The Steward of Gondaroma
Drippin and Grandélf stood before the entrance of the Citadel. Grandélf knocked on the door. It opened, but no one could be seen to open it. Drippin looked into a great hall. It was lit by deep windows in the wide aisles at either side, beyond the rows of tall pillars that upheld the roof. Monoliths of black marble, they rose to great capitals carved in many strange figures of beans and tea-leaves; and far above in the shadow the wide vaulting gleamed with dull gold, inset with flowing traceries of many colours, all depicting celebrities smiling with their very favourite product that they are so happy to be paid to pretend to like.
Drippin was in awe, and he stayed close to Grandélf's side. At the far end of the hall, upon a dais of many steps was set a high throne. At the food of the dais, upon the lowest step, which was broad and deep, there was a stone chair, black and unadorned, and on it sat an old man gazing at his lap. In his hand was a small device of black with golden buttons. He did not look up. Solemnly they paced the long floor toward him, until they stood three paces from his footstool. Then Grandélf spoke.
"Hail, Lord and Steward of Minas Teabag, Dentynethor son of Éclair! I have brought counsel and creamer to go with thy dark coffee!"
Then the old man looked up. Drippin saw his carven face with its proud jaw and teeth like ivory, and he knew that this was the man he had seen in the PalanTV on that fateful night. He tugged on Grandélf's robe.
"Mmffffmf!" he said through his gag.
"Hush," whispered Grandélf.
The old man spoke, "Dark indeed is my coffee, and at such times you are wont to come, Milkeeway. But though all the signs forebode that the Last Tea-Time of Gondaroma is drawing nigh, less now to me is that darkness than my own darkness. It has been told to me that you bring with you one who saw my son die. Is this he?"
"It is," said Grandélf, "One of the twain. The other is with Karóden of Yuban and may come hereafter. Half-caffs they are, as you see, yet this is not he of whom the omens spoke. But your son is not..."
"Yet a half-caff still," interrupted Dentynethor grimly, "and little love do I bear the name, since that accursed pre-view came to trouble our prime-time viewing and drew away my son on the wild goose-chase to his death. My Boromocha! Now we have need of you... no one else can fix the reception as did you! Faramocha should have gone in his stead!"
"He would have gone," said Grandélf. "Be not unjust in your grief. Boromocha claimed the errand and would not suffer any other to have it. He was a masterful man, and one to take what he desired, even the last piece of fudge from the box, and he never made more coffee when he drank the last cup. I journeyed far with him and learned much of his mood. But you speak of his death. Have you not heard..."
"I have received this," Dentynethor cut in, and laying down his remote control he lifted from his lap the thing that he had been gazing at. In each hand he held up one half of a great ivory toothbrush that had been cloven down the middle: with the engraving 'To Boromocha on his twenty-first birthday... love, Daddythor' wrought in silver on the handle. "Only by passing it to his own son... or death... could have parted this from him, and he was without an heir."
Drippin chewed through his gag and cried, "That is the toothbrush that Boromocha always used!"
"Verily," said Dentynethor. "And in my turn I used it, and so did each eldest son of our house, far back into the vanished years before the failing of the kings. It was found floating on the River, and my men brought it to me. It will brush no more stewards' molars." He paused and looked at Drippin with his gleaming black eyes and shining teeth. "What say you to that, Half-caff?"
"Gr-oss! You used the same toothbrush?" Grandélf nudged Drippin with his elbow and flapped his eyebrows at him. Drippin hung his head, trying to hide his smile.
Dentynethor said, "You say you were with him? Tell me more! How is it that you survived and he did not, so mighty a man as he was. Tell me... when he died, was he wearing clean underwear?"
Drippin flushed with embarrassment, then glanced at Grandélf. The wizard shrugged and then nodded slightly. Drippin answered, "My lord, I know not. But the mightiest man may be slain with but one arrow, and Boromocha was pierced by many. When last I saw him he sank beside a tree and plucked a black feathered shaft from his side, and said 'Is that all you got, girly-orc? You shoot arrows like my sister!' I then swooned and was made captive. I saw him no more, until he showed up at..."
"Alas!" wailed Dentynethor, clutching the pieces of the family toothbrush that was precious to him, "He is gone to the long homes of our forefathers! He has joined the Choir Invisible! He has run down the curtain and now he's pushing up daisies! This is the toothbrush of a dead hero!" Dentynethor sobbed loudly.
Drippin and Grandélf both lost it then. Together they shouted, "HE'S NOT DEAD! BOROMOCHA IS ALIVE!"
"Alive? My son is ... alive? Oh... oh, dear!" Amazingly, Dentynethor did not looked relieved. Rather he looked annoyed. "Not dead, is he? Did I not teach him that there is no such thing as a living hero? He never listens to me.. no! And that no-good brother of his.. both of them are in on this, I know it! Ruining my dramatic monologue and costing me an Oscar... oh, if I ever get my hands on either of those brats...they never remember to floss... I'm sure they aren'tmy children..." Dentynethor continued to rave as Drippin and Grandélf slowly backed out of the hall, locking the door soundly behind them and nailing it shut.
"So that's the Steward of Gondaroma, eh, Grandélf?" said Drippin, shaking his head. "He's crazier than a monkey with a gun! What do we do now?"
The Wizard was piling stone benches against the door to barricade it soundly. "Now we hope. We hope that Aromagorn and the others get here as fast as they can, and we also hope that NescaFrodo accomplishes his deed and brings all this preparation for war to naught.
"For we are in for war, my good half-caff... a war of Cafés. It will be fought here, in this land and in this City, very soon. The menu is set, the prices are increasing, and if we don't win this fight we will all be washing dishes for Sour'on until we are old and grey."
Drippin looked at Grandélf in his long beard and grey robe that he wore over his snazzy white garments.
The Wizard sighed. Hobbits could be so literal sometimes. "Until you are old and grey, too, rather... if I let you live that long, whelp!" Grandélf laughed then, and tousled Drippin's hair, "Come on, let's go find a cup of coffee."