The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Lalwendë]

Jinniver’s eyes did not leave Pegram. She stared at him furiously, even reaching for the pouch of tobacco and filling her pipe without looking at what she did. How dare he come here and spoil her enjoyment? It was not as though she had gone far and for long. She realised he must have been at the farm early this morning, and seen the letter she had sent to their father, informing him that she would be staying on a while longer. Before she had left, Pegram had given her a long list of instructions on where not to go and what not to do, how to avoid any unwanted attention being drawn to her. She had borne these instructions in mind, and had come to feel restricted by them; to her delight, had found that Hobbiton was very different to Bree, somehow safer, so now, she did not care so much for his so called helpful instructions.

Pegram, meanwhile, felt all eyes upon him. It was no matter to him; his pride caused him to puff out his chest a little as the other man addressed him. Who was he to step into his business with his sister? As Derufin spoke, indignance spread across Pegram’s face and he did not hear half of what was said to him, but he took the chair offered. There he sat with his arms folded tightly across his broad chest, carefully taking the measure of the man who had spoken. Who might this man be to his little sister? And who was he to step in to talk about one he cared for so deeply?

‘What sort of business are you in,’ Derufin asked Pegram, rather too casually, he thought. It was the voice of a man ready to spring to the defence but all too careful not to reveal this. Pegram could tell from his tone that he thought he might be defusing the argument in some way. Let him try what he might, Pegram thought to himself, if he wanted to start any trouble then this was his business and nobody else‘s. ‘Begging your pardon, in advance, if I seem too forward - but if you’re anything like your sister, I would easily guess you are prospering . . .’

Jinniver noticed her brother’s face twitch with thought at the question. He did not like to be asked about his money; his possessions were one thing, but the secrets of his successful distillery in Bree were keenly protected by him. His young son, Jinniver’s nephew, would one day learn these secrets but they were not for anyone else.

“I am a distiller. Cornthrift of Bree,” he answered eventually. “My products go far and wide in these times. Though they are quality, no, luxury goods as you may say.” His held his broad face high, and his words were clipped and measured. He wished to impress upon the other man that he was no mere farmer.

Unfolding his arms, Pegram took out a beautifully finished pipe, but he did not help himself to the pouch of pipeweed which Derufin had placed on the table. Instead, he drew out a soft green leather pouch of his own, and set about the business of filling his pipe. Before lighting the pipe, he carefully smoothed the hairs of his beard down near his mouth, sticking his chin out manfully as he did so.

Jinniver watched her brother with a look of distaste. Her anger had softened a little, but she wished to show him how differently she was looked upon in The Shire, to prove to her brother that she was not the silly young girl she once had been and who he still thought she was. She was making her own money, and doing well at it, and what is more, she had gained the trust of these fine people; she was just as much a grown up as he, and her own business just as important.

“Yes, I would be glad of some assistance,” she said, speaking defiantly and proudly, making use of her brother’s silence to speak up and finally answer Derufin. “I see now that my message has been received in Bree. So I should hope my father has seen to sending off the plants today. As I said, this will be a fine garden.” She looked across unflinchingly at her brother, catching his eye as he took a draw on his pipe.

Pegram caught the look. He wanted to put his sister in her place a little, to make her see what a disrespectful nonsense she was making of herself. She was his sister, a gentle soul, who he needed to protect; he didn’t like the look of disrespect which she now gave him. It hurt him, and he wanted to make her suffer for it.

Drawing on his pipe and blowing out a great cloud of smoke which obscured his face, Pegram sniggered softly, but just loud enough so that all at the table heard it. “A fine business this is, Jinniver. Making gardens with rustics. If that is what you call business then I’m sure you are welcome to it.”

Sitting back, he savoured his statement. Pretending to attend to his pipe, he did not look up, but he could sense the anger in the faces of those around the table and was satisfied.

[Arry]

Fallon and Ferrin were from a family who prided themselves on their familiarity with ‘letters’ – reading, writing, the uses of words and their meanings. Fallon’s brows had raised toward his brother as the puffed up representative of Bree-men Big Folk spoke, no . . . spat out, the word ‘rustic’. They were also the children of a mother who valued courtesy and good nature toward neighbor and stranger. Unfortunately, the number of mugs of ale they’d taken had emphasized their sensitivity to the word the man used and all but deluged their sense of extending courtesy. It was to their merit they did discuss the word, but the Inn’s brew narrowed their willingness to accept it with a favorable view.

‘I don’t suppose he meant to call us honest and unaffected,’ whispered Fallon, one eye on Pegram as he puffed on his pipe like some lordly fellow. Ferrin snorted at his brother. ‘More likely he thinks us clodhoppers, boors, and ignorant farmers.’

Ferrin grinned at his brother and stood on the seat of his chair. Pulling up the sleeves of his tunic and then the hem as he inspected his skin, he danced about a bit in an anxious spiral. He climbed to the table top, pulling the alarmed Fallon up after him. ‘Look! Look!’ he cried, scratching himself here and there. ‘I’m rusted for sure!’ He looked wildly about the room and pointed at Pegram. ‘Himself has put his very finger on my problem! Look, look!’

Fallon bit the inside of his nearly ale-numbed lip to keep himself from laughing. ‘I see one!’ he said, nodding his head in a serious manner and pointing to his brother’s belly. Then he began to scratch and dance about on the table’s top, too. ‘Stars above! I think it’s catching!’ Wide-eyed patrons of the common room shook their heads at the two Hobbits’ antics. Those who knew them well, though, knew they were up to some mischief. They clapped and hooted and egged the brothers on, wanting to see what came next.

And what did come next was the inadvertent, or so it seemed, connecting of Ferrin’s flying foot with the refilled pitcher of ale. It tipped over neatly, the golden stream running swiftly across the short distance to where Pegram sat, his face reflecting the fact that these churlish creatures had proved his point. His lap, his fine trousers and part of his shirt were soaked with stout.

The brothers jumped from the table before the man could stand. Ferrin winked broadly at Derufin, while Fallon, remembering his manners, mouthed ‘Sorry!’ at Jinniver. They were out the door in a trice, running down the path toward home, leaving only the sound of their laughter behind to be scolded.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The rain was not showing any signs of stopping. Fáinu lifted his head from thought and peered across the path. There were a few trees now very wet and dripping water. Fáinu shook his head and pulled his hood down, he then turned and opened the door to the inn. he was met by a few drunken hobbits shouting, "It’s a bit wet out!" followed by roars of laughter and applause from his friends.

Cree was sat alone still. Fáinu had debated in his mind for long enough, he had made a dissension. He now had to trust in Crees decision, and perhaps test her loyalty. He approached her and sat on the opposite side of the table. Cree arose from thought to see him sitting there, his eyes were fixed on her, and they were stern. He laid a large knife upon the table, but kept his bandaged hand upon it.

"Cree, I believe that we have come now to the point," he began, Cree tilted her head, not quite understanding him, "for now is the time for you to prove your words and follow he whom all else abandoned." she began to understand. "Tomorrow I shall leave for rivendell, and I shall ride double pace, for I am already late."

He pushed the knife towards Cree and released it. It was a beautiful knife. The hilt was of bronze; jet so bright was it, that Cree almost mistook it fore gold. Upon the handle were set many runes of power and gems. a large emerald there was in the centre of the hilt, it glistened in the dim light and Cree marvelled to see such a thing.

"It is all I have left of my mother. This knife has seen many through combat, more so than most swords." He placed Cree's hand upon it, "I bid you take this, if you wouldst follow me. To death, anguish, and perhaps glory." he smiled at her and awaited her response on bated breath.

[Witch_Queen]

Cree didn't know what to think. The knife Fáinu was offering her was more than just a gift. The knife had belonged to Fáinu's mother. Reaching out her hand to cover the knife Cree looked up at Fáinu. "Fáinu I will follow you to Rivendell. For nothing now can change my mind. I will follow you into death." She had promised that she wouldn't abandon Fáinu. Now was her chance to show her loyalty to the man she "loved."

We leave tomorrow. Yet tomorrow is just one more step towards a fate that has haunted me my entire life. He doesn't need to know what troubles I face ahead of me. Only two people knew about this besides me, one had gone away from me and the other one is dead. Killed by her own blade. For not even the wisest of all could tell me what fate I was bound to. After all we make our own fate. An smile came across Cree's face. She liked to remember about the past.

The only thing Cree wished to push out of her memories was the death of the old wise woman. Even though Cree knew the woman's death wasn't Cree's fault, she knew deep down inside that it was Cree's hand on the hilt of the woman's sword. It was Cree who gave the woman an early death. She couldn't shake it from her memories. Avalon witnessed this "murder" and Cree figured that was why Avalon loved and despised her. "Fáinu, tomorrow is the day? I guess I need to ready my horse and get some much needed sleep. But you will need to know that Avalon will eventually find us on our journeys. Perhaps one day we may visit Rohan and see Adu and Hama. It would be wonderful if we did." Cree realized that mentioning Rohan sent a chill down Fáinu's spine. She still remembered the trouble Fáinu had told her about. Rohan will always be in danger. After all the entire world we live in is at stake.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Fáinu peered at her with a stern look. his thought came to what Dwaline the dwarf had told him. "Rohan, perhaps shall ye never set foot on." the chill ran down his spine. Rohan had given Adu much happiness, and yet sorrow, he wished, perhaps to find those responsible and find some truth in the tale she had told him. Hama, a man of Rohan, seemed to cast a long shadow. Fáinu had not considered this for a long while now. Not since Cree had appeared and complicated his thought.

Little trust did he bear for men of Rohan, and men in general he held not to be worthy of much. Save the Dúnedain and King Elessar, whom he praised for good deeds in the past.

"I fear Rohan shall never welcome me," said Fáinu sadly, "Something tells me that I shall never come thither. Perhaps my fate lies elsewhere. But come now, I speak of things that none save Elrond can know. Yet he is gone."

Cree smiled, but seemed a little unnerved, she did not know what it was, but she could see something in Fáinu's eye that was queer and uncanny. Fáinu looked about the room as if he had heard some voice that was familiar to him, but when he looked, no one was there.

"I will not lie to you, Cree." began Fáinu, "many perils lie ahead on your road. Perhaps I shall play a part in them. Perhaps not. But this I know; Danger lies upon any road, the one I have chosen, may be perilous, but with thee by my side, it shall not seem so dark." He smiled faintly, but his eyes wandered to the window and he gazed out and watched the rain fall on the trees.

[Noinkling]

Well, now, this must be it! thought Tolly Greenhand as his wagon cleared the top of the small rise to the west of the Inn. It was nearing evening, and the lamps had already been lit at the Green Dragon, shining through the thick-paned windows invitingly. His gaffer had told him about the big inn in Bywater. ‘Green Dragon, son, she’s a right fine place for a man to slake his thirst.’ ‘Best ale in the Shire, lad,’ he’d affirmed though to be honest, the old fellow had never been farther east than the Three-farthing Stone. Tolly flicked the reins on his pony’s back, urging him on. ‘Get along, Benny,’ he crooned in a low voice.

The pony’s ears twitched at the sound and he picked up his pace, pulling harder against the harness. The familiar sounds and smells of other horses in the Inn’s stable carried to him. He snorted and tossed his head, wanting to get in on the sweet hay and nosebag of oats that Tolly had promised when the Inn was reached.

‘Whoa up, now!’ the Hobbit called out as they entered the yard and drew near the front door. The fine drizzle rain had abated a bit, and pushing back the hood of his oilskin cape, he took in the Inn at close range. He was about to turn Benny toward the stable, when two lads came bursting through the door, running helter-skelter down the path to the road. Their friendly laughter trailed after them. ‘Wonder what that was all about,’ Tolly murmured to Benny, flicking the reins once more as he guided the pony to the stable. A young lad came out to greet him, taking the reins as Tolly stepped down from the wagon. The price for the pony’s keep was agreed on, and an extra copper penny for the lad to put the wagon in a dry place.

Benny having been seen to, Tolly hurried quickly to the porch of the Inn and eased open the door. The warmth of the place welcomed his entrance. He stood for a few moments taking the great room in. Just as my gaffer described it! he thought, looking delightedly toward the bar and the great fire place. He hung his dripping cloak on an empty peg to the right of the door and hurried to a small table near the fire.

[Tevildo]

Tevildo cautiously eyed the two women and the sleeping cat, pondering what he should do. He would have preferred to eat in privacy, away from the prying eyes of the two-leggeds. But his stomach was growling loudly and the hearty aroma of chicken fat was hard to resist. With his tail rhythmically twitching back and forth, he sidled up to the three bowls, ignoring the saucer of milk and going right to work on the chopped chicken from the stew pot that had been generous flavored with a dollop of gravy.

He had to admit that these little folk knew how to cook. This dish was considerably better than anything he and his mistress had found earlier that week in the Prancing Pony. It looked to be the older woman--the one called Cook--who was in charge of the kitchen and responsible for the various delicacies being taken out to the guests. Tevildo would not stoop to being called "Cook's little pet" as the older tabby evidently had. But he was not unappreciative of someone who showed such skill in the cullinary arts.

Finishing the last of the food in the bowl, Tevildo sat back on his haunches and delicately licked the final morsels from his paws. Then he lay down, curled up contentedly in a small ball, and began to purr loudly, all the while vigorously cleaning his coat with the small barbs of his pink tongue. Once he looked up and seemed to grin at Cook, showing a line of sharp teeth all perfectly matched and suitably sharp.

Once he was satisfied that he was perfectly clean, Tevildo again rose and slipped gingerly between Cook's legs. The older woman was standing in front of the fire and stirring something in a large pot. Tevildo stopped to rub against her ankles and then paraded out of the kitchen, heading purposely down the hallway towards the pantry where he thought he heard the scuffling sounds of mice.

Out in the Common Room, he could hear another familliar voice: that of his mistress and supposed 'owner' who had finally found her way to the Inn.