The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Arry]

‘Don’t need any planning!’ Hanson whispered, his eyes lighting up with mischief. He pointed to where the cat and punchbowl were flying through the air. There was a loud crash and the punch fanned out, splashing a great number of the partygoers. The attention of most of the crowd turned to the soggy fiasco.

‘Come on!’ said Hanson, pulling on Wren’s hand. Tim and Woody followed after.

The table on which the cakes sat had a lovely tablecloth that hung over the sides and ends; making it, for all practical purposes much like a secret cave beneath. The four children sneaked along the side farthest from the party area. One by one, each ducked beneath the table. The light from the candle lanterns in the trees threw a soft glow through the white cloth.

‘Now here’s what we do,’ explained Hanson, who had done this once before at a gathering held up by the party tree. One would stand by the table, keeping watch. One would spy out an easy to grab cake, and pass it down to the two beneath the table, along with some spoons.

He looked to where the mess around the punch bowl was being sorted out. Surely no one would notice if they borrowed a small pitcher of milk, too, to pass round. ‘Woody . . . you and Wren go fetch some milk for us first. Then we’ll bring the cake under when you’ve got back.’ He looked at Tim with a grin on his face. ‘Me and Tim’ll spy out the best cake while you’re gone.’

[Undómë]

She smiled up at Emlin and took his hand. ‘My wrap, if you don’t mind. I’ve left it on the verandah railing. Would you mind terribly fetching it for me? I really don’t want to run into my brother at the moment.’

Teluyaviel watched as Emlin wove his way through the crowd. She was glad for these moments to herself. Like him, she found herself perplexed, her thoughts . . . not exactly confused, just pushed into new channels.

What exactly did he mean to say to her? They had only met this evening. And that by chance, not design.

She picked one of the small flowers from the vase on the table and twirled it about in her fingers, the rhythmic motion focusing the direction of her thoughts. There was something so . . . she could not think of the exact word.

‘Meldo . . .’ she whispered to herself . . . ‘dear friend . . .’ She smiled, thinking of Farael.

‘Melda,’ she said aloud, trying another word on her tongue. A random breeze made her shiver a little. Telu’s brow furrowed as she thought on it. ‘Melda . . .’

[Nurumaiel]

The hobbit looked as though perhaps he had tried to keep tidy on the road, for he certainly wasn't as dirty-looking as he might have been. And, indeed, the expectant light in his eyes seemed to signify that he had a good reason to look his best. But Posco Brandybuck was often referred to by those in his hometown as the 'muddy hobbit.' He had a wonderful genius for attracting dirt, and nobody had been able to break him of his grimy habits, not even himself, for in truth it was not that he did something to make himself dirty. It simply happened.

The lights of the Green Dragon warmed Posco's heart greatly, for he had fond memories of the place. No, memories not merely fond, but beautiful. What bright, bonny eyes she had, and her lovely chestnut hair. Dear, sweet little Lily... he had not seen her since he had escorted her back to her home, despite their engagement. And his shyness, sometimes so deep that it was absurd, forbade him to go call on her at her home, and ride off with her as his bride. And so he made his way to the Dragon, hoping that she would be there. Perhaps she would be. And even if she wasn't... perhaps he could gather enough courage to go to her.

"Good grief, we're terribly lucky. I have such bad memories if this Inn. First we arrive in the pouring rain, soaked and miserable, and nearly dead with exhaustion. And now we arrive in the midst of a party! I prefer the rain."

Posco did not even turn to the gruff voice that had uttered such cheerful words, but gazed with some consternation at what did indeed seem to be a party. He hesitated for a moment, for he was not very fond of parties either. All the people... But, then again...

"If it's a choice between Aunt Malva and a party, I choose the party, Marcho," said Posco. "I don't want to go stay with Aunt Malva. Besides, I think Lily would like a party."

"Yes, yes, Lily would like a party," said Marcho. "I can't understand how you can go traipsing all over the Shire, and risk your sanity by rushing into a crowd of people when you know very well you're afraid of them, just because of a hobbit lass called Lily."

Posco made no reply, but strode with great determination along the road. Yet as the lights grew nearer, and the sound of voices and merry laughter drifted to their ears, Posco's steps began to falter, and his face grew worried. Marcho had been watching him keenly, and took advantage of the moment.

"It isn't too late to turn back, Posco," he said. "I said from the beginning that it would be more sensible to go to her house, anyway, if you really must go see her at all."

"I couldn't do that," said Posco.

"And whyever not?"

"Well... well... well... well, you see, it's much too dangerous. Bree isn't safe place. There are too many Big Folk there."

"We learned last time we came here that there are no lack of them at the Dragon. Posco, you're simply too shy to visit her."

"Why should I be shy around Lily?"

"Very well, then, you've changed your mind and you're only making this trip to satisfy your conscience. You'll say afterwards that you tried to find her, and you couldn't."

Posco drew himself up to his full hobbit height. "That," he said, "is utterly absurd." And then he strode firmly to the Inn.

[Huan]

‘Now where have you been, my dear Emlin?’ Rowan caught up to the Elf as he was walking away from the verandah. ‘An interesting shawl you’ve got there. On your arm.’ She plucked it from him and unfurled it, clutching it about her shoulders. She twirled, letting the ends fly out about her.

‘You are in a most excellent mood, Rowan.’ Emlin stood hands on hips watching her. His eyes slid to where the band were gathered on the stage. ‘Ah! Master Gil, is it?’ He raised his brows at her, nodding toward where Gil stood, about to begin a song. The Hobbit glanced often toward where Rowan stood, his eyes lingering on her. ‘And are you leading him along, little mistress? He seems quite besotted. Where do your affections lie?’

He took back the shawl, folding it neatly over his arm. ‘Take care, Rowan. It is strange, this fair night. You may find yourself reeled in by your own nets.’ Emlin left her standing there, a puzzled look on her face.

----------

She was still sitting on the bench where he’d left her. Emlin stopped in the shadows of the little copse of trees near the edge of the party area. He could barely catch his breath as he looked at her. And why was this so, he wondered? It was not a thing he had looked for.

He had, in fact, considered leaving at the end of this year; once he and his companions had returned to Lindon. Let them continue on their way, playing and singing as they went along. He would scarce be missed with his small talent in playing the flute, his singing. His intention was to take one of the ships that still left from the Havens and sail Westward.

Now those plans seemed all confounded. And he cared not.

Emlin came upon her quietly. She twirled a small fragrant flower in her fingers. And he caught the word she’d murmured quietly, to herself. He plucked the blossom gently from her grip, his own fingers securing it amidst the dark strands of her hair. He wrapped her shawl about her, tying the ends loosely at the front so that it would not slip from her shoulders.

‘Shall we walk?’ he asked, offering his hand to her. Melda . . .?