The Green Dragon Inn #11 - The Last Chapter

Feren had intended to be drunk. The young man might have achieved his purpose, if he hadn't drawn up a stool by the windowsill as nicely inconspicuous (or so he thought) - and be disturbed by a commotion outside and curious drinkers gathering around him. As if he hadn’t enough to deal with. Feren raised his eyes above the rim of the still-foaming mug, reluctantly, to the ridiculous sight of two ponies and a hobbit shouting about something or other. A round of hearty applause and cheers met the announcement of the pompous hobbit, presumably the owner of Fordogrimm-Chubb Inc. The dozers by the bar roused long enough to clang their mugs and show their approval. How perfectly nice. As he looked out, the hobbit - do they all have such unrememberable names? - busied himself setting out the kegs of ale on the makeshift table. That being finished, he scuttled about offering his hands to anyone who would shake, and many who'd rather not.

The muscles in the face of Feren twisted for a moment, as if he wanted to smile and thought better of it at the last instant. Then he tore his gaze away from the window. Folks around him were thinning, most heading for the gate to get their free drinks. Soon enough, he was the only one left in the vicinity.

It suited him just as well. Feren retreated into a corner of the inn, which had its odd spots of dirty corners despite the brightly-lit and cheerful surroundings that grated upon his nerves. He found his niche, settled limply into it and let his weary body sink into the coarse padding of the chair. His gray eyes restlessly encompassed the whole tavern before flickering back to his yet untasted mug of beer. Then, when he was sure that no one but the barmaid and a small number of hobbits were able to see him like this, the young man buried his head in his arms and let out a long-suppressed sigh, letting the tickling laughter of the hobbits outside wash over him.

If he was crying, it would have been quite admissible for him - he had nowhere to go anymore. Nowhere, but Gondor, or back to.... Back to...

[Folwren]

‘There’s a bit of a stir outside,’ Tim said as he and the stablemaster finished their rounds and came towards the wide open doors of the stable. They stopped in the opening, blinking in the sunlight after the dimness of the barn, and looked out.

‘Why that’s Fordogrim Chub with his ale!’ Meriadoc cried. ‘Almost better than that at the Dragon! Let’s go see what’s up, Tim.’ Tim trailed behind the stablemaster as the hobbit limped, crutches and all, towards the group of people standing around the extraordinarily short Fordogrim and his table and ale casks.

Meriadoc pushed his way into the middle and there finding what the cause of all the merriment was, forgot all his troubles and joined in, getting himself a pint of the Gamwich Gold. Tim, on the other hand, remained on the outskirts of the all the people. He glanced around and caught sight of the two tired ponies, still harnessed to the cart. One stretched it’s neck and tugged at the reins, getting no where in the process - the driver had tied them to the seat. The other stood with his head down on the level of its knees, one back foot resting, and blinking wearily.

Tim sighed with pity and walked towards them. He laid his hand gently on the nearest pony's forelock and stroked him while he glanced around for someone to ask if he could do anything for them. He quickly caught sight of a hobbit leaning on the wheel, and with the way that he stood back so nonchalantly with no mug in his hand, and no cares on his face, he assumed he would probably be a good person to ask.

‘Excuse me,’ Tim said, approaching him. The hobbit (it was Gerdy Chub, though Tim didn’t know it) turned and looked at him. ‘Are these your ponies? Should I unharness them and take them to water?’

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Gerdy roused himself about as much as he could do something other than lounge and addressed himself to the serious matter of the tall Man’s question about the ponies. “Well now,” he began, “the ponies you say? Hmmmm…..that’s a good question. They have been a-working very hard to get this here ale to the Inn, and that’s a fact, and it’s also just as true as they’ve not had a rest or a bite to eat or a sip of water nigh on….oh….well, let’s see, there was that well just outside of town where we stopped to get some water, but it was a bit dry and we didn’t feel it was right to take the last drops from a stranger’s lips. But there was that creek about an hour before then that they had a good drink from, but it was a bit muddy and I’m not sure as they had their fill…” It was Fatty who came to Tim’s rescue at this point.

“Ah, Gerdy” he said. “What’s this, eh? Chewing on the fat with people when there’s work to be done?”

“Ah, brother Fatty, I was just a-telling this here Man about the last time our ponies had some water. It was in that creek, but if you remember, it was right muddy…”

Fatty, who apparently had great experience with his brother’s manner, interrupted him before he could get started. “That’s right it was, brother Gerdy, that it was. But I believe I overheard the young master as asking if the ponies need some attention, and you were saying just as we came up as they were looking that tired, so why don’t you unharness them so as we can get them into some comfortable stalls.”

As Gerdy began unhitching the animals, Fatty quietly took Tim to one side and whispered in his ear, “You’ll have to excuse Gerdy, master. It’s not that he’s foolish or woolly between the ears – not a bit of it! He’ll stare his way through a brick wall in time, but it will take him a good amount of time. He’s rather methodical in the way he thinks and that can be a bit trying to those as don’t know him.” Tim politely assured the hobbit that he had found it no trial. “Well that’s quite capital of you, master. Capital indeed. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Fredegar Chubb, but you shall call me Fatty as does everyone else. I may not be much to look at yet, but I plan on becoming quite robust some day! My brother and I are in the employ of our cousin – our third cousin, once removed, to be precise – our cousin Fordogrim. And I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, young master and would be greatly pleased to know your name.”

[Thinlómien]

Unnoticed for a while, a young woman called Brith stood diffidently in the doorway of the inn. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed and clothed in a blue and brown traveler's garb. Brith's appearance and clothing showed clearly that she was from Gondor.

Brith watched the hobbits a bit confused. She wondered if there were such a mess and babbling every day. For a brief moment, she thought about entering, but her courage failed. These little people. They make me so confused, she thought. Then she just stood a while in the doorway watching the little people with a tiny smile.

While standing in the doorway Brith watched the people in the inn. Soon she noticed that not all of the people there were halflings. She saw two dwarves sitting in one table talking with each other. Then a tall woman - who had to be an elf - talking with a gondorian man caught her eye. When I first see an elf, of all places it happens to be in here, in this countryside land of halflings. Not in Minas Tirith or in Dol Amroth, but here in this little countryside inn in a little farmer country in the middle of wilderness..., she thought shooking her head. Also noticing the companion of the elf, she shooked her head again wondering if this was such a small, quiet and peaceful place she had thought this to be.

[Kath]

Having filled herself up with the wonderful food from the Inn's kitchens, Astilwen had made her way back outside, enjoying the fresh air of the morning. The gardens looked different than they had the night before and as there was no one outside aside from those arriving, she took her time perusing the various flowers and herbs.

She had been watching the new arrivals with some interest, as she had never seen so many people from so many different races all congregate in one place before. She liked to make up a history for each person she saw as they entered. Sometimes it was easy, she could tell if they had been travelling long by the state of their clothes, or if they were hungry by the speed at which they entered the Inn! She could also distinguish the animal lovers, as they tended to their horses before themselves. But now there was a new arrival, one that she had trouble making a history for.

A big people woman had arrived but had not gone further than the doorway. She was smiling, and seemed to be mostly at ease, but she was not entering the Inn. Confused, Astilwen watched her for a while but still the woman just stood at looked at something inside, and her innate curioisty got the better of her. She approached the stranger.

"Excuse me miss, but is something wrong? You'll be quite welcome inside you know."

[Huan]

‘Well, clap him hard on the back, Mistress Foxburr!’ came the amused voice of Emlin from behind Rowan’s back. He had stepped up so quietly, she had not heard him. And now, bent over slightly, he peered around her back.

She followed his direction and stepping near the distressed Hobbit, gave the still coughing Gil a good hard whack mid back. The air whoofed from him in a sudden exhalation, then came back in as he straightened up . . . without coughing.

His face was pale as he turned round to her. His cheeks flaming like a robin’s breast against the last snows of winter. A little ways aprt stood Emlin, looking closely at the pair, his brows raised.

[Koobdooga]

‘What do you seek there which you do not have already in the glorious halls of Durin?’ asked Frór. Ibun considered the question carefully before answering.

‘The halls are glorious. You have the right of that. Though, we are still in the process of repairing and restoring the great damage that Durin’s Bane made when he was loosed. And the last of the Orcs have been driven out of the cavern . . . they, too, I am sad to say caused much mischief.’ He shook his head, his eyes hard with anger at all that had been done to mar the great halls beneath the mountains. ‘Sorrier, though, are we that after all the wars against us, our number are much fewer than before.’ He took a pull at his ale. ‘King Durin VII has sent out messengers, such as myself, to the north and to the west, seeking those families of the Longbeards who once dwelt in Khazad-dum . . . inviting them back to dwell there in their ancient halls and rebuild it once more.’

Ibun pushed his half empty plate away from him. Fishing in his vest pocket he drew out his pouch of pipeweed. ‘I say, Frór. When you’re done with your meal there, might I offer you a pipeful?’