The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Sapphire_Flame]

"I have been working all morning, and have not had anything to eat or drink since breakfast," Keleth said. "The food will be put out soon, I expect, but would you care to join me in, ah, "testing" the ale?"

Baradil grinned "A fine idea," he replied, and they made their way over to the group of hobbits gathered around the kegs.

"Could you spare a taste for two thirsty men?" Keleth asked the hobbits with a smile. Two mugs were promptly filled and handed to Keleth and Baradil, and they sat down at a nearby table.

"Ah, and here comes the happy couple," Keleth remarked, glancing at the door of the inn. Baradil looked and saw a man and woman, very clearly the betrothed, speaking with a group of hobbits.

"Happy indeed. Were they anything but happy today, I should think there was something wrong with them."

Keleth laughed and took a drink.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“Do not believe, my lady, that I am anything more than I appear: a lone wanderer. What rank I have is due only to the kindness of the King. I am, in truth, a king as well, but my kingdom and people were lost long ago. As to your being an artisan, I lived in Minas Tirith long enough to see many works of Elvish art, brought there by the Fair Folk in homage to the Queen, and allow me to say that the honour due to Elvish artisans is greater than the status enjoyed by many a rich lord of Gondor!”

Mithalwen smiled at the compliment. “You seem strange to me, Man of Gondor. A king without a kingdom? One who has dwelt at Minas Tirith with the King and Queen, and yet claims to be a humble wanderer? I deem that there is a tale about you…”

“As there is about everyone, my lady. Mine is, perhaps, a strange one but it is not singular. The world is full of people who have enjoyed or suffered from changes of fortune and the coming of fate. Or doom. But the story is a long one, which I will tell you should you wish, when there is time for it. For now, I would be grateful if you – or your companions – could give me news of someone.”

His auditors perked up at this, for they could tell that Snaveling had finally come round to his point. He masked his fierce eagerness, but not well. To the Elves, at least, there was a fire in his eyes and voice that betrayed his manner. Even the Halfling could see that there was more to his query than he wanted to reveal. “I am looking for a woman,” he began. “Her name is Roa, of the Dunedain. She came north from Minas Tirith some weeks ago, and the last news I had of her places her upon the Greenway not far south of here. She is just below my own height with long red hair and sea-green eyes. She is fair and slender, and of a mirthful humour. She was fond of the Shire folk and would probably have come through here on her way.”

“Well, I haven’t seen anyone like the woman you describe,” Caity replied. “Are you sure she came through the Shire?”

“I am not sure of anything about her journeys past the Greenway,” Snaveling replied. “I have already sought for her here, and throughout the country hereabouts, but no sign nor tale can I find of her. I had hoped that perhaps you, my ladies,” he said to Mithalwen and Rasputina, “being of Elven kind, might have heard of her from other of your folk. Or, perhaps, you have met her or seen her pass upon some hidden way in the Wild, unknown to most Men? She was a Ranger in these lands for many years with the Lord Elessar and knows its paths much better than I. It is possible that she has traveled along roads that are hidden to me.”

It occurred to Mithalwen that perhaps the Ranger had a good reason for seeking paths unknown to this Man, but she said only, “I am afraid that I have seen no such woman, Tar-Corondir.” Then, after a brief pause she added innocently, “Why do you seek her?”

None of the women could fail to see the slight flush that ran along Snaveling’s brow at the question, nor mistake his faintly awkward manner as he replied to it. “She and I were traveling companions for a time, and I would like to see her again,” was all that he said.

[Envinyatar]

It was a sweet, slow song the lads were playing. Zimzi stood for a while, leaning against Derufin’s arm, as she listened. On impulse, she turned and curtsied to him a sly smile on her face. ‘A last dance, freely chosen, sir?’ she asked, extending her hand.

Derufin arched his brow at her. ‘So bold!’ He looked about, as if searching for someone. ‘Now where has my sweet Zimzi got to?’ he asked, winking at her. ‘We’re to be handfasted today, you know. I would not want her to see me dancing with a saucy lass such as yourself.’

They moved well together, enjoying the pleasure of each other’s company. Then Derufin stopped, feeling a little tug on his breeches.

‘Sir,’ a piping little voice called up to him as he looked down. ‘Mister Derufin,’ chirped another.

He and Zimzi broke apart, looking down at the two Hobbit children, a boy and girl, who stood peering up at them. ‘We’ve got something for the lady, the little boy said. He pointed over to where Ginger stood with his other brothers and sisters. All of them wore small ivy leaf crowns festooned with red berries, and Ginger held another one in her hand. ‘We made it for you. To wear today,’ the girl explained, her hand on Zimzi’s skirt.

Zimzi crouched down, smiling at the children. ‘Go and get it, then,’ she said, nodding toward where Ginger stood. The children crowded in about her, all wanting to help place their handiwork on her head. She bowed it low, steadying the leafy garland for them as they positioned it on her. They stepped back and looked at it, turning their heads this way and that. ‘You look pretty!’ little Pip cried, clapping his hands.

She was just in the midst of thanking them all when a deeper voice broke in.

‘Mistress Zimzi, Mister Derufin,’ said Sam, offering his hand to Derufin. ‘I see you’ve now met my children.’ He beamed at his brood and sent them all back to Ginger’s care, saying he supposed they should all have a jam tart or two for their good work. Sam stood watching them go, then turned back to the couple.

‘Well, I’m here to do the handfasting when you’re ready. Just thought I’d let you know. Brought my ledger, too. Get you put into it all proper like.’ He waved over to where Cook was standing, talking to one of the Bywater ladies. ‘Cook says if you’ll just let her know when you want it started, she’ll bring out the cake as a signal to me. I’ll get the crowd quieted down and then we can begin.’

‘A good plan,’ grinned Derufin. ‘A cake and a missus, what more could a man ask for?’ Zimzi laughed, calling him an oaf.

‘Right, then. How about we get a little ale and cider,’ said Sam, smiling. ‘And I’ll introduce you to my Rose.’

[piosenniel]

THE SCENE IN THE INN'S FRONT YARD AT PRESENT . . .

It's a warm, sunny day in the Shire – mid-afternoon.

Preparations for the party are done. All have put on their party clothes.

The tables are groaning with the plenitude of food brought out to stave off hunger . . . the local Hobbit families continue to arrive, and all of them have brought a special dish or two to share at the party. The staff from the Inn has already brought out great platters of meats and cheeses and baskets of bread for sandwiches along with mustards of all sorts and pickles. Mushroom pasties, jam tarts, and cookies of all sorts.

A number of the kegs have been tapped and tried, much to the satisfaction the thirsty crowds. For those who don't care for ale at the moment, there are pitchers of cold cider, tea, wine of all sorts, and of course, sweet, cold well water.

The three local grannies - Granny Chubb, Granny Oldbuck, and Granny Heathertoes have made their special punch – only for the women at the party. They are fending off, with their stout wooden stirring paddles, those bold lads who try to slip in and steal a taste.

Mayor Samwise and his wife, Rose, and a number of their brood (up to baby Daisy) have arrived for the party. Ginger has volunteered to watch over the main part of the Gardner brood, while Rose and baby Daisy are seated with some other local ladies, enjoying the Grannie’s punch, watching the crowds, and listening to the music. Sam is mingling with the crowd before the ceremony begins.

Gil and his friends, Tomlin, Fallon, and Ferrin are playing and singing on the raised stage near the front of the Inn. They are intermittently joined by Falco Headstrong, Rasputina, Caity, Seamus, and Owen.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The short handfasting ceremony will take place tomorrow (real time) and the party will continue on after that.

~*~ Pio, Shire Moderator

[Witch_Queen]

Setting perched in a near-by tree, Avalon watched as the celebration continued. Taking a closer look at one of the tables, Avalon noticed too cats sharpening their claws on the table legs. Knowing that something was bound to go wrong, Avalon began flapping her wings and took flight, slowly gliding over to the table inside the inn.

Avalon figured she didn't need to scare the felines out of one of their lives. She didn't even know how many they both might have left. "Hello? Are you having fun?" Avalon watched as the cats went on digging their claws into the table. Forget it, I don't care if I scare them to "death." What they are doing is wrong. Figuring that her squawk would get their attention, Avalon took in a deep breath making her chest grow in size. Letting out a screech Avalon's voice remained soft but had power behind it. "Sorry about that. The names Avalon, and you two might be...."

[Fairleaf]

The sounds of the crowd grew louder as more people arrived at the Inn. Fairleaf attended to the various snatches of conversations as little groups passed by her. There were those who spoke quite simply and those who spoke quite grand. She listened in delight to the differences in cadence and tone and timbre. Sifting through her memory she remembered the sounds of different stands of trees as the wind caught them. Sparse leafed and thickly leafed, soft green-new leavess, and the thin scratchy voices of brown, winter leaves not yet fallen.

Another image, one closer to her wandering heart was that of roses. The smaller folk of this land with their bright, easy smiles, their open faces called to mind the hedgerows along the dirt lanes with their thick riot of wild, shrub roses. Crimsons and yellows and whites and lavenders. Just the hint of them as she rounded a bend made her smile in anticipation. The other roses, she thought, were more stately. The high bred flowers with their thick, smooth stems and their creamy petaled flowers, all furled until the warm sun’s light coaxed them to open. She glanced about the yard, noting several of these sort. They, too, were handsome, in their own way.

The band had begun another song, and some of the crowd, now replete with food and drink, took up partners, or entered singly, into a dance. She found her own rooty toes twitching to the lively rhythm. Even the Grannies had gathered in front of their vat to get a better view of the players and the dancers. Seizing the opportunity, Fairleaf moved slowly up from the back drop of trees ‘til she stood with an old oak that overarched the punch. Glancing about carefully for anyone looking her way, she lowered a slender branch tip toward the liquid . . .

. . . ah! . . . as I thought . . . delicious . . .

[Kuruharan]

Some distance away, a cart pulled into view. It was moving at a slow pace as if the driver was in no hurry (or perhaps it was the mule drawing the cart who was in no hurry). The cart was loaded with packages. The individual driving the cart could accurately be described as “stout.” Indeed, it would not be inaccurate to use the term “fat.” As a matter of fact, he was almost as wide as the bench he sat upon. This individual had a large brown beard spread over his knees. This was not unusual because this individual was a dwarf. He wore a simple blue tunic and at the moment looked like he was on the verge of falling asleep.

He roused himself and pulled the mule to a halt and then surveyed the scene before the inn for some moments. He looked so common and placid that nobody paid him much attention. The dwarf pulled out a small paper and read it. An expression of satisfaction appeared on his face. He opened a small chest beside him and pulled out a large package. Attached to the package was a large tag reading:

Entrusted to the Care of Fazi the Dwarf. To be Delivered to Hawthorne Brandybuck.

The dwarf flicked the reins to proceed to the inn. The mule did not move. Fazi flicked the reins again. The mule twitched its ear. Fazi let out a great sigh and climbed out of the cart. He walked to the head of the mule, seized the reins and tried to drag the mule forward. Several of those about the inn had noticed the commotion by this point and had taken it upon themselves to giggle quietly at the scene. Even after being dragged a few feet, he mule still refused to walk. The giggling grew louder.

The dwarf rolled his eyes and gave up. He turned and walked over toward his growing crowd of onlookers. “I beg your pardon,” he said politely, “I have a delivery to…er…deliver to one Hawthorne Brandybuck. I was instructed to bring it to her here. Does anyone know where she may be found?”