stood, saying she would just check on the babies, but Pio bade her stay and enjoy the pleasant evening and the good company of Prim, saying she would see to the little ones as she found her way to bed.

It was not the long day that drove her from the circle of friends and well-wishers in the Inn yard. It was the aching, urgent sadness that had crept into her thoughts. Cami had been to see the twins . . . to say good-bye to them. Pio had sensed someone in their room, drawing them up from their drowsing to a brief awareness of someone’s soft voice. She reached out them and to the one who stood near them. Just as she raised her glass to the others, she heard Cami’s small voice speaking to them of her yet unborn son and her wishes that he might have grown up knowing them.

It was all too final. Too quickly, the small period of grace that had been granted was drawing to a close.

And then Cami had retreated down the hall and into the mix of words and images had come the urgent voice of Lórien bidding her hurry . . . Bilbo had chosen his time . . . and it was now . . .

Her fair face more pale than the moonlight that picked out its troubled features, Pio followed the Hobbit and the Vala as they made their way to the back of the Inn, to the gardens. Her footsteps went unnoticed as she came to the iron gate and slipped through, her slender figure easing itself into the shadows of the elms along the edge of the yard. Barely breathing she listened to the promises extracted, the promises made beneath the giant beech where Bilbo lay. Her heart was leaden, and her tears, rarely surrendered, now trailed down her face unheeded. She watched as Maura and Cami stepped back; as Bilbo and Frodo fell into their separate dreams, then winked out, as if the air about them had blinked and resettled itself into a picture, empty now of its subjects.

Why do you cry, Piosenniel? Lórien’s question broke her vigil, and she turned to face him. Does it bring you no comfort that Bilbo has chosen to plead for them?

Naught but cold comfort, Lórien she told him, rubbing the wetness from her face with the sleeves of her dress. She turned away from him, new tears finding new tracks down her ashen cheeks. Lórien’s thoughts gathered for another question; it teetered on the edge of them. No more words, Lórien, need pass between us she said quietly to him, pressing her hands against her eyes. A ragged gasp escaped her lips and was cut off, as she sought to rein in her sorrow - put it away to be looked at and taken in later. He reached out a hand to touch her rigid back, and she withdrew from it, shifting round to face him once again.

‘Go away, Vala.’ The low spoken words strung out in the space between them like barrier. ‘Leave me and my little ones in peace. Send me not your gift of dreams. I have no use for it.’ ‘Go away,’ she said again, her cheeks ruddy where she had rubbed the last of the tears from them. ‘Go away. Let there be no further words between us.’

She left him standing there and hurried away, her eyes dry and clear now. Bilbo was gone . . . the dream was coming to its end . . . soon Cami, too, would fade from this slice of skewed reality.

A pressing sense of urgency drove her on . . . Cami would be gone soon . . . Pio needed to see her . . . one last time . . .