The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Esgallhugwen]

'Of what purpose do you think, my friend?'

Of my purpose here, for all my foresight it is still unclear to me. And yet I cannot leave for I am still drawn to this place, there is something that I must accomplish yet.

Eswen's eyes refocused coming back from her hidden thought. She turned her attentions once more to the Hobbit lass.

"I just came out for a breath of fresh air, it got pretty stuffy inside the Inn there with all those people and their love of smoking. Plus there was some kind of a commotion. A man fell unconscious though I think he's alright now and as they were taking him into the kitchens things were getting knocked over. I didn't fancy getting squashed by a table!"

"No I don't suppose any of us would fancy getting squashed by anything including a table", a white glimmer was approaching the lass from behind. "Don't be frightened".

"Frightened of what?", something wet met her hand and she jumped forward, farther then Eswen had ever seen a Hobbit jump, with a shriek. She spun around and two gold eyes, the left flecked with ice blue, met her wide eyed stare.

"His name is Nimrómen, a wolf cub barely a year old"

[Huan]

Rowan and the dragon hunters

Rowan crouched down between the two boys, her brown eyes glinting with merriment. ‘Well, which of you brave lads is going in after him?’ she asked, her voice pitched low. ‘He’s our singer, you know. And we’ll be needing him soon.’ She nodded her head to the little stage across the room. ‘The fellow over there. Gil, isn’t it? I can see him waving to us.’

She reached into one of the pockets in her vest and handed each of them a small silver bell. They tinkled merrily as she laid one in each boy’s hand. ‘A traveling tinker from the Blue Mountains gave them to me. He said the Dwarves there make them to scare off the little dragons that still haunt the deeper tunnels. Just hold them out before you and jingle them as you hunt for Emlin.’

‘Go on now,’ she urged them, pointing to the shadows beneath the long table. ‘Bring him back to us!’

[Lasbelinion]

Lithmîrë could feel himself begin to relax as the meal progressed. In part, he knew, because Mistress Bunce had given him the herbal tea concoction. But also, he thought, it was the company. They’d talked more of gardens and the herbs she’d used to flavor the stew.

The conversation had drifted into family and where she’d come from. She hadn’t pressed him for any details on his own, and he was glad of it. For what could he tell her that wouldn’t send her screaming from the room? He could barely recall the early days, before the long years of captivity and labor in the ashy plains of Mordor. And those long years were not something one could share lightly. He wouldn’t know how, anyway. Not now and possibly never.

Mistresses Bunce’s voice flowed over him, including him in her little stories, filling him in as if he were a long lost friend who needed catching up. For his part he’d managed a few sociable comments and found himself surprised at times in his interest at the details of her ordinary life.

His attention was caught by a long pause in her talking, preceded, he thought, by a rise in the tone of her voice. She had asked a question. Scrambling wildly to recall the words, he heard the music and singing come in through the partially opened kitchen door. Mistress Bunce was looking at him expectantly.

‘You’d like to go out and listen to the music?’ he asked tentatively, fishing for the source of her question.

[Kath]

"No I don't suppose any of us would fancy getting squashed by anything including a table" replied the Elf, smiling gently. Suddenly her eyes seemed to fix on a point just behind Astilwen who had just time enough to ponder the quiet command not to be frightened before she felt something wet behind her. Leaping off the bench in fright she screamed and whirled around, coming face to face with something she had only ever heard described in fireside tales, meant to scare hobbit children off to bed.

"His name is Nimrómen, a wolf cub barely a year old"

She heard the Elf speaking to her and tried to concentrate, finding it a little difficult with the wolf looking right at her with his oddly coloured eyes. But as she calmed a little from her fright she began to take in the beauty of the creature before her, the wolf's fur really was the purest of whites and his stare seemed to contain curiosity rather than malice. Shakily she moved to sit down on the bench, hoping her legs would keep stable til she got there. Having sat she took a few deep breaths and called up again to the Elf.

"He's only a year old? He's big! Is he yours?"

[piosenniel]

Cook looked at Lithmire a little perplexed. Sometimes he just seemed to drift off, lost in some old memories or thoughts. He’d missed her question, which had nothing to do with the music from the common room. Rather she’d wanted to know if he’d like to have tea and some of her plum tarts now or a little later. But since he’d given her opportunity, she ran with it.

‘Yes,’ she answered him, nodding her head enthusiastically. ‘Gil and his band have set up and are playing. And there are some Players who’ve brought their puppets and things and might be persuaded to give us a little show later.’

Not waiting for him to decline the invitation to go out to the Common Room, she got up from her chair and bustled over to the counter where the tarts lay ready to be served. She piled a number of them on a small plate and poured a fresh pot of tea for the both of them. Motioning for him to bring the cups along, she led the way to the outer room and found them and out of the way table with a good view of the little stage area.

‘There we go!’ she declared setting the tarts and the teapot between them. ‘Now we’ll hear us some good Shire tunes. And look there! It’s Master Hearpwine just finishing up a song. He’s from Rohan, you know. Just like our Aman. The Innkeeper. Though I swear the girl’s got a better head on her shoulders than he does. It must be all that being a bard for the King and all there. Makes him a bit featherheaded and loud. Got a good heart, though, helping with the little ones in the school and all . . .’

She kept up her patter, commenting on this one and that until she saw him relax and settle into his chair. ‘Always looks like some little hare . . . eyes darting all about and ready to run at the slightest hint of danger,’ she thought to herself as she poured him a mug of steaming sweetspice tea and edged the plate of tarts near his hand.

[Arry]

Gil nodded toward where Larien sat talking to the Bard. ‘Perhaps later we can entice her out again to sing for us,’ he said to those gathered in the room. ‘A fair voice she has. And a fair face, too. Easy on the ears and easy on the eyes, that lass!’ He turned back to his fellows and spoke quietly with them for a moment.

‘Well, here’s one for all you merchant men,’ he said, as Ferrin and Fallon played the opening notes for the next song. ‘’All of you who have to leave your sweetheart at home while you’re off to take care of business.’

I'm lonesome since I crossed the hill,
And o'er the moorland sedgy
Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill,
Since parting with my Rosie
I seek for one as fair and gay,
But find none to remind me
How sweet the hours I passed away,
With the lass I left behind me.

O ne'er shall I forget the night,
the stars were bright above me
And gently lent their silv'ry light
when first she vowed to love me
But now I'm bound to Bree and beyond
kind heaven then pray guide me
And send me safely back again,
to the lass I left behind me

Her golden hair in ringlets fair,
her eyes like diamonds shining
Her slender waist, her pretty face,
that leaves my heart still pining
Stars above oh hear my plea
to my beauteous fair to find me
And send me safely back again,
to the lass I left behind me

The bee shall honey taste no more,
the dove become a ranger
The falling waters cease to roar,
ere I shall seek to change her
Vows we made to the heavens above
shall ever cheer and bind me
In constancy to her I love,
the lass I left behind me.

[Undómë]

Hob puffed quietly on his pipe. He’d passed on the last offer of Dwarven spirits, preferring instead to stick to his mug of stout. The song the young lads were singing brought a bit of a mist to his eyes. And he wiped it away quickly with his cuff. The song had set him to thinking about his dear Marigold. Back on Girdley Island. Looking after their two small sons and their wee house while he was away.

He glanced at the big man, Benat, and wondered if he had someone he’d left behind when he’d gone on his travels.