The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

[Primrose Bolger]

Talking to Larien

‘Larien. That’s a lovely name. I’ve not heard it before.’ Ginger poured a small mug of cider for herself and sat down. ‘My name’s Ginger Gamwich. From Hobbiton, not too far across the road. Mostly I work in the kitchen, helping Cook. But right now everything’s ready for supper, so I’ve got a break for a while. You don’t mind if I sit with you, do you?’

One of the other servers, Buttercup, came by and left a plate of little plum tarts for the two lasses. Ginger took one and passed the plate to Larien. ‘You planning on staying for a little while,’ Ginger asked as she munched on the sweet. ‘There’s going to be the Spring Faire in less than a week. Right here at the Inn. Or are you just passing through?’

Gosh, Ginger Gamwich you needn’t be so nosy right off! She sighed and took a sip of her cider, hoping she hadn’t sounded too nosy.

[Larien Telemnar]

‘Larien. That’s a lovely name. I’ve not heard it before.’

"Thank you." Larien murmered as Ginger poured a mug of cider. "Yours is very nice, too." Another Hobbitlass placed a plate on their table. Ginger passed it to Larien after taking one for herself. Larien smiled shyly and took one as well.

She listened quietly as Ginger asked her a few questions.

"I- I do no know if I will be staying. I though to visit The Shire before returning to...." Her voice trailed off and she smiled ruely. "Yes, I believe I will be staying. The Shire is a pleasant place, I belive I shall enjoy living among my own people for a while. What is this "Spring Faire" You talk about? Is it some kind of contest, perhaps for archery?"

Larien smiled and felt the tension she was feeling begin to fade as she relaxed and decided that Ginger was a fine young Hobbitlass. Perhaps I have made my first friend here. She thought.

[piosenniel]

Lithmîrë and the pot of salve

Cook dipped down for a moment and fished about in the basket she’d set at her feet. Somewhere, near the bottom she supposed, was something she had been waiting for the opportune moment to bring out. ‘Oh, I know it’s in here somewhere,’ came the muffled and slightly exasperated voice beneath the edge of the table.

Her hand made purchase on the rim of the pot (it had slipped under the two towels she’d wrapped the flask of tea in). ‘There we go,’ she said shoving her bonnet back into place as she straightened up. With a small nod and an encouraging smile, she scooted the pot across the narrow distance that separated them.

‘Now, please don’t think me too forward, Master Lithmîrë,’ she said, gesturing that he should open the pot. ‘I couldn’t help but notice earlier that your hand looked like it had been burnt. And a while ago, from the scarring. My late husband was a soapmaker. When we were first married there was an accident. He was boiling down the mixture and he slipped from the stool he was standing on at the kettle’s edge. My stars! What a burn he got on his arm; the one that slipped in. Anyways, to make a long story shorter, I had to cobble up a number of salves and lotions to help him out along the way. Couldn’t heal it up, of course. The lye water and hot grease had burnt too deeply. But it did ease up the pain of it and kept the scars from making the limb so stiff.’

Cook gave resigned sigh as she surveyed the scars on the Elf’s face and arm. ‘Wish you’d come through Bywater sooner; that it hadn’t gotten so bad as it must be by now.’ She cocked her head at him and hesitated, wondering how he would take her next question. ‘Are you using tincture of poppy in your tea?’

[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger noticed the Hobbit hesitated about where she’d come from. She’d learned, though, even in her short time working at the Inn, that it was better to let those hesitations lie. Perhaps Larien might offer more of an explanation at a later date, but for now, Ginger decided it would be best if she were left to her secrets. Best stick to safer subjects.

Taking a sip of cider, Ginger launched enthusiastically into an explanation of the Spring Faire. The Inn and its yard would be all decorated up with ribbons and streamers. And little lanterns would be hung in all the trees. There’d be lots of booths set up with all sorts of interesting things to see and buy or trade for. Lots of tables, too, with all sorts of cakes and cookies and pies to eat. And vote on . . . ribbons were given out and many of the ladies in Bywater and Hobbiton would be competing for them.

‘There are other contests, too,’ she went on. ‘Archery is one of them. Do you know how to use a bow? I never learned.’ Without waiting for Larien to answer, Ginger continued. ‘There’s axe throwing, too, and other woodsmen skills. And there’s a big tug-of-war. Foot races . . . Gosh, it all goes on for a couple of days. Oh, and at night, there’s music and dancing.’ Ginger grinned thinking about how Ferdy would be escorting her this year and she’d have someone to dance to all the music with.

‘So what do you say? You can walk around with me and my Ferdy. It’ll be fun!’

[Larien Telemnar]

Larien listened as Ginger explained the Spring Faire, thinking how exciting it all must be. Perhaps I shhould go. I need to get to know my kinspeople. She thought, smiling at Ginger's last question.

"I would love to accompany you, Ginger. I do know how to use a bow, but not as well as some people I know. Who is Ferdy?"

[littlemanpoet]

Uien had been wandering over the hummocks and turves of the pastures behind the Green Dragon for hours. Her Elvish step was light, but her heart was not. Her mind was dark with images she did not know from her own memory, nor that of her family, nor from any long lost friends from Lorien. Nor from Falowik. The trees and stream might as well not have been there, for she did not see them though her body knew to pass them by without injury.

The images flowed in and out, melding with horrors from her own past, then breaking away again. Beside a red bonfire a fair woman sneering, spitting at her would turn into a slant eyed, sallow faced orc padding at her with their filthy hands. She had survived imprisonment in the darkness of Caradhras, but these new memories overwhelmed her. Now she was walking over a dark, blasted land, dead and cold, fleeing from a dread that assailed her heart. She could not leave it behind. A man came at her with a firebrand as others held her down. The firebrand scalded her face and she screamed, fighting to back away. Only to find that she was standing in front of a tree, a limb waving in the breeze; someone was whimpering. She stopped to listen, and realized it was her own voice.

She closed her hands into fists and furrowed her brow. It was that burned elf. He had shouted her away from his mind, and in doing so, had cast his own violent memories into her mind. Had he done it on purpose? How could an Elf be so evil? Maybe he had not intended it. Still, why had he been so violent?

She was walking again, not seeing the land and trees.

After all, she had done no more than had always been the way of the osanwë in Lorien. One touched the edge of the mind of another Elf to discern whether the other was open or closed. It was like saying "would you like to talk?" If the other's mind remained closed, you pulled away, no harm done to either. But this burned elf had behaved as if the way of Lorien was, what? Akin to torture! Ridiculous. He had something to answer for, that was certain. No more probing the edge of his mind. She was going to confront him face to face and be answered.

She strode back toward the Inn with a purpose.

[Lasbelinion]

He bristled as Mistress Bunce pushed the pot of salve toward him. The urge to push her away rose like bile in his throat, immediate and burning and bitter. Her words touched him before the cool side of the pot brushed lightly against his finger tips. He forced down the words that were already forming on his lips. Dipping his head down as if to inspect the salve, he swallowed them one by one.

She bears a certain light, he thought. Should I speak without thinking, the tenuous line between us will snap.

Lithmîrë drew his thoughts inward, considering that connection. It was not a familiar one. And being unfamiliar it did not call up the bristling defenses he had so long cultivated. Still, it was troubling in its unexpectedness. He turned his attention fully to that little link, probing and pushing at it as one might a sore tooth with the tongue . . . looking for any darker motives he might discern.

Her words seemed to be winding down now. They held a tone of regret. She had asked a question, and looked to him to see if she had been too forward with it. With an effort he recalled what she had said. Poppy, she had asked about poppy.

‘Yes, I have used that at times,’ he heard himself answering her, His voice level. ‘But not often. It dulls the pain, but clouds my mind, too. It leaves me too . . .’ defenseless he was going to say . . . ‘too tired and feeling weak.’

He dipped his fingers into the salve and brought a small smear to his nose. It had a light, clean smell. and as he rubbed it on a small portion of the scarring on his arm, he could feel a certain cool comfort spread out in the ropy, tight tissue.

'This will be good, I think,' he said, the curve of a quick smile fleeting on the right side of his face. 'It will go well with the tea I've put together.' He put the cover on the pot, saying he would use it more fully later. 'And I was wondering, my store of herbs for that tea is nearly depleted. Would it be possible for me to replenish them from your garden?'