[piosenniel]

The table’s leg scraped slightly on the wooden floor. Pio frowned, stopping in mid sip, and turned to regard the tousle headed male in the thick woolen cloak who sat rubbing his knee. She could hear him mutter a few well chosen imprecations at the offending piece of furniture. She caught his eye as he glanced her way, and raised her eyebrows at him.

‘Elanor!’ she called to the serving lass. ‘Go and ask what that gentleman there, with the blond hair and the scowl on his face would like to drink.’ She stopped the girl as she stepped toward the guest. ‘And tell him it’s on the house . . . er . . . table, that is.’ She winked at the bushy haired fellow, and turned back to her own mug of tea.

Nárello still stood near her, leaning his torso against her left arm. He watched her as she picked up the charcoal and put the finishing touches to a quick sketch of Derufin, sitting to the right of her. Satisfied, she pushed the picture toward the man for his approval.

‘We should tack it on the wall. The first in a series of Green Dragon Rogues!’ she said, as he perused it, protesting that it made him look too serious, and far too handsome. ‘You have a good face, Derufin. There are some lovely angles and planes in it.’ She looked at him, taking stock of what she saw. ‘But behind the pleasing exterior run deeper sorrows, do they not?’ He did not look up at her, but kept his eyes studiously on the drawing, as if to memorize each line and shading.

The boy fidgeted, and pushed the picture she had done of Mithadan before her. He asked nothing, only moved the paper back and forth against the grain of the table as he watched her.

She smiled at him and shook her head. ‘Come now, when did shyness lock your tongue? Or have your good manners surfaced?’ A line of dull crimson burned along his cheeks, and he chewed the inside of his lip. His hand withdrew from the small sketch, to clasp his other behind his back.

Pio pulled near a stool and bade the child sit by her on it. ‘Would you like to hear the story of this picture?’ he nodded his head yes, and leaned on the table with both elbows, his chin nesting in the palms of his upturned hands. Derufin, too, raised his head to glance at the sketch of the dark haired, grey eyed man.

Her finger traced the line along the jaw, stopping as it reached the chin and lightly touched the smiling lips. The light from the lantern lamp glinted on the slim gold band that graced her index finger.

‘This is Mithadan,’ she began, ‘the third and youngest son of Galasmir, lord of the small port town of Lond Lefnui which lies in the Anfalas of Gondor.’ She turned to look at Nárello. ‘It is said that Galasmir and his sons are descended in direct line from Elros, son of Earendil, and thus are possessed of a degree of Elven blood. And I believe it to be so.’

She turned back to look at the picture. ‘He is tall, and fair of countenance, with hair the color of a raven’s wing. Black as midnight, it is, though now time finds it shot through with strands of silver. His eyes are grey, and clear, and a certain light shines from them at times.’ She nodded at both of them as they listened to her words. ‘It is true, you know, the ancient saying, that the line of Luthien and Beren shall never fail.’

‘When he was younger, he apprenticed as a mariner. And so skilled was he in this pursuit, that in time he was given the captaincy of a ship. We met once, or so he says, on one of his voyages bearing cargo from the Grey Havens. Secretive and aloof is how he recalls me, but I cannot remember him at all.’ Her brow furrowed, thinking on all her years of wandering, and the host of faces that were now lost to her.

‘What I do remember is meeting him in Minas Anor, in one of the dicey places that pass for Inns there, just outside the first tier of the city, along the river leading from the quay at Harlond.’ She laughed outright as the image came to her. Her boon companion, Birdland, had been with her when they arranged with the Hobbit, Camelia Goodchild, and with Captain Mithadan to finance the ship, The Lonely Star as it came to be named, for a quest, of sorts.

‘It was more of a journey than I had bargained for. Than any of us had bargained for. We were set a task that we had to see to its end. And the path to that end was perilous, and deadly at times.’ Her voice dropped low thinking of the cries of the injured and dying in the battles she had fought, thinking of death . . . her own death.

‘Yet, reach that end, we did. And there were many joys along the way, not the least of which was the firm bond of friendship forged among us companions – Man and Elf, Shapechanger and Hobbit, and even one rude and nasty-tempered dragon.’

She reached for a sheet of blank paper and drew a single masted sailing ship, bearing the banner of Mithadan’s ancestor, Eärendil. In the crow’s nest at the top of the mast, sat a smug looking Wyrm, whom she called Angara.

‘We came to love each other, Mithadan and I. And that was a daunting challenge in itself. I was too used to my independence.’ She smiled and shook her head at her foolishness. ‘I am sure that many of these silvered strands that lie among the black were of my doing.’

‘But we have gone beyond that now. We joined our courses and were wed. And now await the birth of our children.’ She put her hand on the great swell of her belly, cradling them. ‘They are twins. A girl and a boy. The will be born soon, in a month and a half, on Midyear’s Day.’

She looked up, her eyes seeming to see something before her, and smiled. ‘Mithadan rides from Gondor. He will be here soon.’

[ February 01, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]