The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling sat in the shadows and watched Aman speaking with the new arrival. He had spent the day by himself pondering the words that he and she had exchanged, going over and over them in his mind. At first, he had been oddly relieved by their conversation as it had finally put the girl to rights as to their relationship, but as the hours had worn on he had become more and more…anxious, was the only word that he could summon. He sat at his table and sipped a slow glass of wine as he worked through their last encounter yet again. As the scene replayed itself this time, however, he paid no attention to the words she had spoken, but focused instead upon something that she had done with her hands, a peculiar manner of holding them in her lap… It was something he had seen her do a number of times before…but had he? That was, he realised, the real sense of his anxiety, for he could not consciously remember seeing the Innkeeper hold her hands in that familiar way, nor – now that he thought of it – tilt her head in that comfortable fashion. The more he thought of it, the more he realised that there had always been something about her that was comfortable, even, almost, recognisable, like the barely heard murmur of an old tune from one’s childhood.

He took another tentative sip of his wine. Mithalwen, whom he had not seen all day, had returned to the Common Room and though he longed to speak with her she was with a large group of folk he did not know, and he little felt ready to the task of introducing himself. His mind drifted once more, back to the rooftop and to the evasive answers he had given his friend about his lack of funds.

He had been hesitant at first to explain, but why he could not have said. “I met a man,” he had explained, “a man who claimed to have information for me – or, more exactly, about me.”

Aman’s eyes had narrowed at his manner. “What kind of information?”

He sighed, reluctant to continue, and again not sure why. “I was married once, long ago,” he said, and he caught Aman’s slight intake of breath. She was angry. “I was very young, and it was not for very long that we were together. My wife was slain…as was our child.”

“Oh, Snaveling, I…I had no idea…” Aman reached out a hand to him, but the shift in their relationship, so jarring and painful and recent, stilled her motion and she fumbled for something in her lap. It was this motion that Snaveling noticed and recognised. He had seen it before. His eyes locked on to her face and he saw in it something that had been there all along, but which he had never noticed before. What is it?

Shaken, he replied to Aman with unusual candour. “As I said, it was a long time ago. I had gone ahead to the winter hunting grounds with my companions to build shelters, and the women and children were coming along after. It is our way. They were ambushed by Dunlanders. None escaped.” He took another deep breath, reluctant to go on to the most painful part. “It took time and many years, but I had come to accept their loss. But the man I spoke of, he claimed to have information about that attack. He claimed that there were survivors of the attack…” he trailed off, and Aman’s eyes grew wide.

“Your wife?”

Shaking his head, he said quietly. “My son.” There was a moment of silence as the wind played about them, carrying their words away into the morning air of the Shire. The sun was still shining and the world was beautiful, but Snaveling could see none of it. “When I was in the King Elessar’s court, the story of my family became known. I believe that there was even a brief song made about it, ‘The Death of the Infant Heir’ it was called, I think. That the lost heir of Numenor should appear was a tale in itself, but when it was revealed that his infant son was slain by wild men of the hills, effectively ending that line, well…the Gondorians, I have found, are a sentimental people.” He managed a wry laugh. “This man I speak of is named Wutan and he came to hear of my story. He set out immediately to speak with me, but I had already left Minas Tirith in search of…to come North. He followed me, seeking me everywhere, and finally he found me at the Prancing Pony. I was just on my way back here from the marshes, and I was seeking comfort and warmth from a pint of ale. He sat across from me and introduced himself, but a more disreputable person I had not seen – not, at least, since I had looked at myself in the mirror when I was still a wandering and houseless vagabond! He told me that he had been servant to a lord of Rohan, and that this lord had taken in a foundling waif who had been taken by the Dunlendings. He claimed, that he could prove that this child was my own son, and that he could give me his name…for a price.

“Elessar had warned me that once my story and wealth were known that there would be many such men as this, and at first I refused to listen. But the more he spoke of the lost child and of the circumstances of his discovery, the more I was compelled to listen. For three days we stayed together at the Pony and I questioned him about his tale in the most particular detail, but never once did his story falter or change, and there was ever in his manner the air of a man telling the truth. He was a cunning and subtle scoundrel, no doubt, but I could see that he believed what he was telling me.

“Still, I would not pay the price he was demanding for the tokens that he spoke of. I told him that information which is bought with gold is as empty as the purse which has paid for it. Seeing that I was resolved he reluctantly produced his proof.” Snaveling reached into the folds of his tunic and produced a small brooch. Aman gasped in recognition, for she instantly saw from the shine of the metal that it was mithril, and it bore upon it a familiar design: a tall crown with seven stars above it.

“That design,” she said wonderingly, “it is the same as your amulet. The token that proved you to be the heir of Numenor!”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It is the match to that amulet. Before I left my family, I gave it to Heoll, my wife, to keep in trust for my son for he was but a year old. I demanded of Wutan how he came by it, but he refused to tell me. All he would say was that his lord had taken it from the child and kept it secret, believing it to be an evil device of the Dunlendings. It was the belief of this lord that the child was of Rohan, and that he had been taken by the wildmen as a slave. It was an easy mistake, for my son was like his mother, with hair that shone like straw and eyes as blue as the sky upon a winter’s morning. I believe now that Wutan stole the brooch from his lord when he fled in search of me, but as it is mine by right I took it despite the method of its return. I demanded to know the name and fate of my son, but Wutan demanded money again. I asked how much he wanted, no longer caring, and that was a mistake for he saw my desperation and asked a price so high that in paying it I left myself not only destitute, but in some considerable debt to the Innkeeper Barliman, who agreed to loan me the extra.

“It was a high price to pay for bitter news, for what I heard was little to my liking. He told me that my son had been named Arad by the lord and that he had been raised to think that he was the lord’s natural son. I was wild with hope but Wutan destroyed that like glass when he told me that Arad had gone to war with the Lord Elessar…and that he had fallen before the gates of Minas Tirith.” Snaveling felt a tear slide out of his eye, but he did not brush it away. “I lost my son again in that moment. But…” his voice caught. Aman’s hand reached out to his own and took it up, pressing it to her lips in a kiss. It was not a gesture of passion, but of comfort and friendliness and Snaveling returned it with a grateful look. Aman returned his gaze with a warm smile, like sunshine upon frozen ground.

And his breath had caught in his throat, and his heart had skipped a beat. For in that moment, the expression on the Innkeeper’s face, like so much about her, was as familiar to him as his own countenance, and for the first time he saw it fully. He was stunned that he could have been so blind to it all this time. For in her face he saw the likeness of his wife Heoll looking back at him. The expression of her eyes, the tilt of her head, even the deep and welling sadness came to him as though the years were but a day, and he was once again beholding his beloved bride. The resemblance had terrified him, and rather than continue the conversation he had hurried away, seeking solitude, and hoping that once more the girl’s goodness of heart would forgive him his odd shifts of mood.

As he sat at his table now, looking at Aman and sipping his wine, that moment of seeing his wife in the Innkeeper’s face returned, as did the rest of his conversation with Wutan – the part of the conversation that he had not been able to reveal to Aman. “But that is not the end of your line, Tar-Corondir!” he had said, “Arad did not die without issue; he left behind him a daughter – your grandchild!”

Snaveling had grasped Wutan by the wrist savagely, wringing from the wretch a cry of surprised pain. “Who is she?” he had demanded. “Where can I find her?”

“I do not know!” the man gasped from between clenched teeth. “Not for sure, but she may be nearby. Before I came in search of you I made inquires. Your son’s daughter came north some time ago to visit a friend, but she never returned.”

As Snaveling gazed upon Aman and remembered Wutan’s words, the truth was revealed to him with a thunderbolt. He fell back in his chair, and the wine glass slipped from his hand to shatter upon the floor. The Inn span about his head like a flock of birds, and he knew…he knew…

He had found his granddaughter.

[littlemanpoet]

While Falowik listened to the back and forth between Derufin, Benat, and all the others, quite happy to sit back and listen as he supped a brew, Uien stood before Falco Headstrong, horrified.

She was horrified by her own presumption and paternalism as the thoughts of the hobbit slid by her percipience.

Is my face so very expressive that this new Elf woman can read my thoughts? It is annoying.

Uien turned to Mithalwen and asked her mutely, Have I been that unsubtle? Mithalwen gave the slightest sympathetic shrug, unnoticed by Falco, who was looking at the ground, his face hidden; but not his thoughts. It is an unfair question. I don't mind them helping...

Uien went cold inside. Of course, the poor hobbit was right! It had been the height of arrogance for her to barge in and take charge, treating this hobbit like an inferior, speaking to him as if it had to be obvious that what she thought was right, was indeed the only way that could be. She did not withhold her thought from Mithalwen.

Falco blushed, for he was being more honest with himself than usual. I want to take care of the poor little lad. I never had any children of my own, always wanted them. It was my delight to take care of Marigold, but it would be wonderful to take care of a boy like Rory who will someday be a fine, upright young laddie. It helps me to pretend that I do have little sons and daughters of my own.

Uien laughed inwardly at her own earlier words, "There is more healing to be done here than one pair of legs." Falco needed to be needed. It was a simple thing, really. So wise, Uien, she scolded herself, as if you could possibly know best!

Falco's blush deepened as he accused himself of sentimentality. Now he was wrestling with what words to say, words that would not place him in the very kind of impossible situation that her own words had oh, so wisely, forced upon him! He was intimidated, of course. Who would not be? Uien scolded herself roundly and insisted to herself that she must stop being intimidating.

"I... don't... know..." he stuttered.

Uien was relieved. Wise hobbit. He had given her the only answer left to him that would not put him in virtual servitude to her "elf-knows-best" arrogance.

"I don't know," he murmured again, and stared at the ground.

Uien dropped to her knees before him, so that they were eye to eye. "You are a wise hobbit, Master Headstrong." The hobbit's head came up in surprise. The hobbit lass and lad watched, eyes wide. "I spoke thoughtlessly and placed you in a most difficult position. Forgive me! Mithalwen and I are pilgrims, passing through, and soon on our way. You will always be here with Rory and Marigold. The children look to you, not us. Please, tell us what you would have us do."

[Nurumaiel]

Falco gazed up at the Elf woman in deep amazement, and fumbled about with his hands. He was at a complete loss for words in the face of her kind smile, and he felt upset with himself. What had he said to make her apologise so? He had wanted to see these Elves apologise, but now that this fair lady was... it was not right. She had done nothing wrong. But... how could he say even that?

"I do not know what I would have you do," he faltered, feeling inclined to drop his eyes again, yet unable to take his eyes from her kind face. "Do what you think best for the lad. I know I can do nothing for him but be his friend... but perhaps you can help him more than that."

"Do you think," she said, "that to help restore the use of his legs would be a better help than the love and kindness you will show him?"

He crimsoned at her open use of the words 'love' and 'kindness' in relation to how he felt towards the lad, and at the not at all subtle implication of praise in her words. He could think of nothing to say, but again: "Do what you think best." And then he hurried to sit beside Rory and Marigold before she would say anything further.

Marigold smiled shyly up at him, and when he looked down at her he started momentarily, the vague feeling of familiarity stirred up in him again, as it had been at the hand-fasting the day before. He felt, as he had then, that he had known her before, and it puzzled him.

"I do look to you, Mr. Headstrong," she said. "You've been kinder to me than any other hobbit since my dear mamma and papa died."

He started again, more violently this time. He had not known that her parents were dead. He had wondered absently why she was wandering about with no one to care for her, but he had never guessed that she had no parents.

She put a little hand on his arm and looked up at him with big, shining, earnest eyes. "Will you take care of me?" she asked.

Falco looked quickly away and coughed, and made a grunting noise that could be taken as either agreement or dissent. Of course he would, if she wanted to him, and even if she didn't really care if he did or not. But this was getting much too sentimental. Little hobbit girls could have big shining eyes, but it was awkward when they were looking up at a crusty old hobbit. Much too sentimental.

"Do you know, it has gotten quite late, and I did not notice!" he said, coughing hastily again. "Why don't we find a nice table to sit at, my lad and lass, and prepare ourselves for the delicious supper that is no doubt waiting for us?"

[littlemanpoet]

Uien rose as Falco Headstrong led Rory and Marigold to a table, and turned to Mithalwen. "It seems that we must wait until after supper to take a measurement, unless you trust your eye."

"There is time," Mithalwen replied.

Uien frowned. "I fear I use the osanwé overmuch. As easily not perceive the thoughts of those around me as not to smell a rose that is held before my face."

"I do not blame you for its use."

"Thank you," Uien smiled. Then she turned, and shared her thought with Mithalwen. "Did you notice that, a shock in someone? A man who calls himself Snaveling. I wonder what befalls there?"

[Tevildo]

Camille had finished the last of the chores that Cook had assigned and had even gotten permission to join her family for supper. “Just tonight, mind you,” Cook hastily explained. “I can’t have you in the kitchen chopping and scrubbing while your family has its first meal in the Inn, especially not when Master Falco was so kind to set up everything.”

Camille had nodded in agreement and stolen a quick look at the five cakes that had been set on a sideboard in the kitchen. These were small cakes but not too small: each one just the right size for a hearty hobbit appetite. “Out with you now, Miz Camille,” Cook had chastised her lightly. “No use fixing on the end of the meal until you get through the beginning.”

Then Camille had helped to carry out a tureen of stew and a platter heaped high with biscuits to the table where her family was sitting. On one end of the table Falco presided. Rory was seated on his left and Marigold on his right. She and her mother were next to each other on the opposite end facing their benefactor.

Camille beamed brightly at her mother. “Ma, you look pretty tonight.” For her mother indeed looked far happier and more radiant than Camille had seen her for some time. She was wearing her nicest dress, a green skirt with a vest of brown and a small lace collar; she had combed back her thick red curls, and had even fastened a ribbon with a locket about her neck. Camille wondered if Master Falco had noticed how lovely her mother looked. She wondered if there wasn’t some way to get her mother to sit beside Mister Falco instead of Rory, but she didn’t know how to do that politely.

When her mother and Master Falco began discussing the arrangement with the laundry, Camille got out of her seat to give her brother a hug. She noticed he had found one of the little placards on which appeared the names of the foods that were to be served at the Inn for that particular day. Rory could not read the words but was carefully tracing the letters with the tip of his finger. He did not stop even when the stew and biscuits were set on the table in front of him. The young boy asked Camille to read the words for him, but she just threw up her hands and laughed, “I’m no good with words, Rory. Perhaps Master Falco can help you, or even Marigold.”

[Mithalwen]

Snaveling! Mithalwen's curiosity about the man had been her reason for staying and now she had got caught up with first Marigold and then Camille and Rory. She had only come to the inn to shelter from the foul weather and this would be her third night. Tonight was paid for but if she needed to stay longer for Rory's sake .. well she would think about that tomorrow.

At least, Uien had made her aware of the source of Mr Headstrong's resentment - injured pride. Uien and she had made the same understandable mistake... elvish communities were it seemed more communal than hobbit ones. Different people had different skills but used them largely for the common good. She started in her gentlest, humblest tones,

"Mr Headstrong, I believe braces could be made to straighten and support young Rory's legs while his limbs strengthen. I have the skill to do this, but I do not have the resources since I am merely travelling through the land. Perhaps you know where I could obtain, the steel and leather I will need - for local folk know best where to find these things and get the best value......"

Falco had seemed mollified to be asked for his advice and promised to give it his consideration. Mithalwen thought ruefully of her workshop at the havens. There she could have done this kindness using spare materials at no cost other than time. She hoped Falco might offer to pay for the materials but she suspected that if she admitted to her limited resources he would think her some penniless vagrant - at least a foolish traveller who did not think to prepare herself for her journey. He would not know that she had journeyed often to Rivendell but that this was the first time she had needed to spend more than trifling amounts. . She excused herself to the group audibly and Uien silently, giving her a fuller impression of why she felt the need to talk to Snaveling . "I will return after the meal".

She decided that she could afford wine at least and collecting a bottle of the local vintage (a fine drop thanks in part to the Lady Galadriel's gift) and slipped across to the obscure corner where Snaveling sat . " Tar Corondir.. may I join you? We have not had a chance to speak sice Marigold's mishap - from which she seems to have suffered no lasting effects - I hope you resolved the embarassment of her indiscretion with Miss Aman?" Then she was close enough to see the expression on his face and on whom his glance was fixed .. perhaps not... she sought to probe his mind "Tar Corondir, what has happened?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Bella had spent most of the day quietly reading and napping in Cook's parlor. By evening her strength had returned, and she was ready to look at the rooms that Cook had mentioned. She had gone downstairs and found Ruby, who had escorted her over to a small suite of rooms located in a hallway off the back of the Inn. Thanks to Cook's instructions, the smallest of the rooms had already been tidied up for her use. It had a bed, a wardrobe, a table, and two chairs along with a shelf nailed onto the wall that would be excellent for storing her personal books and slates.

An adjoining room was large enough for a group of six or seven children to gather, sitting at tables and studying . Ruby explained that this particular chamber had not been used for some time. She removed the key from her belt and unlocked the door so that Bella could have a look. The schoolroom was a jumble of old furniture. Large dustballs rolled across the floor, and odds and ends were strewn everywhere. Still, Bella could see that it was a good size chamber. Best of all there was a large window that faced the garden and even a little door that opened to the outside. Along one wall were a series of cupboards and a small hearth where a fire could be lit on chilly days.

Bella looked about and smiled, "Yes, I believe this will do very well. Would you be kind enough to tell Cook that I plan to take her up on her offer? And please ask if she could use a bit of the money I gave her to assign a sturdy young lad or lass to help me haul out the furniture we don't need and get the schoolroom in shape. Meanwhile, I'll be working on a notice that I plan to post in the Common Room.

Tearing out one of the sheets from the back of her journal, Bella sat at the little table in the bedroom and began to write.

[elf-girl-63]

Aranel took out her rarely used handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. Now that Ferdy had prised open the gate to her feelings, she couldn't stop them rushing out. Breathing deeply and taking a gulp of ale, she organised her mind.

"I suppose... I suppose I do miss them. Well my brother especially. My sister, I didn't really get along with her. She was alway popular, as I said before but she was spiteful too. I remember once, I caught my dress on our nail in our house. I went to tell my mother but she got there before me and said I'd done it practising with my sword. I hadn't but of course my sister was believed and I was hit," seeing Ferdy's concerned look Aranel hurriedly added, "It didn't hurt too much and it was long ago."

While Ferdy nodded and continued eating (did hobbits ever stop?!), she gazed out the window and saw a dark pinky-blush sky. The day had cleared up and now evening was coming on quickly, she was glad she had a room for the night but wondered about others out on the open road. Her mysterious friend for example, where would he be now? She frowned as she remembered he'd given her no name but what use was it to her?

She turned her gaze and Aranel saw in Ferdy's face something she'd had little experience of in her lifetime. An unconditional love for his family and his home. Of course she missed the city, its interesting ways, its bright life but she did not pine for it as she knew he would this place. Her family and Minas Tirith went together as a package, like Ferdy and the Shire, they could never be separated. For some reason, the young woman felt she should resent the hobbit for it but she did not. All she felt was gladness... gladness that someone could feel such a deep-running affection for a place and people.

Aranel blinked suddenly and realised her melancholy mood was making her new acquaintance nervous. As she had stopped talking he was just gazing at the table as if he daren't look up in case she began sobbing again. She forced her mouth into an almost smile and touched his arm.

"Listen, I'm fine now. Would you like another drink? Or some more food? You hobbits do eat an awful lot!" She half-laughed but Aranel wondered if he could see her bright eyes.