[Envinyatar]

There were whispers as he passed by many of the merry little groups of people who stood about chatting and eating and listening to the music. ‘That’s him, the one what’s getting handfasted; the big fella there in the black breeches and black leather vest,’ one whispered to an acquaintance who’d come in from Waymeet. ‘Was in the war, so I heard,’ another said. ‘. . . traveled a lot after, what with his family getting kilt and all.’

And further along, near the keg of stout came, ‘Yes, I knew him when he first come here,’ an old timer at the Inn said with authority. ‘All raggle taggle with bright eyes and a crazy sort of smile that made you wonder if he were all right in the head.’ A crony of the old fellow passed round his pouch of pipeweed, nodding at what his mate had said. ‘It was that Elf who was the Innkeeper,’ he turned to his companion, ‘you remember her? Mistress Piosenniel. She settled him in, sanded off his rough edges, so’s he couldn’t roll away so easily.’ He tamped his bowl and lit it, drawing in the sweet smoke, a satisfied look on his face. Grasping the bowl in his big fist, he pointed the bit at his friend, emphasizing his next point. ‘Thought he might just up and marry her, the way he mooned over her. But she set his head straight, the Elf did.’ He laughed, wiping the tears of merriment from his eyes. ‘And don’t it beat all, but she found him someone to set his hopes on . . .’

Derufin, lingering near enough to hear the Hobbits talking, grinned and shook his head at this telling of the story. It was true enough, save for the fact he would not characterize his friendship with Piosenniel as “mooning”. Then, thinking on it further, he laughed out loud. ‘But no doubt she would!’ he said to himself.

A soft touch on his arm and a familiar voice made him turn from his eavesdropping. It was Zimzi. She had come up behind him and now stood wondering who and what he was talking to himself about and what was so funny about it all. He drew her close for a moment, kissing her lightly on the brow. ‘I’ve just been reminded,’ he said smiling, ‘how we came to meet each other. How we were so “fortunately” thrown into each others’ company.’

Zimzi leaned back from him, her hands clasped in his. She chuckled and shook her head, remembering her old friend’s insistence that ‘it would be good to travel a bit, now wouldn’t it. And really, you should come to the Shire for a visit. Very interesting place. Nice folk.’ She gave Derufin’s hand a squeeze. ‘Conniving little minx, she was. Just like her to contrive some plan then finagle all the players til the outcome was to her satisfaction!’

‘And bless her for doing so!’ he whispered, kissing her again.

They walked about the yard together, arm in arm, greeting those they knew already and meeting those others new to them. They were easy in each other’s company, a gracious pair. And today a certain sense of merry delight in each other extended out to take all those they spoke with into its circle.

And in turn they were twined into the fabric of the little community. Approving whispers wove them into the Shire's gentle pattern, defining whispers followed in their wake.

‘. . . That’s them; the ones what’s getting tied together today . . . and don’t they just make a pretty pair . . . heard they were settling down in the old groundskeeper’s cottage . . . my boy helped Mister Derufin with the fixin’ up of it . . . you know they added a extra room, don’t ya? . . . plenty o’ space for the little lads and lasses that’ll be coming along . . . And did you see the gardens that’s been put in . . . sure we’ll be seeing flowers to rival those in Miz Rose’s back yard . . . I heard she makes pots and bowls and mugs and all other sorts of fancy stuff from clay right out from the banks of The Water . . . Well, yes, she does, and my own Daisy's got clever hands, Miz Zimzi says, and’s been learning the craft, she has . . .’