The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[piosenniel]

Cook stepped out from the pantry and wiped off her face with a clean towel. Once Derufin had gone, she would step outside and give her self a more thorough brushing off.

She helped him load up his tray, making sure there was plenty of food for the crew who had filled the Inn’s woodshed. She piled up a sizable plate of tarts, knowing the groundskeeper had a mighty sweet tooth. ‘Oh, and here’s a little pot of vegetable stew I’d set aside for Master Benat, seeing as how he would probably not be wanting to eat the conies. Delicious as they are,’ she said as an aside. ‘And take this bowl of stew out for the nice doggie.’ She glanced up at Derufin as he gave a laugh at this expression of her acceptance of Cullen as a suitable canine. ‘Well, he’s left my old tabby alone. And the little ones like him, I’ve noticed. Can’t be all that bad, can he?’ And that was about as much praise as she had ever heaped on the head of a canine.

Her last favor was to trundle downstairs to retrieve a bottle of Dwarven spirits. She came back with a dust, dark brown bottle with some unreadable runes on it, not to mention a few trailing wisps of cobweb. ‘Don’t get much call for this,’ she said putting it on the heavily laden tray. ‘Most people just don’t have a taste for it. Quite a kick to it, if I do say so myself.’ Derufin raised a brow at her. ‘Tried to use it in a cake I was making . . . had to give it a taste, see if it was alright, now didn’t I?’

Cook held the door open for him and ushered him out before he could make a suitable reply.

[Noinkling]

Benat’s eyes gleamed as Derufin approached, the tray of food balanced on his hands and one shoulder. Cullen stood, too, his nose sniffing the air appreciatively. Rumbly sounds came from one or the other’s stomach, or perhaps both.

Derufin passed out the bowls of stew, telling Benat that Cook had made his without meat. ‘Bless her!’ cried the man, his nose taking in the savory aroma. ‘She is a sure treasure you’ve got here, Master Derufin. A kind heart for all her gruff at times exterior.’ Cullen echoed the sentiment with an anticipatory Woof! as his bowl was placed on the floor.

Taking the bottle of Dwarven spirits, Benat eased the cork from it and poured each of them a small tot of it in the little silvered glasses Cook had sent with it. He held his up with a grin on his face, saying, ‘Here’s to the Shire and here’s to The Green Dragon! Long may they prosper!’

[Undómë]

Hob raised his little glass with the others. Truth be told, he’d never had Dwarven spirits, his preference being for good ale. ‘May our gardens bloom with flowers and vegetables and our burrows with little ones!’ he said, adding his own toast.

He brought the little cup tentatively to his nose and sniffed it. A strong scent, though not unpleasant. It spoke of solidness and fire’s heat and brightness he thought, though he could not tell why. Tipping the glass back as he touched it to his lips, he let a small amount seep onto his tongue. Fiery, indeed! It brought tears to his eyes and a bout of coughing as it ran down his throat.

‘Good!’ he rasped, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his tunic. ‘Surprisingly good.’

[Fairleaf]

Long had it been since one of Firstborn had sung to her. Often the fair folk of Lorien would cross over from Parth Celebrant and into the once green fields where Fairleaf and her sisters and friends had nurtured their gardens. Or in turn, the Entwives and maidens would cross into the Naith to admire the gardens there. The Elves had sung to them and walked with them talking of plants and growing and other things.

There was more light then and Fairleaf’s lands were green. Then the darkness had come and the lands turned sere and brown was their color. She and her kin that remained had fled east, seeking refuge.

Fairleaf rustled her leaves, a song in return for that of the Elf. A turning song as listing trees make whispering in the wind. She loosed some of the pink and white hawthorn flowers that graced her branches a t this time of year. They fell, fluttering in the air, to dot the bright gold of Uien’s hair.

But she would speak no words. Long had she kept her secret and even now, despite the fair song and fairer face, caution urged her to be silent. She was patient; she could wait until the Elf grew tired of her vigil. Neither was she sorry she had tripped Uien in her pursuit of Lithmire.

Poor, sad creatures. she thought to herself. Curse the Dark One for bringing this upon them and my kin!

She chastened herself for this last harsh remark. Better the cursing be done by those who can assure the bane be carried through.

[littlemanpoet]

In the windless, growing twilight, the pink and white flowers of the hawthorn tree fell fluttering onto Uien’s hair. Her smile grew. She could not be completely sure, but the signs were there. A root tripping a fleet footed Elf maiden, leaves whispering in no breeze, a very bouquet of flowers falling all at once.

Uien loved all trees above all growing things, for they graced the land with beauty and were for the Elves a remembrance of Fair Yavanna. Uien had never been to Valinor, and now would never go, but she had received the fair memory of that holy one from Lady Galadriel, and could not forget, nor would she. Above all trees, even the mallorns of Cerin Amroth, the Elves loved the shepherds of trees, who from them had learned speech and much lore.

So Uien was not sure, but she guessed, and so she smiled as she had not done in many a day or year. She could feel and smell this tree's way, and it was that of gardens rather than woods, and it - no - she, was a Lady tree. Uien chose not to even think the name that this one's fair kind went by, for she felt the secretiveness of this one.

"I shall not betray your secret, fair hawthorn maiden," she said, and smiled. "Twilight is above all times most precious to me, and I will remain here to share it with you. Then I shall dream sleeplessly through the night, as is the way of Elves. I shall not be watchful. If you are not here in the morning, I will not give chase, and will carry your secret in my heart for all time that is given to me in Arda, and tell no one unless you say otherwise."

Uien touched the bark of the hawthorn, feeling the slow rhythm of the life within, and she was glad. Even if her guess was wrong.

[Strider]

The golden afternoon had quickly faded into the kind of night eternalized in poems and ballads--the air was warm and sweeter smelling that it had been earlier, and the indigo sky seemed to chime with the twinkling timbre of hundreds of thousands of stars. Inside the Green Dragon, the ellon sat upright and poised upon his rather uncomfortable wooden stool, lithe fingers splayed over the severe drop of his knees.

Grey gaze lay quiescent, yet not altogether heedless or unobservant, upon a freshly doled out bowl of Cook’s stew currently being emptied at an ungodly rate by a random regular. His first thought was disgust, regrettably as is with all the conscious living, for the ways that were not his own. The wisdom he happened to acquire over the better part of the Third Age and then some, however, allowed him to set aside such feelings of revulsion and replace them with an almost childlike fascination for the quaint mannerisms of the Shirefolk.

After watching the same inn guest wash down his supper with a healthy swig from his pint, the elf began to wonder what was keeping his own order from arriving. Lifting an imperial brow in an expression of query, he allowed his eyes to drift across the common room in search of the barmaid who had so warmly welcomed him. It was at this time that he briefly met the gaze of the elf-maiden Larien, awkwardly trailing behind a stout company of kitchen volunteers with a serving dish hanging loosely between her sinuous fingers.

She intrigued, baffled, and disheartened him all at once. The elves were known for the way their pride shone through their every movement, their very presence. The autumn years had induced a certain bittersweet air about their existence, but always was their dignity preserved. Yet this elleth moved without said bearing, though there was some remnant of grace that whispered dark riddles about the past, about what had once been. His curiosity piqued, the elf reallocated his eyes to remove the impression that he was staring (for he was), and made a note to speak to Larien after his hot water came.

[Arry]

It was Tomlin on the porch of the Inn, waving to him, that Gil had seen as he turned into the little dirt lane leading up to the Dragon. ‘Come down and help me with the cart and pony,’ Gil cried as his friend grinned down at him. ‘I’ve got Ferrin and Fallon with me. We could use a hand unloading the instruments.’

‘And we’re here, too, with Uncle Gil!’ piped a small voice from the recesses of the back of the cart. Willy and Hanson poked out their faces over the top of the seat and waved at Tomlin.

‘They heard in their class that the players from Pincup were passing through.’ Gil nodded at the two boys, giving them a raised brow and then a smile. ‘Pestered me something awful and their Ma until she let them go.’ The two little brothers grinned wickedly at each other, then shrugged their shoulders as if it really wasn’t any of their doing.

‘I’m hungry!’ Hanson called up to his uncle who now stood on the top step of the Inn. Gil looked down at them and sighed. ‘And didn’t you just eat before we left?’ he asked, shaking his head. Willy spoke up in defense of his littler brother. ‘But that was a while ago. And really we were too excited to eat . . . well as much as we usually do . . . and besides it was stewed eel with onions, our Da’s favorite . . . and well, we just don’t like it all that much.’ ‘Too bouncy on our teeth,’ Hanson confirmed. ‘And those onions always get so slimy!’ He shuddered, as if to emphasize his distaste.

‘Right then,’ Gil said, motioning for the two to come on up the stairs. He held the door open for them, telling them to go on in and find a good table for the six of them. ‘And don’t be flirting with Buttercup,’ he called after them as they disappeared into the common room. ‘Or you’ll have to square it with Tomlin, here.’