The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Lasbelinion]

Against the brightness of the sun Lithmîrë drew his travel stained cloak about him, and pulling the dark, ragged hood forward, let his face fall into shadow. The path from the main road to the Inn lay straight beneath the unimpeded light. No overarching trees to cast their welcome shadows on his approach.

His thoughts he cloaked as well, knowing those of his kind were near. He needed not their pity nor their questions nor their offers of aid. They had not come for him and the others in the long years of service and hardship beneath the cruel hand of the Deceiver. Now many he had known were dead at the hands of Gorthaur’s fouler servants and those few like himself who remained were left to find their own way.

He would not have stopped here, had he not run low on provisions. He was unfamiliar with this region; unfamiliar with the folk who lived here. The Inn he knew of by word of mouth from other travelers. His would be a brief stay. Rest, food, drink, and if he were able, the replenishing of the herbs that kept his pain at bay. Then, to the Havens, and the healing that lay beyond the poor remedies of this world.

Haven. Place of refuge. Of safety. Port against the storm.

A bitter laugh welled up inside as he fought back the long held fear that he would find no refuge. And how could he? The storm of despair which threatened at times to destroy what was left of him lay deep inside. He’d pushed it down, fettered it beneath the outward shell of his indifference. Kept the world at bay with his caustic tongue. And if he allowed himself any hope it was with a studied dispassion.

Lithmîrë stood for a moment at the Dragon’s entryway. Readjusting the worn leather pack slung over his right shoulder, he pushed against the heavy door and entered the dimmer interior within. Only a few heads turned to mark his passage, and those he ignored until he reached a table set in a darker corner of the room. From his vantage point he could survey the comings and goings to the common room.

He called a passing server to his table, asking for a mug of hot water. When it had come, he sent the server away, saying he would see to some food a little later. From his pack, he fetched a thin leather pouch, and took a small pinch of the dried herbs in it. Not wasting any, he scattered them on the hot water, licking from his fingers what few particles there were left on them. The heat from the mug warmed his thin, cold hands, driving the unrelenting chill away for a little while. And as he sipped on the pleasant smelling brew, its small powers drove back the pains that wracked his left arm from shoulder to hand and the left side of his face.

Lithmîrë drew back his hood as the warmth of the brew brought the welcome relief. His left hand, covered with the thick scars of a burn reached up to cradle those same red, ropy scars that twisted his face. Anger flared for a moment as he noted the stares of those sitting near him. Who were they to pity or judge him, he growled to himself. He turned an icy stare on them, forcing them to look away.

‘More water, girl!’ he called, holding his mug out to the server once again. From the pouch at his belt he drew forth a silver penny and pushed it to the edge of the table.

[littlemanpoet]

Falowik walked Kirsúl back into the stable, brushed him down, and made sure he had water and grain before he wandered back of the Inn to where Uien sat. She had not moved, still bent over her piece of wood that was slowly, slowly turning into a shape under her knife; a somewhat rounded shape, with three lumps coming out one side.

"What are those?" Falowik asked, pointing at the lumps.

"I do not know yet," Uien replied, looking up. Her grey eyes were large, her pupils shrinking under the sun's bright light. She was smiling at him. She seemed still at peace, at least in the peace that came with a making.

"Settles the mind, does it?"

"Aye." She nodded. "Come, sit by me." She patted the ground beside her.

"Thanks, but the sun is almost at noon and my stomach is growling. Join me for noon meal?"

She shook her head, her smile not fading. "I am not hungry. My work is my food; at least today."

"What will I say if Cook asks after you?"

She smirked, for both knew that Cook's ire would not go unspoken if Uien missed yet another meal. Light as a feather and she'll blow away if not for me!, Cook had been known to say. "Tell her I am still full from breaking my fast this morn."

"Well enough. Maybe I will bring out a morsel."

She smiled once and her head dropped, busy with her work; as if Falowik was not even there. He shrugged and made his way to the Common room.

It seemed dark within after the brightness of the noon sun, not a cloud in the sky. Falowik cast about for a place to sit.

"More water, girl!" cried a man in a grating, unfriendly voice. From the pouch at his belt he drew forth a silver penny and pushed it to the edge of the table. The hand that pushed the coin was scarred and mottled. The man seemed to want no company. Like me a year ago, Falowik thought. Leave him be. But much had happened to him in a year. Much good. Maybe it would not hurt to just sit at the same table. Why not?

Falowk made his way past many strangers, for he and Uien had spent more time outside the Common room than in, these last few days. He sat at right angles to the man.

"Good day!" he said, glancing at the man, unable to keep his eyes from widening at the scars that mottled the man's face as wells as hands. Like meat on a skewer! Falowik moderated his expression as quickly as he could, putting a smile on his lips. He looked right and left and said, "It gets busy fast here. I hope I may sit at this table to eat?"

"Suit yourself," the man said coolly.

"I am Falowik Stonewort of Bree. What are you called?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

For the next half hour, Miz Bella checked the work that was brought to her desk, offering words of encouragement to each of the children. Willy had been first in line. His work had been wildly creative with pictures splashed all over and lines of wobbly letters interspersed in the few bare spots left on the slate. Despite the craziness of his impromptu melange, Miz Bella could see that the lad actually had a good deal of talent when it came to seeing things and representing them with his chalk.

Closely inspecting the slate, she exclaimed, "Willy, I must tell you I like your drawings. In fact, I like them very much. You have a real knack for sketching. Usually, children who have such talent learn their letters very quickly because they can see how shapes and lines fit together. Next time, try putting the sketches on one side and the pictures on the other. That way, you'll have more room, and I can see both the pictures and letters more clearly."

Then Miz Bella checked over the slates from Reggie, Hanson, and Woody. She talked a bit about keeping letters like "B" taller than the rest, but for the most part praised the lads' efforts. "It'll get easier as you use the letters more. They are all very good for first tries!"

"As to how tall that bear was," Miz Bella directed her words at Woody, "you're going to have to figure that out on your own after lunch. You and everyone here. I'll give you some hints and some sticks for counting, and you can all have a guess at how tall the bear was. But for now I think it's time for lunch. I need one or two volunteers to go down and collect the soup and cheese in the kitchen from Cook and bring it back to class. Just come forward and volunteer and be on your way to the kitchen. The rest of you can go play in the garden while we're waiting for lunch to arrive. There's a nice enclosed area out there. Just try not to trample on the flower beds and stay inside the fence. And someone can fill our pitcher up with nice cold water from the well."

Miz Bella watched as several of the young hobbits scampered towards the door with a happy holler of relief. A few milled around the desk presumably waiting to volunteer. Miz Bella caught a glimpse of Camille and quickly interjected, "Oh, Camille, you were going back to the pond to bring your brother to school in the wheelbarrow. I've already spoken with Neviel and he says he'll be happy to help you..... And , by the way, I wanted to thank you and the other lasses for arranging those books. I've had a close look at them, and they are certainly unusual! There are many ways to arrange things and size and color are definitely one. Perhaps, sometime in the future, we'll talk about some other ways."

[Tevildo]

Miz Bella.... Camille walked over to where her teacher was seated and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Please, Miz Bella, I can get my brother on my own. I don't need Neviel to help."

"But Camille. It will go easier with the two of you."

"No, I would rather do it on my own." Camillle stared stubbornly at her teacher as she planted her hands firmly on her hips. "I would just feel more comfortable," she stammered and headed for the door before Miz Bella could object or Neviel could trail along after her.

***************

Camille headed out the door and cut across the courtyard, moving as quickly as she could. She did not like Neviel and felt relieved to be outside, walking towards the garden path that led to The Water. Hrumpf! What was an Elf doing in her school? Miz Bella should have told him he wasn't wanted. He was just too different.

Miz Bella had mentioned earlier that morning she planned to have the children run some races sometime today or tomorrow. Camille was an excellent runner and thought she might do very well. But how could she win against a gigantic eight year-old who was nearly twice her height? She had never felt comfortable around Elves, and, on the very rare occasions they had come across her path, she had tried to avoid them. Her brother's attitude was very different. Rory loved Elves with all his heart and would probably be enchanted by the prospect of having Neviel as a classmate and friend. Camille scowled to herself and pushed open the gate that led out of the courtyard and cut across the field to the spot where her mother's burrow lay.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Jon's tale wasn't sad anymore. He wished to forget the life he never had, and for once get rid of the ones who bound him to this world. "I dare not ask what Avalon's tale is. After all the last time I saw my Sarah was three years ago, now I have no one and nothing."

Dwaline puffed on his pipe as he pondered this tale. Avalon was now at the window and peered at John inquisitively. Dwaline nodded to her and she fluttered over and landed on his shoulder. The Dwarf gave a little Cram to her before turning back to John.

"Now that is a bundle of news and no mistake," he sighed, "the love you bare for this Sarah is obviously important to you. You shouldn’t let it die, even if you do. I was never a romantic; my wife and I had always been friends from childhood. But the bond cannot be severed even in bodily death.

If you're heart tells you that she lives, do not doubt it. Rejoice that she is alive. If Avalon holds some secret, I know not. But she is a bird full of more mysteries than even she knows."

[Lasbelinion]

‘What are you called?’

Lithmîrë turned cold grey eyes toward the speaker. The man asked a simple enough question. And how simply, too, had he announced himself. ‘Falowik Stonewort’ he said, the two words falling easily from his lips. A name that belonged to him and tied him to some greater line of descent. Or one at least that lay stretching behind him and perhaps before him, too.

And which one in his litany of names should he give to this man?

Maggot . . . muck-worm . . . cur . . . carrion . . . kindling . . . nasty bit of Elfspawn . . . foul Elf . . . filthy Elf . . . Elf dung . . .

Those last, at least, had paid some deference to his origins, his kindred. He swallowed the rising bile. Across the scarred map of his face flickered briefly a grim smile.

‘Lithmîrë,’ he rasped out, taking up his mug for a soothing drink, lest he begin to cough and choke with the effort of speaking. ‘Lithmîrë . . . late of Lithlad.’

[Amanaduial the archer]

"More water, girl!"

Aman bit back an immediate retort to the man's rude call after her. Turning slowly to face him, she was about to speak, then saw Falowik approaching the man's table, a friendly, amiable expression on his handsome features. He caught Aman's eye and gave her a small, enigmatic grin and shrugged. Aman raised an eyebrow but obligingly left Falowik to talk talk to the man and went to fulfill his request.

Bringing back a mug of hot water a few moments later (a strange requestm she had thought when she first arrived at the 'Dragon, but one that she found was quite common among travellers from afar), Aman placed it in front of the man, hearing him reply to Falowik's gently probing question.

"Lithmîrë. Lithmîrë . . . late of Lithlad." He began to cough, choking off the last of word of the sentence as his whole body was racked by a harsh cough, and, naturally concerned, Aman pushed the drink forward across the table to him. Without looking at her, he lifted it and drank deeply, his cough eventually residing. Aman pursed her lips but the man's violent coughing fit had softened her despite his rudeness and besides, it was such a beautiful day. Taking the coin and murmering something insignificant about the man needing to see a healer about that cough. "And my name is Aman, sir, not 'girl'; I am the Innkeeper of this establishment."

The man looked up, a sneer almost appearing on his scarred face, before he simply nodded mutely. Aman smiled, nodding back briskly. "Aye, well, a very good morning to you, Lithmîrë of Lithlad," she continued, then bustled away.

The day was fine and bright, all trace of the rainclouds that had hovered ominously over the Inn over the past few days having vanished now to leave the sky a clear, glorious shade of sapphire, the sun reflecting off the distant streams and rivers like gems. Looking up from a table she had bent over to clear of glasses and second breakfast dishes, Aman looked out of the window into the halflings' green and pleasant land, and smiled to herself as the sun beat warmly on her pale face: she looked tired from a night of thoughts and fitful dreams rather than sleep, but her smile was as energetic as ever, and her hair, unusually, was not pulled back from her face but instead hung in thick brown waves around her slim features. Sighing contentedly, Aman finished clearing the table and took them back to the bar, where Ruby was playing her favourite sport: poppling.

The sport of poppling is an ancient skill - a very art - that has been perfected unwittingly by those who were bored or simply in places of many people, over generations, in all the areas of Middle Earth. Ruby herself was a veteran, as was Buttercup, and the two hobbit waitresses often indulged themselves in a little light poppling - which was shortened, in some twisted way from 'people watching' - whenever they were able. Originally, the game had been called 'hobbling' - hobbit watching - but, as well as the rather strange connotations this word would have ("What are you doing, Ruby?" "Oh, just hobbling."), the Green Dragon's wide repetoire of customers meant that the term had had to be widely extended to a general 'people watching'. But enough on the history and finer details of Ruby's special brand of poppling, dear reader, for it is more in exactly who Ruby was watching, that sun-drenched morning, that brings us back to our story.

"May I ask who you're poppling upon this morning, Ruby?" Aman inquired in a murmur, her back still to the common room as she began to unload the tray of its glasses so they could be cleaned. Ruby looked sidelong at the Innkeeper then turned her attention back to the Common Room, never pausing in innocently wiping the beer glass in her hands. "I'm not sure I like the way you use that, Aman. 'Say it like it's peeking or somethin', rather than just poppling."

"Indeed, gods forbid that poppling be mistaken as peeking," Aman replied ironically, grinning slightly at the beer glasses as Ruby snorted derisively. "Anyway, excuse my misuse of the verb 'to popple', Ms. Brown," the woman continued, leaning on the counter. "I repeat, who are you watching?"

Now it was Ruby's turn to give the Innkeeper a sly grin as she turned her full attention back on her subjects, speaking with an air of studious authority. "Today's subjects, dear pupil, are a pair of men, thought, in my studied opinion, to be of Southern descent. One would appear to wear clothes of fine and splendid materials, and a medallion emblazoned with some odd and rather bizarre symbol - lord only knows what for, despite the finery this man wears, he is not exactly what one would call a gentleman: a strange and paradoxical being indeed, he does not actually appear to have shaved this morning - and nor has he actually paid for his own bleedin' tab, he's relying on that bard-y man who came in yesterday-"

"Who is Snaveling speaking to?" Aman suddenly became alert, interrupting what was turning into a muttered rant. Ruby grinned and stuck her tongue out a small way mischieviously. "Well now, that would be telling-"

"Ruby-!"

"Hey, hey, keep your hair on, just 'cos lover boy's talking to someone without your permission..." Ruby replied jokingly.

Aman raised an eyebrow. She could have laughed aloud at the hobbit girl's mockery - how surprised she would be to hear what had passed last night between Aman and Snaveling! No act of romantic love, that was certain, and there never would be either. Well, probably not anyway: it wasn't a regular occurence for granddaughters to sneak around mooning after their grandfathers...

The Innkeeper nearly laughed to herself at the image this conjured up in her mind, but simply contented herself with treating Ruby to an enigmatic smile without teeth. Sweeping away, Aman turned and quickly scanned the Common Room as she did so, focusing on Snaveling and his companion: a young man in the garb of one of the Southern Rangers, who weren't especially uncommon in the Green Dragon, considering their relative rarity. Deciding there was no time like the present, Aman braced herself and started over to them, notepad determinedly at the ready - she would have to talk to Snaveling this morning, she supposed, and there was no time like the present.

"...spoke of you once or twice when I was in Minas Tirith, and he asked that if I heard word of you or your companions that I would tell you from him that your efforts are noted by him with appreciation and love."

The end of Snaveling's words were caught by Aman as she approached silentlyt from behind the Black Numenorean. Guessing who he was speaking about, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes and leant down behind Snaveling, her hair slipping from behind her ear to fall in a brown-blonde curtain beside his face as she whispered, "Show-off."

Snaveling turned with a smile to Aman, his eyebrows raised, apparently surprised at how she had crept up on him. She smiled and bid both gentlemen a good morning before inquiring if they would like anything for lunch, which was to start in about half an hour, or whether they would like anything else. The ranger replied brusquely, "Indeed, a pint of ale please, barkeep; I would not like anything to eat as yet - I appear to have lost my appetite." The last part was accompanied by a meaningful glower at Snaveling. The latter grinned and glanced up at Aman before gesturing towards his companion with one hand and introducing him. "Aman, this is Valthalion, a ranger I had the pleasure to meet in Minas Tirith. Val, this is Amanaduial...the formidable Innkeeper of the Green Dragon."

The pause before Aman's position was almost unnoticeable and indeed, Val seemed far too preoccupied to notice it. Before Snaveling could ask for anything, the incensed ranger burst out again. "A Black Numenorian? I cannot believe it, Snaveling, that you could... And to think, that King Elessar himself claimed you as kin!"

"Maybe the king has learnt to forgive the differences of the past and does not see me as a threat," Snaveling replied softly, reclining comfortably in his chair as he ran his finger absent-mindedly around the rim of his beer glass.

Valthalion almost laughed aloud. "A threat? Well, why would you be to the king of the United Kingdoms?" he scoffed. "Why, at least you are basically the only Black Numenorian left alive - and if you have no children, maybe that is where the line will end!"

Snaveling stiffened slightly by Aman's side, but the Innkeeper merely gave one of her small, secretive half smiles. Now...now was the perfect moment. Was she really ready to reveal her secret, and Snaveling's? It was nothing to be ashamed off, not now that she had a past and life of her own, a family even, back in Rohan; she was not a Black Numenorian in the sense that those who had forced Elessar's ancestors into hiding were, but nonetheless Valthalion was rather mistaken in his prediction. Taking a deep breath, she reached out a hand and laid it hesitantly on Snaveling's shoulder.

"Not...not the last, I think Valthalion."