[Bêthberry]

There had been tales to please everyone. Tales for reflection, tales for meditation, tales to curdle the blood and chill the bones, tales to awe the children and tales to satisfy even the most jaded of merry-makers.

Most of the patrons had wound their way home, back through the winding alleys and streets of Edoras, upstairs to the guests' rooms of The Horse, or to the long hallway at the back where the staff found their rooms. A few of the guests yet lingered, Annawen, Laevin, Aldhelm, although many of the staff had finished their work for the night. Talan had completed his check of the walls around the Inn and of stable; he had reported to Bêthberry that nought was afoot, yet for some strange shadows.

Bethberry thanked Aldhelm for the gift of the honey and asked after the health of his wife. The gift was treasured, for in times passed Bethberry had collected honey with his wife, a reminder that worked shared produced bounties of goods and of memory when hands worked together.

"Enough of this," yelled Laevin good naturedly to the Innkeeper. "You are keeping us up into the darkness of the still midnight. Where's your story?"

The Innkeeper grinned.

"I've been saving it, for a time when my guests are torn betwixt wanting more and wanting to be on their way. It's a riddle to confound their brains as they seek their good night."

Laevin nodded. Annawen chuckled to herself, knowing her friend and realizing that such a story might keep many a mind turning itself over in thought the next day. Aylwen winked at Bethberry as she completed the final night's tallies of dinners and ale, of dishes and of rooms. Bethberry watched the amber light of the setting sun turn to ebony glow and the ashen clouds cover the moon. She guessed it was time.

"My tale," she warned, "a word from the Old Tongue, talu or 'speech', is a tale of the last times of Mar-nu-Falmar. Not for nothing does Bêthberry tell a tale from the Akallabêth."

The few remaining guests shuffled on their chairs and in their seats. They weren't prepared for a long story. The Innkeeper complied with their wishes. She stood before them, hands at first held to her mouth, but then gently dropped to her sides.

"A woman was sitting in her house after the sun went down and there was great darkness in all the land and a great silence. She knows that she is alone in all of Avallónë for the Land of Aman was taken away; every other thing is dead."

"Suddenly, she hears a knock upon her door."

The Innkeeper bowed; her lips sealed. Silence reigned throughout the emptying hall. She spoke not a word to her guests, but ushered them out the large main doors, some with a nod, others with a smile, still others with a brief pat upon the shoulder. She looked out the door herself, at the dark night and the silent corners and walls around The White Horse. Nothing stirred but moonshadows. She turned the large skeleton key in the iron lock and turned, wearily, to her own room nearby. Tomorrow would bring new activities to the White Horse.