The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Lasbelinion]

"My brother used to have such whims, too," Aniriel had said.

"Going off to war is hardly a whim!" Callë's eyes clouded for a moment, recalling her own losses. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'Sorry to have gone all grim on you for a moment. She sipped slowly on her ale.

"I never had any brothers. All sisters in my family. Four of them plus me. Near drove my mother mad when we'd get to bickering, for we are quite different in temperament. My father of course called us all his darlings and never could quite understand why mother had so many complaints." Callë grinned, remembering a scene or two from her earlier years, "Of course, they are all married off now. With fine, fat little babies of their own to fuss over."

She took up her apple half and bit off a piece. "What about you? Just the one brother?" She munched on her mouthful of apple. "Did he find his peace . . . serving in the war . . .?"

[Koobdooga]

'Thorin Oakenshield is much revered among the Dwarves of Khazad-dum!' Ibun said, raising his mug in a toast. 'Here's to Thorin, King Under the Mountain!' He drained his mug in a single draught.

'I'm on a journey westward, myself, to The Blue Mountains. It is said that some of our kin established themselves there after the foul shadow overran Khazad-dum. But now that we have cleared out their lairs and have started putting their wreckage to rights, our King has sent out messengers to those of our scatterd Folk, telling them they are most welcome to return.'

He dug into the pocket of his vest and found his pouch with pipeweed and pipe all neatly tucked inside. 'Good stuff! This Shire pipeweed. Better than I found in Bree, at least. Help yourself, if you'ld like.' Ibun fixed himself a pipeful and sat back in his chair to enjoy it.

[Wiscott]

Baldin grins as he reaches for some of the weed. "Thank ye," he simply states, before filling his pipe for a second round. Musing for a minute on the smoke drifting up in front of his nose, he turns back to Ibun.


"I was just pondering where to go from here in my own journey. I had thought of goin' as far west as Hobbiton, to bring the route of the olde troupe to its beginnning. From there, however, I have as yet formed no set plan. Mayhaps I will journey to the Blue Mountains myself; I believe I have some kin there. Or I could make my way south and east to Khazad-dum; it 'twould be fair to look upon the works of my ancestors, and I am of a mind to help in the rebuilding myself. In any case, I have no great desire to go back to Dale and the Lonely Mountain so soon, and after so little adventure." The nearby fire of the lamps glimmered in his eye for a moment as he uttered the last phrase. As if in continuation of the thought, Baldin took some materials from his light pack and began to polish the broad blade of his halberd.

[Dimturiel]

"Did he find his peace...serving in the war?"

How strange this sounded, Aniriel thought. She knew too many things about war to think that no feeling of ease could come from it. Yet she had never been in a battle, never knew what really happened there. And her brother had told her many times that she could not understand such things, and that maybe it was better for her not to.

"Maybe he did find his peace." Aniriel answered . "He returned changed, though. I could not clearly say in what way. He seemed the same cheerful lad, but sometimes there was something in his voice or in his eyes that did not belong to him. Well, 'tis said that no one comes unscathed from such a battle. My brother had fought bravely, I was told. Fiercely, even. But he was wounded and I doubt not that, had it not been for Lord Elfstone's healing skills, he would have died. He is now one of the King's messengers. He spends most of the time in Minas Tirith or on the road on one errand or another..."

Aniriel paused. She took a bite from her apple half, watching Calle, thoughtfully. She seemed one to whom she could tell many things without regretting later. And also, she wanted to find many things about her, too. She had never met someone from Dunland before.

"So," she continued after a few moments of silence, "You said that you had four sisters, Calle? I would have liked a sister, too. Are you the youngest of your family? I am, you see. My brother used to tease me a lot when we were little. I did not like it much, then, but now I confess that I sometimes miss those times..."

[Ar-Pharazon]

“How strange and unnatural the simple things are too me,” spoke Belecbor quietly to himself, as he arrived in front of the Green Dragon. A great revelry had commenced for the evening, and many were gathered in celebration over the days end. No war had been won, or kingdom saved, just the rewards of a day’s hard labour.

“You will find the greatest bliss for life in the Shire,” he had been told by a man who had travelled eastward after the Great War. “It has the spirit of a kingdom, and the richness of a farm. No great worries or troubles follow you there.”

Belecbor had finally learnt what that man had meant; this place was what he had longed for in the depths of himself, after so many years of hardship. His long hair greying did not seem so grey and nor his scarred faced seem so marked; those many battles with Corsairs and Harad seemed but a distant memory,

As he looked around Belecbor felt out of place here, wearing the garb of a knight under Angbor in a place of relative peace. Under his travelling cloak, he felt his light elvish steel mail and sword, was unwanted in a place like this. Yet, many of the folk here seemed too have travelled from many different lands, and wore and assortment of items.

“Greetings stranger from the west,” said one of the Hobbit maiden’s. “Are you in need of anything?” She looked up at the tall and strong man, as a child looks at a parent, and yet this was not a child, but a woman of some years. For a man who has never really seen a hobbit up close, tis a strange experience at first.

“Many thanks, madam,” Belecbor replied. “But, I do not require anything at this time.” The hobbit maiden nodded and moved on.

Looking around the yard, Belecbor noted an empty table near the edge of the party and took a seat there. His thoughts pondered on what he would do first, when another hobbit maiden approached him.

“Welcome,” she said. “Would you care to leave your arms with us and rest for awhile, it is not comfortable to carry all that steel at all time.”

Belecbor looked at her; there was innocence and kindness about her that he had not seen in many. “Nay,” he spoke. “I am quite comfortable as I am.” Although this land was a land of peace, Belecbor was not quite ready to put down his arms yet.

[Firefoot]

Lily had ridden hard and fast from Buckland to the Green Dragon. The journey, which should have measured a couple days, could be measured in hours and had exhausted her pony Clover. She did regret pushing him so hard, but her cause was urgent – desperate, even. The news she had heard in Buckland hardly bore remembering, but Lily could not forget.

Only a short while after riding into the Shire, a rather forward hobbit lad about her age had stopped her on the road and, not recognizing her as being from those parts, had asked her where she came from and where she was headed. She had told him she had ridden from Bree and that she was going to the house of Posco Brandybuck, but at this he began shaking his head. “You won’t be finding Posco there – he’s taking a trip out Bywater way. He left just a couple days ago,” he said. Lily guessed that he might be visiting his aunt, as he had been when she met him, but then the lad grinned as if in anticipation of some joke. “But listen to his – rumor has it that he’s gone to find his bride!” Lily paled. After finding her voice again, she pressed him for information, but the lad had none to give. With her thoughts whirling she had thanked him hurriedly and rode on towards Bywater and the Green Dragon.

Surely there must be a mistake – Posco loved her! Unless… unless that was the true reason her uncle had not passed her letters on to him? Perhaps Posco had written, saying that he had found a new lass, and her uncle had wanted to somehow spare her feelings and so had not shared this news? Suddenly she felt sick at having left without speaking further to her uncle. After all, Tommy Banks was a fine lad – had leaving him and Bree been a mistake? A lesser hobbit would have turned tail and slunk home, but not Lily. Despite that horrible word throbbing in her head – betrayal – betrayal – betrayal - she needed to know the truth.

She had nudged Clover on to a faster and faster pace, forcing the pony to dig into his deepest reserves and stopping only for a brief break as the sun began to set. But now, only a short way from the Green Dragon, she knew that he could handle the pace no more, not after having ridden almost continuously since dawn with the second half of the journey being the harder. She dismounted to lead him the rest of the way there, his head hanging and his steps heavy. But even her guilt at this could not block out the myriad of other emotions that were running through her mind: anger, fear, depression…

As the Green Dragon came into sight, she realized that a party was going on in the front lawn. She grimaced at this. Once she would have enjoyed the sight, but now – it would make it that much harder to hide if Posco was here right now. She did not think she could bear to face him, not yet. So she approached from behind the stable and was able to lead Clover inside seemingly without being noticed. Next she would have to look for him from some discreet location. She had to sort herself out before he saw her – because the anger and the fear, those could be forgiven and muffled. But he had loved her, she knew he had, and his betrayal stung more fiercely than a thousand knives. The hurt could not be muffled – not the hurt.

[Nogrod]

Rían took his pipe back, watching the big man in front of him. Grimhorn’s facial expression and the content of his words seemed to match. But they were in a dark contrast to his own experiences of the “Owl’s eye”. There was a hint of foul play here. But to a what degree? How much did he really pretend, how much did he really know, about his father, abut my father, about me...?

“Hide and seek” –games with identity were quite familiar to Rían. And after becoming quite good at them also, he had even learned to like them. But this time it was both much more challenging (which as such was not a bad thing at all), and more dangerous (which was a bad thing indeed). Normally his case for bravado was in his quick wits, fast imagination, and a good memory. He was quite a virtuoso in coming up with “instant” life histories, and in creating all those small incidents of life from scratch. These made his characters so believable. But now, there was a real danger, that this man in front of him knew already too much – and what was the most nauseating thing for Rían - he hadn’t the faintest idea, how much he did know.

This was a tough one. There were no safe paths at sight, as there usually were: being exotic enough, not to be known, but familiar enough, not to rise suspicion. At least, he would have to come up with something now, and come up with it quickly. Grimhorn would propably become more suspicious, if he would seem to be pondering his replies for too long, if he would give out the impression of reflecting his words too carefully. He should just act as casual as he could.

Rían had concentrated on puffing his pipe while thinking. Now he took the pipe from his mouth, turned it upside-down and knocked it tenderly a couple of times against the table’s side, to get rid of any already-burnt weed. Before taking the next puff, he raised his eyes to meet Grimhorn’s, and said, as calmly as he could.

“As I told you, I have no intention to go on bragging around about this. You know what I mean – even if you have just told me otherwise. There sure is no problem in being a son of Grimgor in general, how rare that name is. But being the son of the “One that runs at dusk”, could be a different thing?”

A light attack makes for a good line of defence. He would have to play as confident as he could, as though there were no risks for himself – that this all was about Grimhorn and his past. Pressing Grimhorn lightly, with confidence, could make Grimhorn draw back and change the subject. Well, that was the ideal. Anyhow. He had drawn his first line of defence now.

Then, suddenly, Rían decided to go even further, for an offer for a peace, that could in this situation, also count as a back-up for him. This was kind of all-or-nothing-game now. As he opened his mouth, he realized this. It was too late to withdraw...

“As we both have been raised along the banks of the Great River, you must also know the old saying: “no man is the same as his father, no child of yours is the same, as the children of your children”. So, no-one should be blamed for the sins’ of their elders? I truly have nothing against you, and hope just for the best for you, my fellow beorning. I say, we sit, drink another ale with lighter subjects, and maybe share some more weed, and then depart as friends?”

This was peaceful, and it didn’t deviate from the truth too much – he had lived two years at northern Anduin in his childhood. But if Grimhorn would just forget – or decide to overlook – his earlier mentioning of Mirkwood, and all that came with it. He would be safe then.

Rían leaned back in his chair, took a long puff from his pipe, and waited for Grimhorn to react. It had not gone so badly, taking heed of the circumstances, so far...