The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Kransha]

Someone else was sneaking about in the Dragon as well.

Tobias Hornblower.

Toby, after eavesdropping on the conversation between Amanduial and Snaveling in the stables, an event which he regretted having heard, had managed to assume his long lost vermin’s tendencies and scurry into the inn unnoticed by most, and most importantly, unnoticed by the innkeeper and her wiles. He still had to avoid her, as much as he didn’t want to, but was now also occupied by the matter of Snaveling and Aman. They went together, as the saying went in Longbottom, like weed to a pipe. Toby didn’t bother denying it. In fact, he’d been subconsciously denying the fact, or at least ignoring it. He was wistfully unaware, though he had good reason to be so. He was darkly preoccupied with his own matters. If such a thing had happened in the old days, before the ill sequence of events that had befallen Toby, he might’ve played matchmaker if he could. He done such things back in Longbottom, and was accredited among Hornblower’s for bringing about the weddings of several of his close relatives…though mostly for personal gain.

The elderly hobbit wondered now, miserably, what he would do. His inner, hobbitish instinct kept driving him to and fro like a meek little fishing boat in a storm. He continually considered making his concerns known, publicly, to someone at least. The burden was making his entire existence a continual cycle of repetition and wariness. Being circumspect might be routine for some, but Toby wasn’t used to this heightened level of cautiousness. He disliked it…he really disliked it, and had had enough. But still, he could not make up his mind about what to do. He was lost in a sea of choices, which should’ve been a good thing, but was instead more hindering and cumbersome. It made him feel obtuse, in truth, and that irked him most. He was compulsory, and though he often schemed and conspired, his skill at being decisive was always sharp and ready. For once, it had been dulled, leaving Toby at wit’s end and in the dark.

He sat in the dark as well, for the sunny light, fair and golden, streaming through the inn’s windows did not reach him. He had taken up temporary residence at a corner table, at the dark side of the Common Room, surrounded by bustling folk who obscured any view of him. He looked across the room every so often at Snaveling, or Aman, simply to see if they were looking back. He did not want them to be, if they were, but part of him wished they knew. He held his weary head in his hand and breathed deeply, hoping to calm himself. The hobbit kept glancing, almost involuntarily, at Snaveling, who looked to have become almost as much a hermit as he. But Toby knew that Snaveling had nothing to hide, and that was the difference between them…though he did, perhaps, have some things.

Suddenly, it hit him (again). He could tell Snaveling. He didn’t know why he hadn’t done it before. The eyes of Aman had not been on him all night. He’d thought of this before, but not mustered the courage to do anything. Now he could. Toby could simply approach his compatriot, take him aside, and carefully explain the situation. It was simple; painfully simple, in fact. Toby could not believe he had not done it before. His face warmed up, his ears quivered nobly, and his chest inflated. Then, like a King ascending, he stood…

And sat back down again a moment later. He couldn’t do it, no matter what circumstances. The hobbit could not bring himself to force his woes on a friend, or even break to him the news. Even a close and dear friend would probably misinterpret it, or not understand. He buried his head in his hands again, kneading his sore temples, and pulled himself back into the refreshing shade, hoping to conceal himself fully from any onlookers. There was nothing for him to do, except await the painful inevitability that was to come.

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

Not far away, an obnoxious voice woke up those animals on either side of Bywater Road who were still sleeping.

“Hurry up, slowpoke!”

Scratching the swollen wart on his bulbous nose, Spurge Proudfoot dug his proud feet harshly into the grizzled haunches of an ancient pony, causing it to bray uncomfortably and, instead of quicken its pace, buck and slow to a standstill. Growling, his murderous rage at the horse full to bursting, the hobbit struck the beast mightily, creating a resounding clap that reverberated in his ears. He clasped one hand to his ear, and the other’s chubby digits tightened on reins slippery with sweat. The horse brayed more madly, and printed his weakened hooves in the dusty earth, sending up a torrent of sandy mist that manufactured a shroud around the pony and his rider. Atop the animal, the hobbit swayed and lurched, his ear-gripping hand now coming to his stomach and grasping a monstrous belly that sagged in his hand. Spurge Proudfoot was definitely not a very apt rider. Twisting his face into a foul grimace he leaned and looked forward at the mounted figure on the well-trodden road in front of him. “Why don’t you slow down, hotfoot.” He yelled towards the figure heatedly, “You know I’m not good with these blasted pennies!”

The figure not far off, barely noticeable by Spurge through the newly sprung curtain of dust, turned his pale-faced head, shaking it in an admonishing fashion. “They’re called ponies, Spurge, not pennies.” He cried back, emphasizing the word ‘pennies’ as if he were stabbing something, his voice pointed and precise. Spurge’s lip curled disdainfully, and he spurred his mount out of the dust cloud until, after much unwieldy gallivanting, he had maneuvered it up to a point on the road just behind the other horse and rider. “You think I care what they’re called?” he growled crudely, half muttering and half speaking to the other Halfling, “Doesn’t change the fact that they’re smelly, and slow, and stupid.” The other hobbit turned, flicking his long and tangled mop of hair to and fro on his head. “Well, maybe you should shut your trap.” He retorted glumly (this being the reason why he was most often called “Glumwell” Boffin, rather than his real and true name, Gromwell). His words were dry and witless, but he seemed to be more in charge of his verbal faculties. Spurge, who was known as “Splurge” to Gromwell only, often slurred words together and, despite a long and grueling education, had not mastered his own tongue.

“Maybe you should learn to ride better, so’s you don’t hafta complain all the time.”

“Maybe you should think a little before you open your big mouth, less’n you wanna fist in your face someday.”

A third voice interjected before both pony-riding hobbits came to blows. It was a delicate, grandiose voice, that of a theatrical being, with annunciation and a voice for the stage, or, perhaps, for the birds, depending on how long one was forced to hear it. The voice said: “Maybe both of you should show a little tact and settle down before some ill-mannered tussock burgeons between you. We’re on a mission, remember.” Not missing a beat, Gromwell echoed the last line, smirking moronically. “Yeah, we’re on a mission.”

The source of the voice was Fescue Bracegirdle, a flowery, overblown Hobbit, stuffed into his clothes as if he were being worn by them, rather than them by him. He had a black-haired head, and a face that was heroic and debonair at first, and later became stifled, conservative, and ridiculous to look at. One had to admit, though, his face, and his overly regal attitude was much more tolerable that Spurge’s oafish thug persona, and Gromwell’s intolerably wormy nature. Fescue was the self-styled leader of the trio, even though he was also higher up on the scale of intelligence, and of many other things. Neither Gromwell nor Spurge cared about this, though. They were content to be in the business they were in, which was a busy business, certainly. The trio was all in the government business, or so they claimed. Really, they merely worked for the barely official government of the Shire, which, in Tookland and least, consisted of the Thain and his men. Thain’s men did not have the same power that local Shirriffs and Postmasters had, and had comparatively less, but they still had some minor duties. Most of those duties were the same, delivering the Thain’s messages on whims to the Shirriffs, who then delivered messages to the local populace. Fescue thought that his position was greater than this, but such a rank was above his own. He was merely in charge of a personal delivery, though he considered it to be much more.

“See, Master Proudfoot?” Fescue continued, in his aloof, dated tone of voice, “Gromwell has the right idea. Perhaps you should take etiquette lessons from Master Boffin, if you ever wish to gain a position of authority…like me.” He puffed out his miniscule chest, and his mount gave a whinnying neigh that resembled a sigh of annoyance, and could easily be misconstrued as such. Spurge grumbled, muttering inaudibly to himself, though the words, “Position of authority my foot!” were clearly heard by Gromwell. He might’ve have raised the proverbial alarm on Spurge, but he was cut short by another proclamation by Fescue Boffin as the trio crested a small, grassy ridge, flanking hilly fields, and a lump of a building came into site nearby. Fescue jabbed his finger forward, striking a dashing pose and nearly falling off his ‘noble steed.’ “Ah, yes.” He said daringly, “There she is, lads; the Green Dragon Inn: our charge.”

Spurge scratched his head. “Why are we charging? Is the criminal in there?”

“No.” Fescue snapped, almost losing his well-maintained composure, “We’ve been charged with the defense of the Green Dragon, and defend it we shall, upon the mighty bulwarks of Eriadorian law. I do not doubt that the place is filled with poor, defenseless souls in need of rescue. I assure you, boys, some will panic when we tell them the horrid news, but we will yet prevail. For we, my comrades in arms, are in the service of the Thain, and shall not shirk our duties, may they be physical, clerical, or lackadaisical.” With a powerful gesture, he goaded his steed on, and Gromwell followed up the oratory with a loud and triumphant, “Indeed!” He looked down on the Green Dragon Inn, aiming his beady eyes at the small stable that adorned it.

The three had soon clip-clopped their merry way to the stable, which was, to their mild surprise (and Spurge’s dismay) without a stable master. Fescue, Gromwell, and Spurge managed to wade through some high layers of hay and deposit their ponies in some unoccupied stalls, some of the few that were unfilled. One horse, though, was giving them a very hard time, braying and neighing and making an assortment if loud noises that grated on Spurge’s easily grated nerves. Of course, when he turned to see the animal that had made him so irate, he forgot his annoyance in light of the awesome nature of the creature. It was a noble and mighty animal, not like anything found in the Shire. It seemed almost undomesticated, wild and free, though it was compliant with the terms of its stall.

“Tha’s a mighty fine penny!” remarked Spurge,

“It’s 'pony',” commented Gromwell, as he gave his own pony a firm pat on the haunch that caused the beast to make a glancing kick at him with its front leg, though it missed utterly, “and that’s not a pony. That’s a horse.” Managing to ignore the equestrian experience, Gromwell turned and picked hay disgustedly off of his uniform. Spurge glowered at him as Fescue busied himself looking at the horses, scrutinizing them for some unknown, but no doubt very important, reason. “Well, how’m I supposed to know the difference?” Spurge Proudfoot shot back menacingly, shooting a sharp look at his rival. “You’re not,” Gromwell nimbly replies, “‘cuz you’ve got a head as thick as unchurned butter!” At last Fescue turned and placed his outstretched hands between the two as they stared each other down. “Now, now, lads,” he said coolly, though still overblown in his speech, “we ought not to be quarrelling over such petty matters, yes? Remember, we’ve been-”

“Yeah, charged.” Spurge interrupted him, sulking, “I got it.”

“I’ll bet.” Gromwell snapped.

Fescue ignored them both, musing and scratching his carved chin. “Mayhaps,” he philosophized to himself, “the chief ostler is not in at the moment.” Gromwell nodded dutifully, like any canine ought to (and the situation would’ve been vastly improved if he was a canine). “Mayhaps.” He said, acting in his customary fashion, as the precise and accurate echo of Fescue Bracegirdle. Fescue gave him a friendly look, the kind of look that master gives a dog, saying ‘for that, you get a bone later,’ and then said, in his heroic manner, that had already become annoying to the very air around him, and the horses, “Then let us proceed within.” And as they al left, he did not bother to note that many of the steeds let out neighs of relief.

So they entered, and found no one to accommodate them. The place was bustling with mid-morning activity, that of hobbits and men alike, who all cluttered the floors and tables. There was no person who seemed to stand out – to them – as innkeeper, or proprietor, or a person of some powerful position. With Fescue in the lead, the trio sauntered through the Common Room, very much expecting everyone to move out of their way, but no one did. Annoyed, they worked their way forward, searching for someone with authority. They found no one who had any, that they knew of, but they did manage to locate a fellow who looked as if he did. They did not know, at the time, that his name was Snaveling, so they did not call him that – or, Fescue did not, the other two did not like the Big Folk, and felt likewise about speaking to them. So, Fescue Bracegirdle addressed the well-clothed, nobly groomed, and kingly fellow called Snaveling.

“Fine sir.” He said, tapping the man on the shoulder as he sat, reclusively, despite his crowded surroundings, in a small chair, “You seem to be very…gargantuan…in stature and in gait. Perhaps you, a man of such noble girth and eminence, might be able to direct us to the proprietor of the most indomitable establishment?"

[Gird]

A large man clumped up the steps of the Green Dragon with loud thumps of his fine leather boots. He walked with a sense of almost king-like dignity as he entered the establishment. His clothes were well kept and of a fine quality. A scarlet-purple cape was draped down his back. The fair face of the man was underneath a styled head of hair. The man's deep blue eyes had a sense of noble purpose- but also deep down (though none could see it) a sense of mischief. And it was a mischievous and devilish deed that this man had come to act forth. It was to be his folly that he had entered the inn just moments after three agents of the Shire's Thain had also entered the inn.

With a swift and powerful leap, the man had jumped up onto the counter of the bar(knocking over several hobbits' drinks). He called aloud, above the noise of the crowd. "Dwellers of th' Green Dragon Inn! Do not be alarmed. I am hereby taking over the position of leadership in this place, as of now." With a sense of triumph the man looked around the room. The common room was silent and all he could see were faces covered in shock, disgust and anger. He continued, starting to pace along the counter, "This will mark the beginning of my mighty empire that will stretch all across Middle Earth and I shall reign supreme for a thousand yeeaa.."

The man was now falling. Evidently he had slipped on some of the spilled liquor as he paced the counter. Now, from such a self-righteous position he was falling to the dirty, hobbit and traveller trodden, floorboards.

After a couple seconds of blackness, the man awoke to sounds of excited chatter, some laughter and the faces of 'The Thain's Three', peering down at him.

[Maeggaladiel]

"Perhaps," added Eleniel, "but you have company now, Soronume." She smiled and took a drink of her ale, absently tossing Arrow another piece of bread. It was gone with a single snap of his silver and ivory jaws. He licked his lips and stared hungrily up at her, as though he hadn't eaten in years.

"Did you say you've traveled to Cirith Ungol?" Eleniel continued. "You must be very adventurous indeed! What caused you to go to that dismal place?"

Arrow started to whine. He stared up at Eleniel with large brown eyes, giving her the patented "Sad Puppy Look."

"ALL RIGHT." she said forcefully. "Here. Happy now?" She ordered a plate of bacon and set it on the floor. Arrow wagged his tail. Yes, he was quite happy now.

She nibbled on a piece of her own breakfast and took another drink. It seemed as though the dust from the road had been building up in her throat. Soon she'd have accumulated a fine sized desert where her tongue should be. The ale helped a great deal.

"I've never been to Cirith Ungol," she said, turning back to Soronume. "although my adventures have taken me close to the land of Mordor. What was it like?"


She turned briefly at the sound of the well-dressed incomer. He doesn't look like much of a traveller, she thought. He looks more like a bored nobleman.

"Dwellers of the Green Dragon Inn," she heard him bellow. "Do not be alarmed. I am taking over the position of leadership as of now."

Eleniel was far from alarmed. She rolled her eyes wearily and cast Soronume a wry smile.

"Somehow I doubt Lady Aman will surrender her position." she said. She watched as the man slipped on a puddle of spilled ale and landed on the floor. She gave a snort.

"Whatever is the world coming to?"

Arrow seemed to find this newcomer most amusing. Wagging his tail, he abandoned his licked-clean plate and sniffed at the man's face, licking his nose.

"Arrow," Eleniel called sharply. "Leave the amature inn hijacker alone."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling was shaken out of his reverie by the oddest trio of hobbits he had ever beheld. For a moment, he could have sworn that he was looking at the younger cousin, or perhaps even the brother of Tobias, for the Halfling who addressed him had the same overblown sense of grandiosity that was so charming in his friend. One moment’s inspection, however, dispelled this notion, for nowhere in this countenance as there evident the good hearted roguery of Tobias Hornblower. Instead, Snaveling detected the officious sanctimony of a minor official with an inflated sense of his own purpose. Snaveling could not help but smile at the trio, who gave in return only stern looks. “I am not,” Snaveling began, in his best court manner, “in the habit of giving out information about my friends to total strangers. Might I ask who you are, and why it is that you seek the Innkeeper?”

For a second, the lead Halfling looked like a kettle that had been left to boil dry, so furiously did his chest puff out. A thick thumb planted itself in the middle of his out-thrust shirt and the little fellow chuffed out, “Mister Fescue Bracegirdle.” His thumb then moved to point over his shoulder and he said again, as though he were listing off produce in a shopping bag, “Masters Spurge Proudfoot,” his thumb moved to his other shoulder “and Grumwell Boffin.” He returned his thumb to his pocket and, planting his feet apart, began in what Snaveling felt must be his best official manner. “We are here on Thain’s business, sir, and not to be rude, but if you aren’t in the business of discussing your friends with strangers, I’m not about to speak of my mission to an outsider, begging your pardon and no offense intended.”

“None taken.” Now Snaveling had a very difficult moment repressing his smile. To cover the effort he straightened in his chair and spoke in the manner that he had learned from watching his King with foreign emissaries. “My name, though you have not asked it, is Tar-Corondil, although I am known to the people of these parts as Snaveling. To answer your question, the Innkeeper is…”

At that moment a loud voice from the far side of the room announced that it belonged to the new ruler of the Inn. Even as Snaveling was attempting to digest this odd notion, the owner of the voice fell to the floor. Snaveling rose to his feet, not to help but the better to watch this comic moment unfold. His eye caught sight of Tobias sitting alone in a dark corner, and in a flash he knew that the arrival of Fescue and company had something to do with his friend. Eager to distract their attention, Snaveling pointed to the man on the floor and said to Fescue, “Why the Innkeeper has saved me the trouble of pointing him out! There he is upon the floor. You must forgive his outburst, it happens when he’s partaken of too much ale.”

[Firefoot]

Lily grinned, both in memory of yesterday's ride and in anticipation of another one. "Yes, yes, I should like that very much," she said. "After luncheon it is." Clover stamped his foot as if he too were eager to get out. Posco had finished checking on his pony, and he walked over to her, asking, "Have you finished?" Lily gave her pony a gentle tug on his forelock in farewell and turned to Posco.

"Yes, I am ready to go back to the inn now." Lily took Posco's offered hand and they returned to the inn together. Upon entering, Lily took note of the man lying on the floor by the bar. She murmured, "Someone has apparently had too much beer. At this hour!" Posco nodded in agreement. He led her to a table towards the back, pulling out a chair for her to sit in and then sitting down himself.

"Another ride," Lily mused. There was a joking tone in her voice and a sparkle in her eye. "Now what kind of adventures do you think we might have this time around? Runaway ponies, maybe? I think we will have fun."

[Lalwendë]

Jinniver had done her best to get clean after the unforeseen tumble in the dirt, but there was only so much a bucket of cold water could do to wash off so much muck. Her fingernails were still blackened where she had made a vain attempt to claw at the ground when she was brought down, and she now had a few nasty splinters in her hands. In between bites of her scone, which she held using a clean napkin, she picked at the tiny shards of wood.

She did not sit still for long; soon she was up and whirling around, beating the skirts of her tunic furiously in an attempt to remove more of the soil. Her face grew quite red, as she got more frustrated with her futile attempts to remove the mess. Her other tunic was not fit to wear, as it was badly stained and creased, so she could not change. The only clean garment she had with her was her best dress which was packed in the travelling bag in her bedchamber. She realised with a sigh that she would have to change into it later while she had her tunics laundered. It was too expensive a dress to wear for gardening, so she would have to put on a brave face about the state of her clothes until her work was done for the day.

As she was agonising with herself, she had stood lost in thought as the hobbit lads had burst out in another scene of commotion. Hearing about the youthful romantic feelings of young Ferdy, she smiled. But a sense of sadness was behind her smile. It was a long time since she had felt that rush of pride and embarrassment at being found out for liking someone. She looked across to where the young hobbit lass, Ginger, was tending to the flowers at the inn, and almost felt a tear rise in her eye.

[Kransha]

Taking several auspicious glances in rapid succession, over his statuary shoulders, Fescue Bracegirdle eventually got around to speaking again, after double-taking a number of times at the strange man who this aristocratic fellow had nominated as the innkeeper. “Well, thank you very much, Master Snaveling Tar-Corondil.” He said, bowing with a highly embellished flourish, “The Thain thanks you for your services.” The man nodded pleasantly and turned away, a little too promptly for Fescue’s liking, but the hobbit was far too enthralled by his own deeds to realize that something might be amiss. He turned sharply on his unclothed heel, and looked down at the peculiar “innkeeper” of the Green Dragon, one primly formed eyebrow raised just above the other. Spurge nudged Fescue with his grimy elbow, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.

“He doesn’t look like an innkeeper, Fes. Looks like more of a toss-pot to me.” remarked Gromwell astutely. “Fescue, Gromwell,” Fescue Bracegirdle swiftly corrected, in a timely manner, “and I do think he has that air that a mannish business-owner should.” He turned his head and looked down, with mild indignation, at the pompous fellow, taking due note of his appearance, slight dishevelment, bombastic gait and girth, and his looks on the whole. He then nodded curtly and turned back, looking back at Gromwell as if his point had been magically proven simply by looking at the man. Spurge, though, did not seem convinced, though Gromwell began vigorously nodding to satiate Fescue.

“But the Thain’s message stated that the innkeeper was a girl.” Spurge said, jabbing a fat finger at Fescue, his lip curled in disdain. He paused, looking contemplative for a moment(or, about as contemplative as half-witted Spurge Proudfoot could), his finger pausing in mid-motion, and then suddenly flew to his side, to the leathery belt that hung over his shoulder as a military sash might. In the folds of the broad baldric, several scrolls were held by further cords and draperies, and the brawny hobbit produced from the multitude of messages a single scroll of fine-smelling, rosy parchment, and pulled out a small slip of paper that was enclosed in the proclamation’s binding ribbon. He energetically flicked open the note with his spatulate thumb, and held it out to Fescue, filling the other Halfling’s face with the terse message, tapping his longest digit against the salutation at the top. “See?” he said, almost voraciously, as he was not used to being right and always savored the opportunity to be so, “It says ‘Miss Amanduial,’ not Mister.”

Wrinkling his nose and pulling back from the slip of paper and shoving it aside dismissively. “Probably a clerical error.” He said to both of his bewildered cohorts, calm and collected as usual as he pilfered the message from Spurge’s upraised hand and tucked it neatly beneath the length of ribbon that held the scroll. “Even the Thain makes mistakes…sometimes.” He hastily corrected himself, and Gromwell heartily grinned, though spurge simply snorted. “Anyway,” Fescue Bracegirdle continued, almost drawling fine, classical rhetoric in that operatic voice of his, preaching to the sky, “why would any man lie of such things? No one has reason to hinder our noble course. It is not as if he is the criminal.” Gromwell let loose a good-natured, but obviously forced chuckle at this.

Spurge, on the other hand, looked as if his slow mind had just been rejuvenated by thought. “Maybe ‘e is!” He cried, practically leaping from his grounded position. The hobbit seemed poised, strangely, and impelled to speak voraciously; stabbing a finger like a sword at the man, who had his back turned, and he spoke in a fierce, rasping whisper. But, Fescue waved him aside again, incredulous in the extreme. “Spurge,” he said, like a frustrated educator, “the criminal is a hobbit.” His eyes turned to Snaveling, who seemed to be nervously milling about, and said, with some confidence: “That is not a hobbit.” But, Spurge had not gotten over his sudden burst of luster, and spouted out the only possible explanation he could think of, one that seemed perfectly plausible - to him.

“Maybe he’s wearin’ stilts?”

Fescue did not even hesitate to terminate that theory. “What a ridiculous concept.” He admonished his accomplice, “Surely, this is the innkeeper. Let us find out.” His prognosis was curt, and not to be argued, siding physically with his supervisor, Gromwell gave a stern nod, which followed Fescue’s own, and Spurge shrunk back in defeat, his venture deemed preposterous by Fescue’s sterling logic. Grumbling in an underhanded manner, Spurge followed suit as Fescue turned and leaned over the gaudy fellow and gripping his hand, attempted to extricate him from the floor. The poor hobbit, witty as he was, had nowhere near enough strength in his small arms to arouse the man, so surly Spurge had to grab the man’s other arm. They tugged uselessly for a few moments before the man got up of his own accord, rocking slightly from side to side like one intoxicated, which elicited indignant looks from Spurge and Gromwell. Fescue, though, was polite and socially refined, as usual, presenting himself as a rare find to the man, who looked at him with a most peculiar look plastered on his fair face, which caused Spurge to cough uncomfortably, a bit disconcerted.

“Excuse me,” he began eloquently, “most noble innkeeper of the Green Dragon. Are you well?” This was said with a minimal air of concern, though not doleful concern, or credible concern, but obligatory concern. The hobbit did not let the simple phrase be answered before he plowed on with his prudish yammering. “Your associate here,” he said, indicating Snaveling (who was actually not where he had been, thus rendering Fescue’s auxiliary gesture meaningless), “tells me you’ve had excess liquor, but I am sure that such a respectable fellow is always sober, to some degree; else you would not be able to manage such a reputed, eminent, renowned, and wholly fine establishment.”