[piosenniel]

Pio rubbed the back of her neck in exasperation. A headache had started behind her eyes, brought on, she thought by the angry tones she heard between her two companions. Or perhaps it was just the simple fact that she had neither slept nor eaten since the dinner party last night. She left Mithadan and Bird to discuss bandits and the price of assistance from the Valar, and went quietly to the Inn’s kitchen.

She smiled as she entered the cozy room. ‘An island of sanctuary in this sea of troubles,’ she laughed to herself, ‘and here I am a great over laden boat coming in to dock.’ The simple routine of the place comforted her. It was reassuring and something she could understand. Need a fire – chop wood. Making soup – carry in water, cut up vegetables, season to taste. Straight forward responses with none of the twists and turns of deciphering motives and meanings and extenuating circumstances.

Hob noticed her as she entered, and seeing her pale face hurried over. ‘Here, let me get you some tea with some of the fireweed honey gammer Nutmeg left for us today. From her own hives. Sweetest there is in the Westfarthing!’ He set the fragrant mug in front of her and she sipped at it gratefully.

‘And how about a plate of apple slices and seedcake to go with that tea?’ Cook placed the food in front of her, and returned to her vegetables for the stew, not waiting for an answer.

Food and drink and calm routine had a restorative effect on the Elf’s disposition. The headache was pushed back, and her thoughts moved over her problems with somewhat greater clarity. What had she been thinking to ask Mithadan to ‘fix’ this for her. Her cheeks tinged crimson that she had dared to do this. For a brief moment she considered asking Cami to help her approach Lorien, but that, too, was cast aside. Best to step up and simply do this myself, she thought.

Pio made herself another cup of tea, and sat thinking through her options. Mithadan had counseled that she consider who Lorien is. One of the Great Ones and no doubt unused to dealing with the concerns of politeness. This seemed to her a horridly poor excuse, but if it were true, it would certainly explain the crude way in which he had blurted out his message. Further, Mithadan had asked her to consider forgiving the unschooled Vala for this, saying that the Valar had done much already, out of some sense of compassion – seeming to imply that creatures ‘done for’ need be grateful for the great Ones’ actions despite or regardless of the outcome.

Search as she might, she could find no sense of ‘gratitude’ welling up in her.

Bird’s reaction came now to mind. She had railed at Mithadan’s image of ‘some small kindness’ being visited upon Cami, saying that, “A small kindness is old Barliman standing me a few pints when my pockets are bare! Perhaps all this conniving is a small matter for the Valar to accomplish, but it has no small effects." The ripples of this small kindness were spreading it seemed, and apparently not in a looked for way, or so Bird had implied. She chuckled at Bird’s choice of the word ‘conniving’ – it was a term that rang more true for her than the so called compassion of the Valar.

Pio rubbed her forehead, the pounding had begun to creep back upon her. She detested when events became hazy and she could not pick her way clearly through them. For the briefest of moments she longed for something she could slice cleanly through with her blade and be done with it. Enough of this untangling! One strand seemed only to lead to another, more knotted than before. She sighed. ‘Yes, and it is just that sort of approach that has put you where you are this moment.’

She was clear on one thing, and she thought Mithadan had misunderstood her on it. Cami’s decision to accept or decline the Vala’s offer was her own to make. And Pio would not step in there to counsel for or against her choice.

Her thoughts centered around the concept of ‘forgiveness’ as she finished her tea, and walked over to where Hob sat smoking his pipe contentedly, giving the evening stew a perfunctory stir now and then as he chatted with Cook and Buttercup. It was a slippery term, ‘forgiveness’, and she wondered if it entailed asking him to forgive her. The thought of that made her uneasy, and she put her consideration of the term firmly aside. She would deal with that when and if it came up.

‘Hob, bring ‘falmar round for me now, if you will. I have someone I need to see.’ Hob’s brows raised at this request, but she answered him not. And when the horse was brought round, she spoke a few quiet words into her ears, mounted to the saddle, and set off at a fair clip to the main road . . .

[ March 09, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]