The Vineyard Tavern

[Fallinel]

When the message from King Dáin Ironfoot had arrived, summoning him to Erebor, Krerin Gemfinder had cursed his evil luck. Just as he had finished delving his great workrooms and furnaces, and had found suitable apprentices in the Iron Hills, he would have to pack up the few tools with which he could not part, and move westward. Krerin was not an important or wealthy Dwarf-he was of the Blacklock tribe-but he was an immensely talented smith and engraver, and could produce fine jewelry of a type that was seldom seen these days. The black-haired, black-eyed Dwarf had worked, longer hours even than most Dwarves, to establish his business, workshop, and reputation. Now, he feared that he would have to start all over, and dreaded being assigned to some lowly mining task in Erebor.

After hiking towards the Lonely Mountain with sinking heart and sour mood, Krerin had decided to stop at the markets of the rebuilt town of Esgaroth on Long Lake, to earn a few coins by selling a trinket or two. Krerin’s temper was improved by the surprisingly quick sale of all the small jewelry pieces and chased metal boxes that he had brought with him, and the happy sound of jingling coins brought joy to his heart. “Well, I can always earn a few extra coins, and perhaps build a reputation here, by doing a bit of frivolous metalwork on the side,” thought Krerin, “and perhaps I’ll treat myself to a pint of ale now.”

The Dwarf stumped through the streets of Esgaroth on his short legs, tassel bobbing from the tip of his dark blue hood, and silver bells tinkling from the cords of his pack. As always when he visited the cities of Men, Krerin was followed by laughing children, who made a game of trying to touch the tassel or the bells. Krerin didn’t mind-in fact he encouraged the games by alternately smiling and scowling at the children, and by altering his pace unexpectedly. He had a soft spot for the children of Men in his hard dwarvish heart.

At last Krerin found what he was looking for-a tavern; the Vineyard Tavern, to be precise. The Dwarf pulled his hood back from his head, and laid his pack of tools outside the door, as some of the axes and tongs might be taken for weapons. He walked in, scanning the patrons as he entered, and stumped right up to the part of the room in which he expected to procure some refreshments. The top of Krerin’s head was even with counter of the bar, and no one on the other side noticed the Dwarf standing there, waiting rather impatiently to request a pint of ale. “Excuse me,” said Krerin to the rough wooden panel in front of his face, “but what must a thirsty Dwarf do to be served a pint of good ale in this establishment?”

Krerin waited until his gruff voice caught the attention of a tall serving girl, who peered over the top of the bar into a pair of glittering black eyes that looked upwards expectantly and with a certain amount of exasperation. “I’m very sorry, sir, but I…I didn’t see you standing there. What can I get for you?”

“Hummph,” said Krerin, “I’d like a pint of your best ale, please. Strong ale, I hope and trust.”

“Coming right up, sir, and yes, it’s quite strong.” The girl retrieved a mug of ale for the Dwarf, and offered a small dark rye loaf as recompense for having overlooked Krerin initially. Krerin paid for his ale, and stalked over to a table in the corner of the common room, from which he could watch the other patrons of the tavern. He climbed up into a chair, looking a bit ridiculous, like a child who was too small to sit at the table properly. Krerin had to reach upwards to grasp his mug of ale from the tabletop, and muttered under his breath about the lack of consideration for dwarvish patrons.

Krerin’s glittering black eyes focused on one patron of the tavern in particular-a young boy, face and body badly scarred by dragon-fire, who was receiving much kind attention. The Dwarf could see that the boy had been beaten, both recently, and repeatedly in the past. No Dwarf could ever understand the loathsome Mannish habit of keeping servants and slaves. All Dwarves, regardless of status, wealth, or birthright, worked hard at menial jobs at some point, and often throughout their long lives. Moreover, Dwarf children were rare and treasured, protected and sheltered; how could anyone put a child to hard physical labor? Krerin shook his shaggy head in disapproval.

An older boy, who looked healthy and impish, had burst in through the door of the tavern, and soon afterwards, a more ominous visitor appeared. A large, ugly, cruel-featured man, whom the Dwarf recognized instantly to be a bully of the worst sort, entered the tavern, and was immediately confronted by a few of the other patrons and a barking dog. A discussion ensued, in which Krerin could perceive that the large man was lying to gain some advantage, or to retrieve something that he felt was rightfully his. Dwarves rarely fail to see through lies and deception.

[Bêthberry]

"Wildness you say, which prompted the lad to leave? I see no wildness in him, Master Harstan," spoke the Healer quietly. 'Perhaps you are not so well acquainted with his health as a master should be"

"I know him right well enough, Mistress, not that it is any business of yours," he replied dismissively to the woman.

"I am sure you do know his true behaviour well enough, Master Harstan, but I am a practiced healer who sees great need in the boy. I speak out of concern for your need as well, for this boy is not capable of sustained work. If you wish to gain a valuable labourer, you must first see him restored to health."

Bethberry paused here, and nodded courteously at Harstan.

"His arm is too weak to lift even a spoon, he has burns which still pain him greatly and which still require gentle treatment if he is ever to be able to stretch his muscles much again, he has I suspect bones broken which require setting and swellings which must be treated."

Here Bethberry heard Rochadan cough, and she nodded her head at him, hoping he would see her short term strategy. She knew she could rely on him to help the boy find work at the Tavern, if only she could heal the boy first.

"I came to Esgaroth to help the healing after the devastation wrought by Smaug and I am here still attending to it. I have room here where I treat injuries and heal what sicknesses I can. I deem this boy needs my care. You would be foolish, my good master, to ignore my words here, for the town will hold you accountable should the boy die under your roof and hand."

She paused, looking sombrely at the man, with no trace of animosity, but with a firm presence. She would do her part to help Rochadan gave the boy from this cruel master, yet she would try hard not to make an enemy of the master.

[Nurumaiel]

A look of bafflement crossed Harstan's face at Bethberry's word, and he ran his right hand through his greasy hair while rubbing his sore cheek with his left. He looked from Bethberry to Andhun and back to Bethberry again, and scratched his head. "Now 'ere, ma'am,' he said, "I don't rightly know what you mean."

"What I am offering," said Bethberry coolly, "is to treat this boy here for a time. You cannot deny, I suppose, that his burns tamper his work?"

"They do that, ma'am."

"And that it would be a good thing if he were treated so he might work in a better way?"

"That would be a fine thing, ma'am," said Harstan. "Is this what you 'ere propose?"

"It is," said she.

Harstan's eyes wandered in a shiftless way about the room, but when they glanced upon Andhun they stayed there, and he stood there gazing upon the boy, contemplating. Andhun shrunk away from him and avoided meeting his eyes, and instead looked to Bethberry in an imploring fashion. The wierd, twisted smile had come to Harstan's face again and he said, "Well, ma'am, that which you propose is all right for me so long as it is also right by you. Yet I 'ope you won't mind if I stop in occasionally to see 'ow the boy is doing?" He did not give Bethberry a chance to answer but said, "I thank you for that. I'll bid you good day now. Let the boy cause you no trouble." And then he departed.

It happened suddenly, and Andhun felt relief and wonder surge through him. Relief, for he was glad to see the master go, and wonder for he had not been taken home and beaten. A cry sounded from outside the Tavern and Cynan ran past the window, winking at Andhun as he went by. Andhun smiled faintly, and then he started violently and caught Bethberry's hand. "Oh, Mistress, you are very kind," he said, "but I do not understand what you say. When you have taken care of me will I go back to my master? I do not want to go!" He exclaimed the last sentence passionately, and then took hold of himself and said in a calmer voice, "Yet, Mistress, if there is no other way I will resign myself to it. Only I would beg you," and here his chin began to tremble, "that if I ever find my sister she will not have to live with me at my master's home, but you kind people here will take care of her. Then I will be happy."

[Ealasaide]

Rochadan stood behind the healer, prepared to intervene if there were trouble and listening closely as she deftly maneuvered Harstan into granting the boy permission to stay - at least on temporary basis - with them at the inn. She did a masterful job of it, far better than he would have done himself had it been left up to him. He knew full well that he would have taken a far more confrontational approach to the situation. Harstan was not fit to take care of farm animals, much less a sick child. Rochadan felt quite certain that he would have told him as much. It was probably not the best approach, he knew, but the pitiable condition of poor Andhun’s body combined with the amazing strength of the boy's character had really touched Rochadan’s heart. It made Harstan, by contrast, stark in his brutality. Rcohadan would do what he could to make sure that Andhun's temporary situation at the inn became a permanent one.

He watched with a smile as the child grasped Bêthberry by the hand. “Oh, Mistress, you are very kind, but I do not understand what you say. When you have taken care of me, will I go back to my master? I do not want to go! Yet, Mistress, if there is no other way I will resign myself to it. Only I would beg you that if I ever find my sister she will not have to live with me at my master’s home, but you kind people here will take care of her. Then I will be happy.”

Rochadan reached out and touched the boy’s hair. “I give you my word,” he said softly, “That if we are able to find your sister, she will have a home with me. I have a daughter of my own. I’m sure she would delight in having a playmate. As for your own situation, resign yourself to nothing. Mistress Bêthberry has done an admirable job of buying us some time to see if we can find an honorable way out of your... your agreement with your master.”

Exchanging glances with both Bêthberry and Finian, he added, “I’m sure we can find a way out of it that will be both acceptable to Harstan and will leave your word intact.”

Rochadan reached out and took hold of the boy’s hand, gently pressing into Andhun’s palm the handful of coins that Andhun had given to him to pay for his meal just prior to the arrival of Harstan. “You keep this,” he told him with a smile. “As an official guest of Mistress Bêthberry, Finian, and myself, you mustn’t feel obliged to pay for your meals during your stay here.

[Imladris]

Ærosylle crept from the kitchen on hands and knees, looking for Finian. She must smell him out as she were a dog and he the prey....

She could see his feet through the maze of of wood and wriggled through the chairs until she was inches from her brother's feet. She heard angry voices and she peered from under the chair. The Healer woman was there, as well as Rochadan, and another boy badly burnt and her brother, of course, but there was also a great big obnoxious man. Wriggling around to get a better view, she saw that her brother's fists were clenched and that his eyes were narrowed like a cat waiting to strike.

But the big, oily, mean man left and the boy remained. Finian, touselling the boy's head, also left and went to serve a dwarf, and Rochadan looked well pleased with himself.

Clambering to her feet, Ærosylle dragged a chair to the table, climbed upon it, perched her elbows upon the wood, and stared at the boy. Her eyes wavered to his plate and she said, "If you would be so kind asto give my regards to the plate I would be greatly obliged." She nodded at him.

[Nurumaiel]

Andhun gazed up at the young girl in a bit of disbelief. Give her regards to the plate? It was sheer madness. Yet he thought her rather pretty, and her brown hair fell in shining waves over her shoulders, and he felt a smile coming to his face when he considered what the plate's answer to her well wishes might be. Still he was confused about waht to say, however, and as Cynan came walking (he had been following Harstan for quite some time, throwing rocks at him) in he gestured to him with his good hand. Cynan skipped obligingly over to the table and when he saw the girl he looked a little bit shy but not completely baffled. He touched his forelock in a polite manner, spun in a circle, and finished with a flourished bow, his head nearly touching the ground.

Andhun gazed in wondered amusement at his friend, thinking how fortunate he had been to be found by such a boy. Cynan was a sweet, friendly lad but nothing short of energy and mischief. He followed him with his eyes; Cynan had left the table and was cautiously approaching the dog called Grimm, looking very grave though his grey eyes twinkled. Grimm growled softly... not in a menacing, threatening way but in a little playful way, for he saw that Cynan was up to mischief. Cynan gave a little yelp of mock fear and danced away, and then he advanced slowly again, and when Grimm sprang forward he giggled madly and knelt down to stroke the dog, smiling in a friendly way up at his mistress.

Smiling one last time over Cynan's absurdities, Andhun turned back to the girl and saw that she had also been smiling, though he could not say if it was because of Cynan or not. Cynan felt that he should desperately like to please her, but he did not know how. In confusion he remembered that she had spoken to him, but he could not recall what she had said. As his confusion mounted he felt desperate and dropped his eyes from her gaze... they fell on the plate sitting before him, and he brightened.

"The plate accepts your regards with good will, miss, and returns them tenfold."

[Imladris]

Ærosylle smiled at the other boy's exuberant bow and courtseyed in return. But she mustn't ignore the plate, lest he think her rude.

"It is good to be on the plate's good side," Ærosylle whispered. "Or else it will throw your food at your face and it will connive with the glass to make it miss your lips, thereby making your drink dribble down your chin." She nodded at him.

The boy nodded and asked, "What is your name?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, then flashed a smile and said, "Ærosylle." She bowed her head and waited for him to reply.

"Andhun, at your service."

"I do not need any service," said Ærosylle, lifting her eyebrows. "But thank you for offering it."

The poor boy....he was bruised and battered, and he had the look of a puppy lingering about his eyes. She had seen him almost cringed when Finian had patted him on the head -- as if he had expected a cuff. The poor boy, she thought, shaking her head and heaving a sigh. If there was one thing that she did not need was his service. He seemed to have had a lot of that beat out of him.

She licked her lips and said, "Let me give you a few tips. Do not ever drum your fingers on the table for it annoys him. Don't step on the first step of the stairs for it screams in agony. I believe it is quite the wimp for the others have no qualms with human weight. Would you like more cider?"