[piosenniel]

Drink your ale cups with a good heart, for the Kings of the Fourth Age rule now, and another evil has been smitten to the core."

"Hear hear!" members of the crowd yelled, and raising their cups, drank a toast to the age of the Kings.

Zimziran shivered in the shadow of the steps. She had come half-way down from her room at the top when she heard the man called Eodwine telling of his rescue from horrors unimaginable. And if his tale be true then to the north evil still lurked. Too close for her comfort. The fire’s soft shadows that danced round the room below her became darkened and sharp as small blades jabbing into the light. She closed her eyes and hugged her knees tight to her chest.

‘There were other Kings,’ she murmured, rocking herself gently to and fro, ‘now lost beneath the western sea.’ Images of tales her mother had told of men’s folly and greed returned to her. ‘Great Kings of men . . . and they were no proof against shadow when it had gathered its strength.’

Buttercup had come softly down the stairs and now crouched beside the huddled figure. Her hand reached out to the woman’s arm, drawing her attention outward from the dark reverie. ‘You look half scared to death, Zimzi! What’s got you all at sixes and sevens with yourself?’ The Hobbit peered down through the posts lining the edge of the steps; she had heard nothing of the story by the fire, but gathered that something had been said to frighten the poor woman. Taking Zimzi’s cold hand in hers she gave it a pat and called to one of the serving lads who passed by the bottom landing.

‘Matty, you run and fetch Mister Derufin . . . and be quick about it. Tell him his Zimzi has need of him.’

She leaned close to Zimzi, saying she would just sit here with her ‘til her Mister arrived. Then, standing up, she peered over the stair railing toward the fireplace and called in a loud voice to the crowd swigging their ales below.

‘Enough dark tales for a dark night, you lot! Has anyone a cheerful song to share with us now?’