The Seventh Star Inn

[mark12_30]

"Er, well, " Mellonin began. And then she leaned over to Raefindan, and whispered, "What's the matter with her?"

Raefindan glared at her again, and whispered back through clenched teeth, "She's not well. Be gentle with her."

Mellonin's eyebrows went up, her mouth formed into an "O", and then she leaned closer still, and her lips formed the word moonstruck. Her eyes filled with fear.

Raefindan sighed.

"Is this what happened to my brother?"

Raefindan shrugged, and Mellonin calmed slightly, her eyes going from the girl to Raaefindan and back again, realizing that he knew more about this than she did.

"I don't know. Ærosylle, where did you live when you were a little girl?" Raefindan asked patiently.

"In the reeds."

"So... by the riverside?"

She nodded.

"Do you have family there, or friends?" Raefindan asked.

[Mithadan]

A soldier of Gondor entered the Inn, waving to the barkeep and some few whom he knew at the various and sundry tables. As always, the appearance of a man at arms in the Inn caused some to turn to watch the goings on in curiosity and others to turn away or shrink into the shadows. The soldier ignored the curious stares as well as those who shrank from his gaze and proceeded to the end of the bar where messages were sometimes posted upon the wall. Withdrawing a scroll from his pouch, he unrolled it and tacked it up on the wall. Then, seeing as he was now off duty, he sidled over to the bar and ordered a pint of ale. Behind him, some took the opportunity to hasten away while he was not looking. Others approached the bar in curiosity and examined the newly posted notice. It read:

The Seventh Star and the Lords and Council of Gondor hereby welcome and extend their courtesies, respects and congratulations to AYLWEN DREAMSONG who has been named on the roles posted in the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice her trade in the Realm of Gondor.

[mark12_30]

Mellonin smiled, and rose.

"Where is she? Where is the new bard?" she cried. "Surely she will join us here at the Inn. And if she can truly sing dreams, " Mellonin said, glancing at Raefindan who looked intrigued, "she must sing for us!"

Raefindan nodded, and then looked as if he had second thoughts. "Aylwen Dreamsong. Does her name mean that she sings about dreams-- or that when she sings, you dream? or that after you hear her sing, your dreams change? Or-- well, I have sad dreams enough; I could use some cheerful dreams. Dreams with a happy ending, maybe?"

Mellonin grew somber for a moment; her own dreams had been difficult too. Then she brightened. "Perhaps with the offer of a bottle of wine, she will choose cheerful songs, and we will dream cheerful dreams!"

Raefindan tried to feel optomistic. Mellonin was ready to hear the minstrel, and Raefindan hoped that she was right in her optomism about cheerful dreams.

Only-- where was the minstrel?

[piosenniel]

It had been a long, hot, disgruntling day at the dressmaker’s shop. Were it up to Piosenniel alone she would simply have pointed to a bolt of some acceptable material of an unobtrusive hue; given some vague instructions to the seamstress about not making it too tight or too long. And no, she would not be needing a cloak, slippers dyed, scarves, or any fussy items for the hair.

Or better yet, she would rather have pulled some gown from her wooden chest, shaken it out, and called it ‘good’.

But Gilwen had seen the invitation and mounted a protest. ‘It’s the King’s party, ammë! You have to have a pretty new dress.’ Little Cami nodded her head solemnly, wondering all the while if there would be cakes and other sweets. Eyes sparkling in anticipation, she piped up with a suggestion for a new bag to go with the outfit. ‘A pretty one . . . and big, too,’ she murmured at the end, thinking of the treats that might be brought home in it.

Even Isilmir had his thoughts on the occasion. ‘Father’s gone away. You’ll have to be the one to show up for our family. He’d want you to go and greet the King.’ He looked at his mother with a critical eye. ‘For a mother you still look good.’ Pio raised her brows at this assessment, but he continued on. ‘A pretty new dress would be even better.’ Cami and Gilwen nodded in complete agreement with their brother.

Pio had shaken her head and burst out in laughter at their concerted effort. ‘Alright, then,’ she had said. ‘Promise me there will be no more talk of pretty this and pretty that, and tomorrow we will all go into the city to see about making me suitably acceptable!’

~*~

Now they found themselves at the Seventh Star Inn. The discussions about material, the cajolings about ‘fashion’ and the innumerable measurings were done for the day. The seamstress had promised to have it ready for a fitting in a few day’s time, further promising that it would be the final fitting. The Elf had an exasperated look in her eye by the end of this tedious process. The dressmaker wisely chose not to discuss accessories, simply tucking away in the back of her mind what would be appropriate. She would present the entire outfit when Pio returned.

‘Look, ammë!’ Gilwen’s voice broke in on her thoughts as she sipped her cup of wine. Pio turned to see her daughter standing on a chair the three had carried to the wall at the end of the bar. ‘A story-teller . . . a new one has come into the city.’

Little Cami danced at the announcement, twirling around in delight as she looked up at her sister. She fixed her mother with a smile. ‘Oh, I love new stories! We can stay to hear one, can’t we?’ she asked clapping her hands. She looked about expectantly, wondering which one of the people at the Inn’s tables might be the new spinner of tales . . .

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

For the first time, Aylwen stepped into the Seventh Star. She was free to practice her trade in Gondor, and accepted to join the others that were of the distinct honor of being on the list of proper Gondorians. It was a fine and happy day for Aylwen, indeed, for she had spent many, many long months in Rohan. Aylwen knew her heart was still in Rohan, but such an honor as to be admitted pass into Gondor would not be overlooked by the young minstrel.

The young lady watched as people crowded around the message left by the soldier of Gondor. Some walked off, uninterested; others searched to see what face belonged to the name on the message.

"Perhaps with the offer of a bottle of wine, she will choose cheerful songs, and we will dream cheerful dreams!" Aylwen overheard someone say, and the new Gondorian chuckled at the suggestion. Aylwen walked over to the one who had spoken.

"I do not need wine to sing cheerful songs!" Aylwen said as greeting. "If it is music you wish to hear, and music to soothe your soul, you need only ask. Wine is a temporary comfort...a good tune rings forever!"

Aylwen pulled her set of panpipes from her knapsack, and piped a few notes before clearing her throat and singing the first song of dreams that came to her. In her clear alto voice, Aylwen sang for the woman and her companion:

"Rest, rest, sweet dreamers are sleeping,
Soon the dreams will come a-creeping.
Rest, rest, your peace will come soon,
Before the rising sun and setting moon.

Forget the Haven’s bells, forever ringing,
Listen only to the dream spirits singing.
Forget the pain of the day long past,
And I promise, you will find peace at last.

Rest, rest, dream of prosperity,
Crisp and clean in morning clarity.
Rest, rest, and loathe the hour of dawn,
When you must wake to dreams forgone.

Smile in your sleep, sweet little one,
And you will find joy ‘ere all is done.
Think of the times before there was war,
And you will sleep happily, forever more.

Rest, rest, my restless child fair,
Calm in dreaming without despair.
Rest, rest, and I promise you’ll see,
The world of dreams was made for thee."

[mark12_30]

Raefindan and Mellonin exchanged glances, and then Raefindan stepped back to the bar and gave Morien a coin. Morien handed him a bottle, which Raefindan frowned at, and pointed to another. Morien laughed, and Raefindan got the bottle he wanted.

He presented the wine to Aylwen with a deep and rather outlandish bow. Aylwen looked on, slightly startled, but thanked him.

"A sweet song indeed, Lady. Perhaps you'd teach it to my friend?" he said with a gesture towards Mellonin. Mellonin laughed, and quietly applauded. "I'd love to learn it. But if you sing it much more, you'll have to wake me from my dreams!"

Raefindan opened the bottle, and poured Aylwen a glass. "A sweet lullabye, and fitting for one with a name such as yours. Who taught you such mastery of your craft, lady Aylwen? Tell us your tale."

[Rimbaud]

Wheels moved within wheels, and even sickness passes. After some time in the Inn, Rimbaud finally descended to the common room and smiled at those present. He seemed paler and some of the laughter had left his eyes, but the grey tunic and the light blue sash were familiar.

He sat with some of the patrons for a while, talking lightly on the robust condition of the Inn. He spoke highly of the story-tellers of Gondor, who still circled the Inn. Rarely had the Innkeeper seen such healthy prose, he laughed.

He smiled at the newcomer to the List and bade her welcome to the Star. He did not know what she would make of this grey stranger with the tired eyes. Yet he made much of the new carving on the board, and shared a long pint and conversation with Mithadan, who slapped him on the back genially.

Rimbaud’s mind was not on these pleasantries, however. Much as he disliked it, he was again enmeshed in schemes of the City, and he was particularly guilty of using certain friends. There were strands running through the Inn, plans weaving together. He just wished he could see the pattern they wove.

Rising again, he adjusted his sash and winked at the barman. “Well,” he said quietly. “I’m back.”

[mark12_30]

Oak, Beech, and Willow finished their drinks, stood up from their table, and wandered toward the door. As they went, Beech glanced up at the wall, and paused.

Oak stopped and waited, and Willow swayed impatiently. Beech ran his hands through his hair, and shook his head. "...admitted to the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice her trade.... " he muttered.

"What?" said Willow.

Beech said it again, louder. "Has been named on the roles posted in the Tower of Ecthelion as an adventurer admitted to practice his trade in the Realm of Gondor."

Oak and Willow exchanged confused glances.

"We have neard little news, " Beech said. "Perhaps the messengers have been waylaid or news has not come this far. But I am sure there have been adventurers in Rohan whose names would be expected here. But none have been announced for quite a while. Do you not think so?"

"I think you're daft, " replied Oak.

"You think everyone is daft," replied Willow.

"Nevertheless, I think it is odd that we have seen no new adventurers from Rohan in over a year, " said Beech.

"Oh, you fret too much, " said Oak.

"You don't think enough, " said Willow.

Still bickering, the Three Trees walked out of the dark Inn into the bright afternoon.

[Thenamir]

A long silence had fallen over the Star (unlike stars which usually fall in silence) and somehow in the quiet a newcomer had slipped into their midst, though no one had seen him enter. He smiled not at all, gazing long and steadily at all in the room in turn, though never was he the first to drop his eyes.

He was of average height, but unnaturally thin and pale, as though he had spent long hours seated in cold and cramped places illumined by lights most unnatural. His visage was young, but drawn and pale. He wore an odd thin black mask which appeared to hold a pair of smoothly flat pieces of glass before his eyes. His breeches and tunic were of a supple but very strong material of a light blue nearing white, and upon his breast there was a pocket containing three or four small thin rods of varying hues. In one hand he bore a staff of white, in the other a new-looking parchment.

He strode through the silent throng to the Wall of Notices. Oddments of parchments now crumbling with age, old advertisements for questors and adventurers, still hung there, mute testament to the loremasters and warriors of olden times. He shook his head sadly as he glanced through the bits and pieces of lore gone by. But in a moment his staff was up, and with a quick motion he swept the detritus from the wall. In the resulting open space he slapped the parchment to the wall, pinning it quickly with four smart taps of his staff to the corners of the document.

Any activity of this kind was now so rare in the Seventh Star as to be nearly equivalent to legend and myth, and many were those in the Star who started at the newcomer's actions, and many who desired to read the portents which the new posting contained. But none would approach yet, as the stranger slowly turned to face them.

"I am come on the request of Merisuwyniel," he said in the voice of a squeaky countertenor of the very worst boy-bands, "she of the Quest of the Entish Bow, Whose Golden Tresses Are Always Perfectly Coiffed, and Who the merest dust mote would never deem to touch. Many were the misadventures of that quest. Many were the vile puns and insults of low humor that she endured and yet came forth victorious -- the Ent is now reunited! Yet many foolhardy and faux-hearty souls were lost along the way. And now, at the denouement of her adventures, a new quest has been laid upon her by the Yawanna, the Green Goddess herself (may her dressings never sour) to restore the lost King, the questionable Halfemption Gormlessar, to the throne of Grundor in Minus Teeth, the high city (referring mostly to the special pipeweed there). There are yet more posts to riposte, more gaffes to gather, and more continuity to contort! Join us as we seek parity in parody! Let the Barrow-Writers come forth and join us in REB III: The Return of the Entish Beings!"

With that, the nearly-white-clad stranger spoke softly into the head of his staff the words of great power: "Beeme meup Skotii!" Moments later the stranger disappeared in a sparkly display of mixed-metaphorical anachronisms...

[Bêthberry]

The haunting melody of Aywlen Dreamsong's panpipes drifted up the wooden staircase and through the floorboards into the Innkeeper's room. The echoing notes were an eerie reminder of the eyes and ears downstairs, as if even here in Rimbaud's private rooms he could be traced and followed.

Not followed perhaps, but observed in passing. When he and the LoreMistress had left the great hall, their departure together had been noted. They could not escape that, nor, indeed, had they tried.

Yet both were brought up short when they entered a room they had expected to be empty to find a figure in dark brown cloak standing before the fire.

The Loremistress spoke up first, curtly and with authority ringing in her calm tones, "What business have you here?"

The Innkeeper looked at her, his tired eyes for once showing some interest, and raised his hand silently. He recognised the figure that had stood watch over him for many days.

She turned and threw off the hood, smiling at the Loremistress.

"You did not expect me here, old friend, but here I am," she spoke quietly. "And I am most pleased to see you looking well, better than the Innkeeper here."

At that moment, they were interrupted by the arrival of a large falcon who flew through the slightly opened, shuttered window, a small twig in its beak. Wyrd landed on the worn wooden desk, dropping the twig, his head turning with sharp, penetrating glances to the three humans before stopping to stare at the Innkeeper.

[mark12_30]

Outside the Inn doorway three Gondorians lounged against the moonlit wall, all well but plainly groomed and dressed, all boys on the verge of manhood. Typical grey eyes and dark hair framed their laughter, and their jests were no less gleeful for their lack of ribaldry. All three sparkled with camraderie and deep affection; their history as a threesome went back to before they could crawl.

"Should he not be here by now?"

"He said sunset, and the sky is dark."

"Late. He moves with the speed of the silver-haired."

"What shall we ask him for?"

"War stories."

"Dance tunes."

"Love songs!"

"Dreamer!" "Hopeful!"

"I can give you all three, " said a new voice. He was three years older than the others, a Gondorian, similarly dressed, but dusty and smudged.

"There you are!" "Here he is!" "Well met!" "You are well, are you not?" "Shall we go inside?" They embraced him in turn.

"Yes. My day has been long and dry. Who will buy the first round?" said the new arrival.

"You're the wealthy traveller!"

"Yes, and I've spent it all, " he laughed. The four young men entered the Inn.

[mark12_30]

The four young men went to the bar, ordered some mild ale, and took their drinks to a table. Morien walked past them, and grunted a greeting, followed by a laugh. "Haven't seen the Three Trees here for quite a while, Hîriest! You come home, and I gain not one customer, but four."

The dusty newcomer grinned at the others. "Your reputation still proceeds you."

"You are one of us yourself!"

"He said Three Trees. Not four."

"You have been gone a whole year. It took half that time til they renamed us."

"What did they call you at first?"

The three younger men exchanged glances. "Different things."

"What things?"

"Four Trees Short One."

"Four Trees Down to Three."

"The Emptying Grove."

Hîriest began to chuckle.

"Four Trees, One Gone."

"Four Trees but One Was An Ent."

Hîriest laughed out loud.

Morien walked past. "My own favorite was, Four Trees But One Took A Wrong Turn."

"I did not take a wrong turn, " objected Hîriest.

"Well, " said Morien, "I still pride myself on being able to tell them apart."

"Really."

Morien nodded.

"Name us, then!"

Morien set down his tray, and cleared his throat. Going around the table from Hîriest's left hand, he pointed. "Doroninn. Gaerbrethil. Calentathar."

All Four Trees shared a smile.

Morien looked from one to the next. "Am I right?"

They laughed. "No."

Morien scowled, and tried again. "Gaerbrethil. Doroninn. Calentathar."

"Try again!"

Morien thought for several moments. "Calentathar. Gaerbrethil. Doroninn."

More laughter gave him his answer, and he snorted in defeat. "Tell me, then!"

"Gaerbrethil, Calentathar, Doroninn!"

"Bah. You trade names each week!"

"Some so accuse us."

Morien stalked off, chuckling.

The boys quieted, and then looked to Hîriest. "So what will your new name be? You can no longer be "Lord of the Wish", for your wish came true, and you travelled beyond Gondor."

"I don't mind my name."

"Oh, but we must give you a new one!"

"Lord of the Horizon!"

Hîriest coughed into his ale.

"Far-Flung Storm!"

"Don't be ridiculous, " Hîriest said.

"Lord of the Rangers?"

Hîriest sighed. "What is wrong with Alagothôn?"

"You cannot be a tree anymore; you have torn up your roots. It no longer suits you."

"Then call me harper, " said Hîriest.

"Harper?"

"That's all? Just... Harper?"

"Too plain!"

Hîriest sat back and waved for another ale. "There is no shame in being plain. Or simple."

Gaerbrethil, Calentathar, and Doroninn exchanged skeptical glances.

"I have been called 'Harper' in many a town. I have gotten used to it. Harper... Talagand... Nandaro..."

The Three Trees were silent, and the signals that passed between them would have puzzled any but Hîriest. He knew they had agreed.

Morien arrived with another ale, and the talk turned to other matters.

[mark12_30]

Hîriest and the Three Trees spent most of the day swapping tales and songs. Hîriest had collected plenty during his year away, and he sang til he was hoarse. Each of the three (Oak, Beech, Willow) insisted on learning a different song, and they were merciless with Hîriest til they knew all the verses cold. By nightfall Hîriest was reduced to sign language and was asking for honey in all of his drinks.

Morien laughed at him. "Come home to your Grove, only to die there? Some friends."

Hîriest shook his head, and hoarsely whispered, "If I die of singing too much, it will not be here. I will be on the road again come dawn."

"What!" "You cannot mean it!" "You just arrived!"

Hîriest raised his last glass. "Nonetheless, I must depart. I will return as soon as I may. There is a large celebration in a far country in the West. I will meet a friend along the way."

"What friend?" asked Beech.

"His name is LinGalad. He is a Mirkwood elf. We sang much together when I visited there. He will meet me at Bree."

"And you leave in the morning?"

"I must, " said Hîriest, giving Willow a shove. "Or I will have no voice left." He finished his drink, and they walked out into the night.

[mark12_30]

Dusty and dirty, Hîriest stumbled into the Inn. Morien looked up, grunted as if Hîriest hadn't left, and poured him an ale without asking. Handing it to him, he said, "Welcome back."

Hîriest nodded. "Thank you. I see the Three Trees are here already."

"Hail!" called Beech from a far table. Willow waved, and Oak thumped the table.

Hîriest nodded, and began making his way across. Then he stopped, and looked around. "I don't see him."

"Don't see who?"

Hîriest shrugged. "The fence-climber. The one who trespassed in the dead of night in a graveyard to pay his respects at the grave of a well-loved Loremaster. Well, when he comes by, Morien, give him an ale and say Happy Birthday for us." He fished for a coin, and put it on the bar.

[mark12_30]

"Hîriest, " murmured Willow, "Did you forget something?"

"Did I?" replied Hîriest, blinking.

"I think so, " said Oak. "You could make the lame excuse that she's done quite a bit of travelling lately; but it would hardly fit, since she was last seen here?"

"She was?"

"Yes, she was, " replied Beech.

Hîriest ran a hand across his forehead. "You could tell me."

"Her birthday was the day before yesterday."

Hîriest slumped in his chair, chin in hand. "So I am once again revealed as absentminded."

"Or at least slow on the uptake, " chuckled Beech.

"Well, what do we do now?"

"We drink her health. Are you getting too old for this sort of thing?" said Oak.

"Rascal," replied Hîriest.

"Perhaps, " said Willow.

They raised their mugs. "To the wandering Inkeeper; may her search end in finding, her longings end in joy, and may her journey end safely at Home."