The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[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...

[Glirdan]

Gróin walked slowly down the path, weary from his travels. Even though he was a Dwarf, Dwarves can't do much after not eating. His haversack had been empty for quite some time and he was really starting to feel the pains of hunger. It was then that he heard the sounds of merriment up ahead. "Sounds like some kind of party," Gróin thought to himself. "And where there's a party, you can bet there's food there. And probably the best ale in the country and..." he continued thinking of all the delicious foods and drinks they would have as he walked down the path towards the sounds.

As he got closer, he smelt all different foods: freshly picked apples, pies and a whole assortment of other delicous smeeling food as well as the ales. Gróin stayed in the shadows, trying to make himself look presentable: he brushed off his dusty tunic, wipped his face with his kerchife and tightened his belt. He quickly looked himself over and was satisfied with what he saw. He stepped into the pool of light and stared around.

There was an assortment of people there; Men, Hobbits and other Dwarves. He made his way through the crowd to where the food and drinks were and grabbed a plate and piled it with food. He walked over to he Hobbit serving drinks and got an ale.

He turned around to go find a seat and accidentally ran into a lovely young lady. "I'm sorry miss, I'm just in a rush to eat. I haven't eaten in days. I'm Gróin, Gróin Redplate. And you are?"

[Koobdooga]

‘And what sort of adventure do you look to have, Master Baldin?’ asked Ibun. He watched with interest as Baldin worked over his halberd with his polish cloth. The weapon was a delight to look at; the craftsmanship superb. And the way Baldin worked over the blade spoke much of the closeness, or so it seemed to Ibun, between the wielder and the weapon.

The weapon he favored was his double-bladed axe. His brother had made it for him many years ago. It was well weighted with an edge so keen he often said that it would split a a single hair as easily and neatly as it would cleave an Orc head.

‘Very nice blade . . .’ he said, tamping down a new bowlful of pipeweed. He nodded at Baldin’s halberd. ‘Be more than welcome in Khazad-dum. Still rooting out those last few nests of foul Orc in the deeper caverns . . .’ Ibun sat back in his chair, his legs stretched out, one ankle resting on theother. His gaze drifted slowly round the merry scene about him.

[Lasbelinion]

Callë laughed, a deep and merry sound. She slapped her thigh as if she had just heard the funniest thing ever. ‘Oh my goodness, no! Not the youngest!’ She shook her head, her generous mouth bowing up into a huge grin. ‘Sorry . . . I’m the middle daughter in my family. And glad of it!’

She lined up five pieces of cheese on her plate. ‘Now these two are my older sisters,’ she said moving the first two pieces, the ones to her left, forward. ‘Anni and Alli; born just a year apart. And being the first two, my mother had a lot of time and energy to put into their upbringing. They are much like her . . . and in fact they seem more like her sisters than her daughters, now that they are older.’

‘And these,’ she went on, pushing forth the two on her right, ‘are my two younger sisters. Britta, two years younger than I and a spirited little filly as her Rohan husband calls her. And wasn’t that a scandal in the family, the whole village, really. Marrying a man of the Mark – ancient enemies of we folk of Dunland. My mother took to her bed for weeks, certain she would die of embarrassment.’ Callë rolled her eyes and sighed in a dramatic manner.

‘Beryl, the gem of my father’s eye, is four years younger than I. Mother was determined to make a suitable match for her, and did so at last – the marchwarden’s youngest son. Poor Father! He would rather she had not married at all. She is much doted on by him, even now.’

Picking up the middle piece of cheese, Callë held it in the palm of her hand. ‘And here I am. In the middle and quite wonderfully ignored for the most part. As long as I stepped not too far outside the social boundaries my Mother fancies for herself and her brood, I was free to explore the village and surrounds on my own, make friends with all sorts of people in the village and critters in the small forested area near us. A ghost child . . . that’s how I often thought of myself.’

Callë gathered the cheese up and stuffed them into a bun. She munched on it, swallowing the mouthful down with a healthy swig of ale. ‘At any rate . . . there they all are, married and happy for the most part I think. And good for them, I say!’ She raised her mug in salute. ‘And here am I, traveling north, free as a summer’s breeze. And very happy, in my own way.’

She sighed, a well satisfied sigh, and pushed away her now empty plate. Sitting back in her chair, she gave Aniriel a smile. ‘What about you? I’m traveling purely for my own pleasure. Is it the same for you?’ She thought not; the women seemed to have some secrets hidden behind her eyes. But she kept her own counsel, wondering what Aniriel would say.

[Thinlómien]

Grimhorn noticed that "the boy" was taking a hard line with him. Steel against steel, then, he thought and grinned to himself (but no trace of a smile was to be seen on his face). You asked for this yourself, boy, he thought and a moment later he caught himself being exited about a little battle of words with this boy. Your flighty temper would suit better a man half of your years, a familiar voice echoed from his memory. That is one woman's opinion. One dead woman's opinion. I don't need to bug myself with that, Grimhorn told himself.

"So you say there's a problem in being the son of the "one that runs at dusk"?" Grimhorn growled. He knew it was stupid, if this young man knew more than a general passer-by from the Anduin Vales. Or from Mirkwood. He searched his memory. Hermit Sundry lived in Mirkwood? He had no image where he had lived. Damn, he thought. That's the thing I should remember.

Just then he remembered the lad's offer of peace. He would have liked to take it and talk about something else, but he couldn't drop this matter; he couldn't let the lad keep his wrong image of his father. Wrong, wrong, wrong he assured himself. Lies, lies, lies. No one knows. No one.

"Though I don't have anything against another ale, I'd like you to explain yourself. One can't accuse a man and then get away with it."

"Waiter, bring two beers here!" He was too lazy to go and get them. "Don't worry, Sundryboy, this time I pay", he said, sounding perhaps a bit malicious. He didn't know which one of them was in a more uncomfortable situation, but he decided to enjoy his own misery and gamble a bit and master the situation.

Then, looking at the boy who looked a bit uncomfortable (as probably he did himself) he realised he actually liked the boy. Had it been another place and time and situation, he would have been delighted to share a pint with such a promising young man. And had it been another boy, he thought. The whole Sundry-line is rotten.

[Firefoot]

Forced to leave his home...? To this point Gróin had only made it sound like his travels were willing, a light-hearted venture. Was there something more? "I'm sorry, Lily. I didn't mean to say that out loud. You have enough troubles of your own. I don't want to burden you with my problems," said Gróin.

But Lily shook her head. It would be relieving not to have to concentrate on her own problems, if only for a few minutes. Her constant worrying was not helping her at all, though she saw little else that she could do until some opportunity presented itself for her to learn more. “You have at least earned a willing ear, after listening so patiently to my troubles. Please, I would like to listen.” She had given Gróin little enough attention since they had sat down, and she felt rather abashed – of course she was not the only one in the world with troubles, but here she was, babbling on about herself without giving Gróin a moment’s concern.

Oh! Perhaps Gróin had diverted from “burdening her with his problems” because he did not want to talk about them? Then she would have just made the situation worse for him. “That is… if you are willing to share your story. I did not mean to sound pushy.”

[Glirdan]

“You have at least earned a willing ear, after listening so patiently to my troubles. Please, I would like to listen. That is… if you are willing to share your story. I did not mean to sound pushy." Gróin looked at Lily wide-eyed. No one ever wanted to listen to his problems. They were always to busy worrying about their own problems to even care about his. He was astonished yet grateful that someone, even if you just met her, cared and wanted to listen to him.

"Well, I guess it wouldn't be a problem to tell you," he answered her, still quite astonished. "But I must warn you now, my story is not full of woe like yours is," he smiled at her gratefully. "Well, it starts off when I was just a young lad when my parents and I used to travel to the Blue Mountains. We always went there to visit my kin. You see, my family is originally from Moria, before the evil was awoken. We are distantly related to Dain. When the evil came, my family moved out to the Blue Mountains. That's when I met her, the love of my life..." he said and trailed off into thought, remembering her beauty. Even amongst the Dwarves she was accounted as beautiful. He came out of his reverie and looked at Lily. She had a sad expression on. "Lily, is there something wrong??"