Short Story Contest Entry - Greg

[Greg]

A hush came over the inhabitants of the room as the front door opened with a creak. A dim shaft of flickering light from the hanging lamp just outside the door pierced the entrance, and was quickly obscured by the dark silhouette of a man as he entered. A chill swept through the room as the cold north winds poured briefly into the tavern before being cut off with a slam of the wooden door, which shuddered against the gales and whined on its coarse iron hinges.

The figure was hard to make out. His dark cloak was draped low over his head, but a pair of eyes glowed from just beneath it, and could be seen sweeping the room methodically, taking in every face; every feature of the woodwork.

Those nearest the newcomer shied away, pretending to look busy.
Those furthest stared blankly, open mouthed.

After surveying the room, the man slowly paced across to a dark corner, just to the left of the fireplace, where the beams from the fireplace were just unable to reach. His heavy boots made a slow, dull clomping sound as he methodically made his way to the stool sitting there next to a small table. The light from the fireplace went all about the room, lighting up the questioning faces.

The man at the front desk, normally good-natured and lively, was now a quivering fellow nearly hiding behind his high counter. However, remembering his manners and his duty, he stood up and attempted to look casual as he made his way to the newcomer.

“C-c-can I get you anything, my good Sir?” the man stammered.

The strange guest leaned away from him for a moment, holding a sprig of dried pine needle into the fireplace so its end burst into flame. He leaned back, and placed one elbow on the small table he was seated next to, using the small flame to light a long, slender tobacco pipe. After taking a few experimental puffs, he turned towards the innkeeper and held up the burning sprig. He looked at the flame, rather than at the proprietor, deep in thought. Finally, with a calm, gentle, almost soothing voice, he spoke.

“Fascinating thing, fire, isn’t it? So useful…so necessary…so dangerous.”
“B-beg your pardon, Sir?”
“Fire. We think little of it, don’t we? We see it as so commonplace, we forget how numerous its virtues are.”

The tavern owner thought this all well and good, but he still hadn’t gotten his answer, so he tried again, this time with more confidence. “Will you be needing anything this evening, my good Sir?”
“Oh, no…nothing tonight. Well, perhaps a smooth drink. It is a quiet night out.”
“Out?” the innkeeper inquired.
“Here and there.”
“I see.”

Butterbur turned away from the man and scuttled off to fetch the drink. The man leaned his back against the wall and took a long, deep draw on his pipe. His hood still concealed his features from all those in the room. Most of the patrons had turned back to their drinks, but a few eyes remained on him. He knew this as he began to speak, just loud enough for all to hear, but still quiet by the tavern’s standards.

“Ahh, yes. Fire. Light. So crucial. So mysterious. So full of…magic. What tool that simply lights a pipe can change the course of history. In fact, it has…”
He trailed off, letting that line sink in. He had their full attention now. It was a quiet night. He could afford to be noticed this once. He drew again from the pipe, blew a solitary smoke ring, and started into his tale.

“It will come as no surprise to you that light has been a vital part of this earth since the beginning of time. Ever since the two great trees of Valinor shone brightly across the lands, light has shone as a beacon of all that is good in this world. The Valar have blessed us with it, and they continue to do so with the rising and the setting of the sun.

Yet light is not all for the best. From the heart and craftsman’s hands of Fëanor, the three great gems were wrought and so went forth to sow destruction and greed. Their light caused such a great lust among many that they forsook their lives for merely a glance. Most failed.

Today there is light of a far different kind. The light that shines now watched over the elves as they were sundered, over the men as they spread, and the Dwarves as they dug deep into the mountains. It has witnessed the rise and fall of nations, and has saved hundreds one day, and killed thousands the next.

Light has no conscience or affiliations. It pays homage to neither good nor evil.

The light which repelled the nine servants of Sauron is the very same light that burned across the tops of the White Mountains from the White City to Rohan to call for aid at the time of greatest peril.
That which gave light to the dark lord as he wrought his malice into a golden circlet is the very same light that guided the hands of the Elvish smiths as they re-forged the blade which was the harbinger of its ruin.

This light I speak of may be the great fires in the hearths of the halls of kings or the great bonfires in the halls of Dwarven mines. It may be the torches on the walls of Goblin caves or the watch fires of Rangers. The light is all the same; it waxes and wanes with the changing of the seasons, and it all starts with a spark.

So long as there are lamps lit, the people will have a place to go. So long as there are lamps lit, food can be prepared, shelters can be warmed, and weapons can be forged for the protection of all free folk.

Look deeply into the fire. Embrace its power; share in its warmth. So long as there is light, the fire burning in the heart of Middle Earth will never go out.”

Naught could be heard but the crackling over the hearth. They sat, transfixed, looking into the flames. Then, one by one, the patrons of the Prancing Pony came back to their senses and looked to the storyteller.

He was gone.

[Mirimaran]

*applauds!*