[piosenniel]

From the edges of a half-dream, Pio could hear an irritating buzz in her left ear.

‘Pio . . . Pio . . .’

All Elvishness aside, the press of the party and its demands had finally caught up with her. It was late night. The children had gone back to the Inn with their nanny. And now sitting at the bar in the Green Dragon pavilion, head resting comfortably in the crook of her arm, she’d hoped to catch a few winks before it was time to see the guests off. Her red wig sat in a tangle by her elbow, and she’d given up on the green eyes – her contacts lying discarded in a dish of ale she’d set out as an enticement for an old friend of hers.

‘No rest for the wicked, you sorry excuse for an Eldar . . .’

Pio raised her head and stared blearily across the bar. ‘That you?’ she croaked, the hours of second-hand pipe-weed making her voice hoarse. The Elf knuckled her eyes and stared toward the dish of ale.

Neek . . . breek . . . came the familiar rasp. And more familiar were the raggedy black antennae waving wildly at her.

Bird!

The neeker-breeker bore a pained look as she buried her head in the remaining ale. ‘None of that Elvish mind-talk,’ she said spluttering and raising her head to fix Pio with a ghastly rictus of a smile. ‘You oscar-mayer me one more time and I swear I’ll flame you from here to the Tower Hills!’

‘The correct term is osanwë, you old dung beetle.’ Pio put her face down close to her chitinous friend. ‘Where have you been?’

‘No time for that,’ returned the neeker-breeker as she leapt to her friend’s shoulder. ‘Things have gotten wild while you were napping. The field’s all muddy from a giant water fight that broke out; those Uruk’s have run amok; and the tent where the fireworks were stored has sprouted wings and flown off.’

~*~

The scene outside the pavilion was as bad as Bird had laid it out to her. Folk were slipping and sliding in the mire as buckets and pots and pans of water flew through the air. ‘Still, they are having fun, are they not?’ chuckled Pio as Cami was thoroughly doused in a concerted effort from Saucy, H-I, and the upstart Balrog. ‘By the One! Is that not Tom’s daughter in the thick of it?’ The neeker-breeker raised her little voice in a rousing cheer for the Hobbit, who’d just scored a bucket on the River-woman’s offspring.

At the far end of the field, she could see the last of the fireworks flare up and sputter out about the area; they too had not entirely avoided the deluge of the water fight. The escaping tent had caught fire it seemed as it shot skyward and ignited the few Rohan candles and shooting stars left from the show. A few of the more inebriated of the guests stood in an unsteady ring about the spluttering display, raising their flagons at the light show as they shouted out their slurry words of acclamation.

A number of the wiser party-goers had gathered up their belongings, empty plates and baking pans, rounded up family and friends, and were heading for the gate. Oro, spying the Elf, waved wildly as she and her friends, Nova and Firi drove their cart toward the exit. Imladris, basket in hand, was following behind them on foot. And there, in a small wagon, were the three musicians who had performed so well . . . Symestreem was playing a traveling song on her fiddler, ‘Over the hills and Far Away’, accompanied by Arestevana on the dulcimer. Weaving in and out of their melody was the sweet, haunting voice of Kitanna. Pio waved at them as they passed, and they nodded to her, not missing a beat.

Kransha, she noted was trying to round up his cousins. ‘Herding cats!’ snickered Bird as she watched the poor Orc’s hapless efforts. Saraphim had joined the effort, having borrowed the whip of flame from the otherwise preoccupied Balrog. Memories of old bubbled up in the Uruk’s small minds as they fled before the hated instrument.

Other partygoers followed, keeping their distance from the whip; their hoods were pulled up and Pio could not make out their faces. Their voices sounded tired, but the tone of their conversation was merry and she smiled, hoping they had indeed had a good time. She thought she heard the voice of Meneltarmacil at one point and the voices of those most interesting denizens of Middle-mirth. And there was Luthien . . . she had found her friends and was now walking home with them.

Aman came out from the pavilion, having gathered up a small group of those she was ferrying back to the Green Dragon. They would spend the night there, then make for their own homes on the morrow. Nerindel held the reins of the Inn’s ponies as the group piled into the haywagon. Nuru and Orual, her hair a strange, streaky shade of red, settled themselves in the loose scattered hay to continue their catching-up. Cami, the children in tow, had her arm wrapped about a rather inebriated Lyta, and with the help of Ithaeliel and Roa was rolling the woman’s nearly inert form onto the wagon bed. Bethberry, Saucy, and H-I, all of them thoroughly wet, had left the field of ‘battle’ and accepted the offer from the Dragon’s Innkeeper of dry clothes and a warm bed for the night. Iadarion, striding along with Evisse, hailed them as they passed, and both climbed on the wagon as it slowed.

Hilde and her Mister walked arm in arm through the gate, their heads close together, laughing at some small shared joke. In like manner came Everdawn with her friend Aredhel, her pink bonnet tied firmly on her head. Dininziliel, too, had roused from her nap, and blinking her eyes in the starlight was picking her way carefully along the muddy path. And there in the shadows walked Witch_Queen and Maeggaladiel, tired by the looks of them, followed by three Hobbits attempting to share one large coat.

Last to pass was Guinevere, deep in conversation with Merisu. Lush, sandwiched between the two, dropped an appropriate comment here and there, punctuated by the occasional nip from her silver flask. The obedient Falafel trotted up at the sight of her mistress and bore the three away into the night.

~*~

Under the bright moon, the empty field took on a ghostly hue. The streamers hung limply from the trees and the candle-lanterns had all guttered out. The barrow that had earlier figured so prominently beneath the Party Tree was now gone; the Wight and his treasures fled back to his Downs until called out again next year. The tree’s trunk was bare; he had taken his accolades and well-wishes with him. All the staff that had made the party run so smoothly had gone home, too . . . tomorrow would be time enough for the final clean-up.

A shadowy form in the northwest corner of the field stepped out between two trees and into a patch of moonlight. The last guest. It drew itself up to a great height, its wings spread out from tree to tree. Swiftly it rose, and with winged speed, passed over the field as a tempest of fire.

Bird, having traded her neeker-breeker form for one human, poked her friend in the ribs at the spectacle. ‘What an exit! The guy knows how to catch your attention, eh?’ Pio nodded and looped her arm through her old friend’s. ‘If we hurry,’ she said, ‘we can catch Cami before she goes to bed. The children will all be sleeping. There’s a bottle of Old Winyards I hid in the cellar. We can sit under the stars and drink to the continued good health of the Wight and his Downs.’

Motioning for Pio to exit the gate ahead of her, Bird made a grand mock bow and tipped an imaginary hat at the Elf, saying, ‘You first, my dear Piosenniel . . .’ ‘No, after you, my dear Birdland . . .’ came the requisite reply from the Elf as she blew out the last candle-lantern.

Then laughing, they left the darkened field, arm in arm . . .