Chapter 11: Many Midwest Meetings Midtacular
And so we bring you a written update! Huzzah for the long break. I've got to say that this chapter has had me the most joyous, if not just for the Georwen, then also for the locale (Muck Fichigan! I can't help it =/).Without further delay, I bring to you:
The Lord of the Reports:
The Fellowship of the Tie
Book II, Chapter 11:
Many Midwest Meetings Midtacular
At first when Jason woke, he thought himself back at home, in his own bed; but he opened his eyes to see a room full of strangely broken columns, its walls striped and all of it strangely aglow. From outside he could hear the soft sound of a waterfall.
"Where am I?" he asked aloud.
"Rivendell State University, venerable old house of learning and home of the Buckeyes," said a voice, "and it is about ten o'clock in the morning. On October the thirtieth, if you care."
"Lewis!" exclaimed Jason, sitting up. "Dude, where have you been?"
"All in good time," replied the wizard from beside the bed. "Right now, you need rest."
"I'm fine." Jason flexed his arm; the pain in his shoulder had gone entirely. "It doesn't even feel cold any more. And I'm totally awake now. How long was I out? Nine, ten hours?"
"Four days."
The hobbit's mouth dropped open. "Four days?"
"You nearly died," snapped Lewis, though he was obviously trying to go easy on Jason, for he didn't swear at all. "There was shard of the blade working its way toward your heart. I've known strong men who would've been pushing daisies within a week if that had happened to them. Now lie down."
There was nothing for it but to obey. Jason settled himself back upon the pillows, much subdued; then he said, "Where are the others?"
"All here, and safe," replied the wizard gruffly. "I made Sam go get some rest half an hour ago, so she'll be back in about five minutes."
"Oh good." His largest worry relieved, Jason allowed himself to move back to older matters. "Lewis ... why didn't you meet us on the way?"
"Ah. Well, about that ... I'm really sorry, Jason. I was ... delayed." He glowered, but not at the hobbit; whether at himself, or some person seen only in his mind's eye, Jason could not tell. It was an unsettling prospect in any case. He was used to thinking of the wizard as strong and powerful, able to bring down nearly all opponents by shouting alone. It was frightening to think of a foe who could detain him.
"But enough of that," he continued, shaking it off. "It'll all be explained at the Council. Anyway, you had Jonagorn with you, which was the next best thing."
"Smiler?" asked Jason. "Yeah, he was pretty cool. He was all whoosh with the fire and then slash with the sword and, yeah, really cool. I didn't know the Big People -- 'big', you understand, is a relative term -- could be like that."
"You don't give them enough credit," replied Lewis. "But Jonagorn is one of the race of great Hosts from the Promised Land over the Sea, and there are few left in Middle-america like him."
"No way," breathed Jason. "And I thought he was only a Stranger!"
"'Only' a Stranger? Who do you think the Strangers are? They're the last remnant in the North of the Men of the East, the strongest and noblest of their kind. Not all those who giggle are fools."
The hobbit pondered this for a time. At last he inquired, "What of the Riders? I remember a flood..."
"Yes, that was us," confirmed Lewis. "I had reached RSU by that point. Did you notice the donkeys? That was my little touch. All symbolic, of course, real donkeys are never that effective, but it worked."
"So they're dead, then?"
"Oh, no, they don't die that easily. The Riders, anyway. Their steeds are long gone, though, and that'll slow them down for a while. And don't worry," he added, "you're safe here, at least for now. The Dark Lord cannot yet overpower the Lord of RSU in her own home, and even all Nine Riders together couldn't beat her Army of Love."
"Tell me you're kidding," said Jason.
"Nope. And I suggest you take her Army very seriously."
Their conversation was interrupted at this point by a delighted whoop from the doorway as Sam burst through and vaulted onto the bed.
Jason drifted off again shortly after that, but woke in the evening feeling much refreshed, to find that Rob and Ed had joined Sam, or very nearly: they were sitting by the side of the bed, and she had passed out upon it. "Good timing," said Ed cheerfully, as Rob shook Sam awake. "You've gotten up just in time for dinner!"
They were dressed in new, clean clothing, and when Jason got up he found that he was too, though he knew better than to ask how he had gotten them. Instead he followed his friends to the great dining hall of RSU, where they piled trays high with all the best food that the elves had to offer. Most of the diners were elves, but Jason also saw some dwarves and some men at the long central table, and there were four chairs piled with cushions reserved especially for the hobbits, three together near the foot and one much nearer the head, which Jason took.
At the head of the table, as was her custom, sat Oprohnd, the master of that place: strong, elegant, and regal as a queen on her throne. Her face was neither old nor young, for it was not lined, but in her eyes was the memory of many things fair and fell, and the wisdom of ages long gone by.
To her right sat Lewis, for once neither jittery nor twitchy; something about the elf beside him inspired him to a solemn stillness. Even his robes were smooth and pressed, his collar straightened, not one curl out of place.
And to her left sat Georwen, her son. They looked, to Jason's eye, different as night and day; but perhaps it was an elf thing, and Georwen did at least have his mother's noble bearing. Long had he been with his kin in Hollywood, and he was but lately returned to the place where he had grown up. He wore a dark grey tunic with no adornment, not even a circlet in his silvering hair. He needed none. By his smile alone he lit up the room.
Jason could see no sign of Smiler, though he studied the personages around him. To his right was an old dwarf, richly dressed. Across from him sat a person whose race he could not determine: he looked elvish, but his clothes were strange relative to those of the elves of RSU.
"Something wrong?" asked the dwarf beside him, in a low but friendly voice. Jason jumped.
"No -- nothing -- it's just..." He glanced from his companion to the person across from him. "I can't stop staring at his ears. One's pointy, and the other's not. He looks like half an elf."
"That'll be Stepholas, on errand from the wood-elves of Hollywood," explained the dwarf. "He's all elf, and it's best not to stare; he can be sensitive."
"Thanks, uh..."
To his great surprise, the dwarf actually stood up and bowed. "Belúshin, at your service. And this is my son, Stevli." A younger dwarf beside him bowed a greeting, though he did not rise to do so.
"Jason Baggins, at your service and your family's," stammered the hobbit in reply. "Are you John Belúshin, one of the thirteen companions of Dan Aykroydshield, who had that big adventure with Mo?"
"That I am," replied Belúshin. "Well met, young hobbit. Mo speaks very highly of you."
"Then you've seen him! Where is he?"
"Oh, he's around. We took him to the Mountain for one more visit some years ago, and since then he has dwelt here, and by all accounts enjoyed it immensely."
"And what's going on at the Mountain? How is everyone?"
For nearly an hour Jason listened as Belúshin told him news, not only of the dwarves at the Lonely Mountain but of many other places in the far west. Next to these, the little details of life in the Shire seemed terribly unimportant. He learned that the kingship of Esgaroth on the Great Salt Lake had passed to the grandson of Ben the Writer who slew the dragon Smug and saved the people from being caught in his crossfire for ever; that the land between the Rocky Mountains and the forest of Hollywood was guarded by the son of Knut ("best not to mention him to Stepholas either," the dwarf warned, "as the elves of Hollywood tend to consider his kind a number one threat"), who now presided over an order of strong men; and that several of the dwarves had gone to the Appalachian Mountains near RSU, where they had resettled a long-abandoned mine.
Truth be told, Jason soon got lost in all the strange names; but there were some he knew from Mo's tales, and Belúshin was delighted to have found in him such an attentive listener. He was still speaking of the mine in the mountains, of its high caverns and great rocky halls, and of how the mine was still fruitful, how they couldn't figure out why it had been abandoned in the first place, when the feast came to an end.
Oprohnd and Georwen rose and went down the hall, followed by the rest of the company in due order; Jason found himself walking with Lewis. "You'll like this next room," the wizard declared. "It's the soppiest place in the world -- all pastels and fluffy couches and heart-to-heart talks and sharing of feelings -- but it's relaxing for all that. Good place to hear a story, or a song, or just sit and think, if that's what turns you on."
Indeed, the broad hall into which they entered was about as nonthreatening as Jason could imagine a room to be. Even the fire on the hearth was cheerful and warm and looked as though it would be terribly sorry if it should happen to burn something by accident. The elves and their guests sat in circles of couches, and many a pleasant conversation began; at the end of the room a chorus of minstrels began to play.
Then Jason saw a small dark figure sitting alone on a chair in a far corner. He was hunched over as if in sleep, and the hobbit wondered if he were ill, and had been unable to come to the feast. But Oprohnd went forward and stood beside this figure, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Wake up, hon!" she said with a smile; then, beckoning to Jason, she called, "Over here, Jason, honey. Here's someone you've been waiting to see."
The dark figure looked up, and Jason immediately sprang forward. "Mo!"
On a cool marble terrace, upon a white bench, sat Jonagorn, reading by moonlight. He glanced up from his book as another man entered. He was tall and red-haired, with slate-blue eyes and clothing of a Southern fashion.
At first the visitor did not see Jonagorn, but meandered unwittingly towards him, studying the broken columns, the flowers that grew up every wall, the statue on whose pedestal the shards of a broken sword were arranged, the lights that could be seen through the trees and across the valley. At last he felt the eyes of the reader upon him, and turned with a start.
"Nice night, isn't it?" said Jonagorn, smiling.
The other man tried to smile back, though there was more than a little smirk in his expression. "Lovely. You're not an elf; who are you?"
"A Stranger. A friend of Lewis the Black."
"Then we are here on common purpose. I am Craig Kilbornomir, son of the Steward of the District of Columbidor and Captain-General in the Army of the White Tower," came the proud reply. "So nice to meet you."
His eye fell on the sword, the hilt of which until recently had been sheathed at Jonagorn's side, and he strode over to it. "Not much use in keeping this around, is there?" he asked. "It's just a broken old heirloom."
With a nod to Jonagorn, he walked away, rather faster than he had come in. Jonagorn tried to return to his book and found himself quite unable to focus on the words. Still, he did not notice the next visitor's entrance until the volume was snatched from his hands, for the step of an elf is lighter even than the sound of a man sitting alone.
"Hey!" he exclaimed, snatching for the book; and then he found himself staring into the handsome face of Georwen Clundómiel, and was somewhat mollified as he rose to face the elf. "I'd like that back, please."
"No," replied Georwen calmly, still smiling.
Jonagorn reached for the volume, but Georwen held it high above his head, and try as he might Jonagorn was unable to reach it. "This is really not fair," he protested.
"You could try jumping," suggested the elf.
"I am not jumping for you," said Jonagorn sternly, folding his arms and attempting to look menacing.
Georwen remained placidly unmenaced. "You didn't come to dinner," he observed.
"No, I didn't."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, there was this book I wanted to read..."
Georwen raised his eyebrows.
"And you'll all be showing off for the visitors, talking about your hundreds of clubs and your gay acorns and what have you, stuff I've heard more than enough about for one lifetime..."
"But still not enough to know that they're called buckeyes," observed the elf. "In any case, the visitors will be interested in you."
"Well, they'll all see me at the Council tomorrow -- at least, all the important ones. It won't make any difference one way or the other if I'm sociable with them now."
"There are people who would see you tonight," said Georwen, more softly. "In less solemn conditions."
"If they really want to see me, they can hunt me down."
"And here I am." Georwen tossed the book aside and took Jonagorn's arm. "Walk with me."
Together they went down the side of the valley, past groves of dark trees trees and walls of ancient rock and buildings with light pouring from their windows, the air filled with the music from the halls and the night sounds of insects in chorus. They came to a bridge over a stream that flowed from one of the many waterfalls, and here Georwen stopped.
"Do you remember when we first met?" he asked.
Jonagorn smiled wryly. "I said 'Is this a dream?'"
"And when I said 'No'," continued Georwen, "you did this stupid little dance."
"Aren't you supposed to tell me it was an adorable dance?"
"Oh, it was. But stupid all the same."
Flushing slightly, Jonagorn looked away, fiddling nervously with the clasp of his tunic. "Can you blame me? I mean, I woke up next to the hottest elf since Felúthien. It was kind of a big deal for me."
"You're hardly the only one," replied the elf, touching Jonagorn's cheek with his fingertips and turning it gently until they faced each other. "I woke up next to the heir to the throne of Columbidor. That's no small thing."
"Unlike, say, me." At this, Georwen smirked, but Jonagorn remained solemn. "I'm serious. All the elves around here are tough, and strong, and handsome, and wise, and, yes, tall, and they've got hundreds of other things going for them. I didn't do anything to earn my inheritance except be born to the right mother. And without it, I'm just this regular guy."
"You really believe that, don't you."
"Well, it's true."
"Oh, no you don't. Listen to me," said Georwen, his voice stern. "You are tough, and strong, and handsome, and wise. You're noble, not only by descent, but by inclination. You think before you speak, and still more before you act, and yet you are always ready to put yourself in danger to protect those who are defenseless. You are keen and insightful and amazingly funny. I love your stupid dorky dances. I love your adorable girly laugh. I love you, Jonagorn. Not your ancestors, not your inheritance; you."
"Well, great," stammered the man, "now you're making me blush."
"It's true. Do you believe it?"
"I..." He considered the answer carefully, weighing the words. "I believe that you believe it," he said at last.
"I suppose that'll have to do." Now the elf reached into the folds of his tunic and drew out a pendant: a small golden male figure on a jet-black pedestal, arms clasped over its chest, gripping the hilt of a sword. "When you leave, take this with you. In case you forget again."
"You can't give me this," protested Jonagorn, as the statuette was pressed into his hand. "It's yours."
"And I'm yours," replied Georwen, folding Jonagorn's fingers over the pendant. "It all works out in the end."
Jason and Mo sat side by side on one of the couches, and Sam, Ed, and Rob arrived quickly to sit alongside them. Mo's face was more lined than it had been, and his hair had gone entirely silver, but he was as alert as ever, and nearly more delighted to see Jason than the younger hobbit was to see him.
"Dude, where have you been?" exclaimed Jason when greetings had been exchanged all around. "You weren't at the feast. Why haven't I seen you?"
"Well, you were asleep," pointed out Mo. "I've seen you. As for the feast, I don't go in much for big gatherings any more. I'd rather work on my own little projects -- my writing, my songs. I was working on a song when you came in; I'm stuck on one of the verses. I'll have to get my friend the Dúdedan to help out. Where is he?"
Oprohnd laughed. "I'll send someone off to look for him," she promised; and there was an unnerving gleam in her eyes as she added, "We'll have him back here right away."
With that she bade them good evening and strode off to attend to other guests, leaving the hobbits alone. Mo had very little to say for himself; he had made one visit to the dwarves, but declared that his time of traveling had ended, and he was content to remain peacefully at RSU.
"I've heard plenty about the rest of the world," he explained, "especially now, with all these visitors arriving from far lands. Lewis shows up a lot, and he keeps fewer things close than he used to; and the Dúdedan tells me many things besides, especially about that Tie of mine. Imagine, such a little thing causing such a stir! But no one goes so far as Hamilton. Let's have some news of the Shire."
At this, the other four were happy to oblige; and between them they related all manner of news, from the large to the trifling, though to Mo it was all of the greatest possible interest. They were so deep in the telling of the pranks of Rob's younger brother that they did not notice the arrival of a man clad in dark blue until he coughed politely.
Mo looked up and grinned. "Ah, Dúdedan, there you are!"
The man's hair was tousled, and his jacket was somewhat wrinkled as though he had donned it in a great hurry; but aside from this he was well-washed and clean-shaven, and it took Jason a moment to recognize the Stranger. "Smiler!" he exclaimed. "How many names do you have?"
"Well, 'Smiler' is one that I haven't heard before, anyway," laughed Mo. "Why do you call him that?"
"That's what they call me in Toronto, and it's how I was introduced to him," explained Smiler.
"And why do you call him Dúdedan?" inquired Jason.
"The Dúdedan," said Mo. "That's what they call him here -- and I thought you knew your Elvish better than that: dúde-adan, Guy of the East, Jeúmenorean." To Smiler he said, "Why weren't you at the feast? The Lord Georwen was there."
"I know, I know," replied the Stranger. "He, ah, he found me."
There was a brief silence as the hobbits considered this, together with the man's slightly disheveled appearance.
"Did we, er, interrupt anything?" asked Mo carefully.
"What? Oh, no. Not at all. Put it out of your mind." He smiled innocently, then shot Sam a glare. "Especially you."
"I wasn't picturing it!" yelped Sam.
"Neither was I!" added Rob.
"I asked for you," said Mo hurriedly, "because I'm stuck on one of these verses, and I wanted your help."
"Sure! Fine!" exclaimed Smiler. "No problem. Let's find some nice secluded corner and go over them. Alone. Without company."
"I'll sing it for you when we're done," Mo told the younger hobbits, then swung out of his chair and followed the Stranger away.
The talking and singing went on late into the night; several times Jason thought he saw mountains, or silver forests, or vast expanses of foam greater than any lake he had ever known, only to wake with a start and realize that he had been dreaming to the music.
He was in the midst of a vast golden plain, with a range of mountains looming purple in the distance, when Sam prodded him awake. "Time to go to bed, Jason," she ordered. "You've got a Council in the morning."
The Lord of the Reports:
The Fellowship of the Tie
Book II, Chapter 11:
Many Midwest Meetings Midtacular
At first when Jason woke, he thought himself back at home, in his own bed; but he opened his eyes to see a room full of strangely broken columns, its walls striped and all of it strangely aglow. From outside he could hear the soft sound of a waterfall.
"Where am I?" he asked aloud.
"Rivendell State University, venerable old house of learning and home of the Buckeyes," said a voice, "and it is about ten o'clock in the morning. On October the thirtieth, if you care."
"Lewis!" exclaimed Jason, sitting up. "Dude, where have you been?"
"All in good time," replied the wizard from beside the bed. "Right now, you need rest."
"I'm fine." Jason flexed his arm; the pain in his shoulder had gone entirely. "It doesn't even feel cold any more. And I'm totally awake now. How long was I out? Nine, ten hours?"
"Four days."
The hobbit's mouth dropped open. "Four days?"
"You nearly died," snapped Lewis, though he was obviously trying to go easy on Jason, for he didn't swear at all. "There was shard of the blade working its way toward your heart. I've known strong men who would've been pushing daisies within a week if that had happened to them. Now lie down."
There was nothing for it but to obey. Jason settled himself back upon the pillows, much subdued; then he said, "Where are the others?"
"All here, and safe," replied the wizard gruffly. "I made Sam go get some rest half an hour ago, so she'll be back in about five minutes."
"Oh good." His largest worry relieved, Jason allowed himself to move back to older matters. "Lewis ... why didn't you meet us on the way?"
"Ah. Well, about that ... I'm really sorry, Jason. I was ... delayed." He glowered, but not at the hobbit; whether at himself, or some person seen only in his mind's eye, Jason could not tell. It was an unsettling prospect in any case. He was used to thinking of the wizard as strong and powerful, able to bring down nearly all opponents by shouting alone. It was frightening to think of a foe who could detain him.
"But enough of that," he continued, shaking it off. "It'll all be explained at the Council. Anyway, you had Jonagorn with you, which was the next best thing."
"Smiler?" asked Jason. "Yeah, he was pretty cool. He was all whoosh with the fire and then slash with the sword and, yeah, really cool. I didn't know the Big People -- 'big', you understand, is a relative term -- could be like that."
"You don't give them enough credit," replied Lewis. "But Jonagorn is one of the race of great Hosts from the Promised Land over the Sea, and there are few left in Middle-america like him."
"No way," breathed Jason. "And I thought he was only a Stranger!"
"'Only' a Stranger? Who do you think the Strangers are? They're the last remnant in the North of the Men of the East, the strongest and noblest of their kind. Not all those who giggle are fools."
The hobbit pondered this for a time. At last he inquired, "What of the Riders? I remember a flood..."
"Yes, that was us," confirmed Lewis. "I had reached RSU by that point. Did you notice the donkeys? That was my little touch. All symbolic, of course, real donkeys are never that effective, but it worked."
"So they're dead, then?"
"Oh, no, they don't die that easily. The Riders, anyway. Their steeds are long gone, though, and that'll slow them down for a while. And don't worry," he added, "you're safe here, at least for now. The Dark Lord cannot yet overpower the Lord of RSU in her own home, and even all Nine Riders together couldn't beat her Army of Love."
"Tell me you're kidding," said Jason.
"Nope. And I suggest you take her Army very seriously."
Their conversation was interrupted at this point by a delighted whoop from the doorway as Sam burst through and vaulted onto the bed.
Jason drifted off again shortly after that, but woke in the evening feeling much refreshed, to find that Rob and Ed had joined Sam, or very nearly: they were sitting by the side of the bed, and she had passed out upon it. "Good timing," said Ed cheerfully, as Rob shook Sam awake. "You've gotten up just in time for dinner!"
They were dressed in new, clean clothing, and when Jason got up he found that he was too, though he knew better than to ask how he had gotten them. Instead he followed his friends to the great dining hall of RSU, where they piled trays high with all the best food that the elves had to offer. Most of the diners were elves, but Jason also saw some dwarves and some men at the long central table, and there were four chairs piled with cushions reserved especially for the hobbits, three together near the foot and one much nearer the head, which Jason took.
At the head of the table, as was her custom, sat Oprohnd, the master of that place: strong, elegant, and regal as a queen on her throne. Her face was neither old nor young, for it was not lined, but in her eyes was the memory of many things fair and fell, and the wisdom of ages long gone by.
To her right sat Lewis, for once neither jittery nor twitchy; something about the elf beside him inspired him to a solemn stillness. Even his robes were smooth and pressed, his collar straightened, not one curl out of place.
And to her left sat Georwen, her son. They looked, to Jason's eye, different as night and day; but perhaps it was an elf thing, and Georwen did at least have his mother's noble bearing. Long had he been with his kin in Hollywood, and he was but lately returned to the place where he had grown up. He wore a dark grey tunic with no adornment, not even a circlet in his silvering hair. He needed none. By his smile alone he lit up the room.
Jason could see no sign of Smiler, though he studied the personages around him. To his right was an old dwarf, richly dressed. Across from him sat a person whose race he could not determine: he looked elvish, but his clothes were strange relative to those of the elves of RSU.
"Something wrong?" asked the dwarf beside him, in a low but friendly voice. Jason jumped.
"No -- nothing -- it's just..." He glanced from his companion to the person across from him. "I can't stop staring at his ears. One's pointy, and the other's not. He looks like half an elf."
"That'll be Stepholas, on errand from the wood-elves of Hollywood," explained the dwarf. "He's all elf, and it's best not to stare; he can be sensitive."
"Thanks, uh..."
To his great surprise, the dwarf actually stood up and bowed. "Belúshin, at your service. And this is my son, Stevli." A younger dwarf beside him bowed a greeting, though he did not rise to do so.
"Jason Baggins, at your service and your family's," stammered the hobbit in reply. "Are you John Belúshin, one of the thirteen companions of Dan Aykroydshield, who had that big adventure with Mo?"
"That I am," replied Belúshin. "Well met, young hobbit. Mo speaks very highly of you."
"Then you've seen him! Where is he?"
"Oh, he's around. We took him to the Mountain for one more visit some years ago, and since then he has dwelt here, and by all accounts enjoyed it immensely."
"And what's going on at the Mountain? How is everyone?"
For nearly an hour Jason listened as Belúshin told him news, not only of the dwarves at the Lonely Mountain but of many other places in the far west. Next to these, the little details of life in the Shire seemed terribly unimportant. He learned that the kingship of Esgaroth on the Great Salt Lake had passed to the grandson of Ben the Writer who slew the dragon Smug and saved the people from being caught in his crossfire for ever; that the land between the Rocky Mountains and the forest of Hollywood was guarded by the son of Knut ("best not to mention him to Stepholas either," the dwarf warned, "as the elves of Hollywood tend to consider his kind a number one threat"), who now presided over an order of strong men; and that several of the dwarves had gone to the Appalachian Mountains near RSU, where they had resettled a long-abandoned mine.
Truth be told, Jason soon got lost in all the strange names; but there were some he knew from Mo's tales, and Belúshin was delighted to have found in him such an attentive listener. He was still speaking of the mine in the mountains, of its high caverns and great rocky halls, and of how the mine was still fruitful, how they couldn't figure out why it had been abandoned in the first place, when the feast came to an end.
Oprohnd and Georwen rose and went down the hall, followed by the rest of the company in due order; Jason found himself walking with Lewis. "You'll like this next room," the wizard declared. "It's the soppiest place in the world -- all pastels and fluffy couches and heart-to-heart talks and sharing of feelings -- but it's relaxing for all that. Good place to hear a story, or a song, or just sit and think, if that's what turns you on."
Indeed, the broad hall into which they entered was about as nonthreatening as Jason could imagine a room to be. Even the fire on the hearth was cheerful and warm and looked as though it would be terribly sorry if it should happen to burn something by accident. The elves and their guests sat in circles of couches, and many a pleasant conversation began; at the end of the room a chorus of minstrels began to play.
Then Jason saw a small dark figure sitting alone on a chair in a far corner. He was hunched over as if in sleep, and the hobbit wondered if he were ill, and had been unable to come to the feast. But Oprohnd went forward and stood beside this figure, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Wake up, hon!" she said with a smile; then, beckoning to Jason, she called, "Over here, Jason, honey. Here's someone you've been waiting to see."
The dark figure looked up, and Jason immediately sprang forward. "Mo!"
On a cool marble terrace, upon a white bench, sat Jonagorn, reading by moonlight. He glanced up from his book as another man entered. He was tall and red-haired, with slate-blue eyes and clothing of a Southern fashion.
At first the visitor did not see Jonagorn, but meandered unwittingly towards him, studying the broken columns, the flowers that grew up every wall, the statue on whose pedestal the shards of a broken sword were arranged, the lights that could be seen through the trees and across the valley. At last he felt the eyes of the reader upon him, and turned with a start.
"Nice night, isn't it?" said Jonagorn, smiling.
The other man tried to smile back, though there was more than a little smirk in his expression. "Lovely. You're not an elf; who are you?"
"A Stranger. A friend of Lewis the Black."
"Then we are here on common purpose. I am Craig Kilbornomir, son of the Steward of the District of Columbidor and Captain-General in the Army of the White Tower," came the proud reply. "So nice to meet you."
His eye fell on the sword, the hilt of which until recently had been sheathed at Jonagorn's side, and he strode over to it. "Not much use in keeping this around, is there?" he asked. "It's just a broken old heirloom."
With a nod to Jonagorn, he walked away, rather faster than he had come in. Jonagorn tried to return to his book and found himself quite unable to focus on the words. Still, he did not notice the next visitor's entrance until the volume was snatched from his hands, for the step of an elf is lighter even than the sound of a man sitting alone.
"Hey!" he exclaimed, snatching for the book; and then he found himself staring into the handsome face of Georwen Clundómiel, and was somewhat mollified as he rose to face the elf. "I'd like that back, please."
"No," replied Georwen calmly, still smiling.
Jonagorn reached for the volume, but Georwen held it high above his head, and try as he might Jonagorn was unable to reach it. "This is really not fair," he protested.
"You could try jumping," suggested the elf.
"I am not jumping for you," said Jonagorn sternly, folding his arms and attempting to look menacing.
Georwen remained placidly unmenaced. "You didn't come to dinner," he observed.
"No, I didn't."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, there was this book I wanted to read..."
Georwen raised his eyebrows.
"And you'll all be showing off for the visitors, talking about your hundreds of clubs and your gay acorns and what have you, stuff I've heard more than enough about for one lifetime..."
"But still not enough to know that they're called buckeyes," observed the elf. "In any case, the visitors will be interested in you."
"Well, they'll all see me at the Council tomorrow -- at least, all the important ones. It won't make any difference one way or the other if I'm sociable with them now."
"There are people who would see you tonight," said Georwen, more softly. "In less solemn conditions."
"If they really want to see me, they can hunt me down."
"And here I am." Georwen tossed the book aside and took Jonagorn's arm. "Walk with me."
Together they went down the side of the valley, past groves of dark trees trees and walls of ancient rock and buildings with light pouring from their windows, the air filled with the music from the halls and the night sounds of insects in chorus. They came to a bridge over a stream that flowed from one of the many waterfalls, and here Georwen stopped.
"Do you remember when we first met?" he asked.
Jonagorn smiled wryly. "I said 'Is this a dream?'"
"And when I said 'No'," continued Georwen, "you did this stupid little dance."
"Aren't you supposed to tell me it was an adorable dance?"
"Oh, it was. But stupid all the same."
Flushing slightly, Jonagorn looked away, fiddling nervously with the clasp of his tunic. "Can you blame me? I mean, I woke up next to the hottest elf since Felúthien. It was kind of a big deal for me."
"You're hardly the only one," replied the elf, touching Jonagorn's cheek with his fingertips and turning it gently until they faced each other. "I woke up next to the heir to the throne of Columbidor. That's no small thing."
"Unlike, say, me." At this, Georwen smirked, but Jonagorn remained solemn. "I'm serious. All the elves around here are tough, and strong, and handsome, and wise, and, yes, tall, and they've got hundreds of other things going for them. I didn't do anything to earn my inheritance except be born to the right mother. And without it, I'm just this regular guy."
"You really believe that, don't you."
"Well, it's true."
"Oh, no you don't. Listen to me," said Georwen, his voice stern. "You are tough, and strong, and handsome, and wise. You're noble, not only by descent, but by inclination. You think before you speak, and still more before you act, and yet you are always ready to put yourself in danger to protect those who are defenseless. You are keen and insightful and amazingly funny. I love your stupid dorky dances. I love your adorable girly laugh. I love you, Jonagorn. Not your ancestors, not your inheritance; you."
"Well, great," stammered the man, "now you're making me blush."
"It's true. Do you believe it?"
"I..." He considered the answer carefully, weighing the words. "I believe that you believe it," he said at last.
"I suppose that'll have to do." Now the elf reached into the folds of his tunic and drew out a pendant: a small golden male figure on a jet-black pedestal, arms clasped over its chest, gripping the hilt of a sword. "When you leave, take this with you. In case you forget again."
"You can't give me this," protested Jonagorn, as the statuette was pressed into his hand. "It's yours."
"And I'm yours," replied Georwen, folding Jonagorn's fingers over the pendant. "It all works out in the end."
Jason and Mo sat side by side on one of the couches, and Sam, Ed, and Rob arrived quickly to sit alongside them. Mo's face was more lined than it had been, and his hair had gone entirely silver, but he was as alert as ever, and nearly more delighted to see Jason than the younger hobbit was to see him.
"Dude, where have you been?" exclaimed Jason when greetings had been exchanged all around. "You weren't at the feast. Why haven't I seen you?"
"Well, you were asleep," pointed out Mo. "I've seen you. As for the feast, I don't go in much for big gatherings any more. I'd rather work on my own little projects -- my writing, my songs. I was working on a song when you came in; I'm stuck on one of the verses. I'll have to get my friend the Dúdedan to help out. Where is he?"
Oprohnd laughed. "I'll send someone off to look for him," she promised; and there was an unnerving gleam in her eyes as she added, "We'll have him back here right away."
With that she bade them good evening and strode off to attend to other guests, leaving the hobbits alone. Mo had very little to say for himself; he had made one visit to the dwarves, but declared that his time of traveling had ended, and he was content to remain peacefully at RSU.
"I've heard plenty about the rest of the world," he explained, "especially now, with all these visitors arriving from far lands. Lewis shows up a lot, and he keeps fewer things close than he used to; and the Dúdedan tells me many things besides, especially about that Tie of mine. Imagine, such a little thing causing such a stir! But no one goes so far as Hamilton. Let's have some news of the Shire."
At this, the other four were happy to oblige; and between them they related all manner of news, from the large to the trifling, though to Mo it was all of the greatest possible interest. They were so deep in the telling of the pranks of Rob's younger brother that they did not notice the arrival of a man clad in dark blue until he coughed politely.
Mo looked up and grinned. "Ah, Dúdedan, there you are!"
The man's hair was tousled, and his jacket was somewhat wrinkled as though he had donned it in a great hurry; but aside from this he was well-washed and clean-shaven, and it took Jason a moment to recognize the Stranger. "Smiler!" he exclaimed. "How many names do you have?"
"Well, 'Smiler' is one that I haven't heard before, anyway," laughed Mo. "Why do you call him that?"
"That's what they call me in Toronto, and it's how I was introduced to him," explained Smiler.
"And why do you call him Dúdedan?" inquired Jason.
"The Dúdedan," said Mo. "That's what they call him here -- and I thought you knew your Elvish better than that: dúde-adan, Guy of the East, Jeúmenorean." To Smiler he said, "Why weren't you at the feast? The Lord Georwen was there."
"I know, I know," replied the Stranger. "He, ah, he found me."
There was a brief silence as the hobbits considered this, together with the man's slightly disheveled appearance.
"Did we, er, interrupt anything?" asked Mo carefully.
"What? Oh, no. Not at all. Put it out of your mind." He smiled innocently, then shot Sam a glare. "Especially you."
"I wasn't picturing it!" yelped Sam.
"Neither was I!" added Rob.
"I asked for you," said Mo hurriedly, "because I'm stuck on one of these verses, and I wanted your help."
"Sure! Fine!" exclaimed Smiler. "No problem. Let's find some nice secluded corner and go over them. Alone. Without company."
"I'll sing it for you when we're done," Mo told the younger hobbits, then swung out of his chair and followed the Stranger away.
The talking and singing went on late into the night; several times Jason thought he saw mountains, or silver forests, or vast expanses of foam greater than any lake he had ever known, only to wake with a start and realize that he had been dreaming to the music.
He was in the midst of a vast golden plain, with a range of mountains looming purple in the distance, when Sam prodded him awake. "Time to go to bed, Jason," she ordered. "You've got a Council in the morning."