Alright, this chapter was blown out of proportion by new ideas I did not even have when I sat down and typed out the first paragraph. Instead of finishing it and posting a gargantuan chapter with 10,000+ words (as I initially intended) and making you wait even longer past the original deadline, I decided to split up the chapter. It can be done without confusing the sense or delivering a chapter without a functioning dramatic structure, so it should be fine. The positive thing is we have now (again) three chapters before Fiddler's Green ends.
As for the riddle contest of the last chapter: The riddle was not solved. However, some solutions were proposed and I'd like to acknowledge the input, even if my solution was not among them. The first and best-thought-out solution is the one by yesboss21 whom I'd like to ask to send me a PM with two or three characters and a prompt so I can write the drabble for him.
I will post my own solution together with the epilogue.
yesboss21: Thank you for your input! It was a good guess, but as you said yourself, the theory of Tom Bombadil being Eru Ilúvatar was already debunked. Still, thank you for taking part in the game. As the first one who proposed a well-thought out solution, you can tell me two or three characters and a few prompts and you'll get your drabble.
dragonsire13: I don't think I can say anything in response to your review that would not amount to incoherently repeating "thank you" again and again. I am glad you like the story and the style and that you were able to get behind the characters, as you said it. In this case I met my goal as a writer and can be content. I hope you'll stay with the story for the remainder of the ride. Thank you again.
katnor: No, Tom Bombadil is not Eru himself, although him being a long-lost brother is certainly a very interesting idea. Still, thanks for having taken part in the game!
MDawn: Hi, thanks for your continued reviewing! While I might contradict you on the point that Sauron is as strong as ever (which he is not in this story), desire and fear are his prime motivations. I don't think you can strive for power only for power's sake. There is always fear that someone might be stronger than you or take something away from you; else you would not need power in the first place. And yes, Tom is not a lightweight in magical terms.
IIX. The Open Grave
Sunlight was streaming into the fireplace room and the garden outside was filled with dappled golden-green shade, filtered by apple and pear trees. The windows were open and fresh autumn air was streaming into the room, specks of dust were dancing like fairy lights in the air. The only sound inside the still room was the scratching of a quill on parchment and Gandalf the White was pacing up and down the room with his hands on his back. His heavy steps had a dull echo in the small room and the wooden boards of the floor creaked every time he turned to walk away from the door and to the fireplace; a turn which he had completed quite often by now. Every once in a while, he would look up and over to the table, where Sauron was sitting, hunched over a pile of paper, filling page after page with his narrow, pointed handwriting.
Finally, Gandalf stopped pacing, his hands still on his back and his brow furrowed. "By the Cats of Berúthiel, what can you have to write that takes all morning?"
The scratching of the quill paused briefly and Sauron lifted his head, but didn't turn around. "Patience is a virtue, Olórin," he said, then went back to writing. He paused once more. "I'll be leaving this world once and for all and I want to say my farewells. Allow me that much, at least."
"And who would you know who wants your farewells?" Gandalf turned around to face Sauron, who was still sitting with his back to him.
"I don't know if they are wanted and I certainly won't impose myself on the ones who receive them. They can always use them as kindling should they feel insulted. I, however..." There was a slight hesitation. "I feel—not obliged, that is too strong a word—I think there is something I should say to some people before I leave."
Gandalf raised his eyebrows, but he did not inquire any further.
Sauron finished his letters in silence and after he was done, he folded them and put them into envelopes of green leaves which he again sealed with candle-wax.
"Are you done?" Gandalf asked.
"Almost."
Sauron wrote another note, and this time the scratching of the quill filled the room only for a few seconds. Again, he folded the note and put it in an envelope, but instead of putting a name on it, he merely added an Elvish calma on the outside and slid it in the middle of the stack of letters. For a while he stared at the stack with a strange expression, then he turned around and rubbed his hands with a wide smile.
"Why now, Olórin, I am finished and we can proceed with our venture."
Gandalf watched him with a sombre face. The war had ended, but there were still odds and ends that had to be tied up neatly. He was far from the most patient wizard out of the five that had come here to Middle-earth, but right now he felt especially irked because while he had to worry about going West and clearing up Tom's meddling, Sauron obviously did not even have enough decency to feign remorse.
Gandalf crossed the room with long strides, his staff clacking against the wooden floor. "Fine." He took the pile of letters and stowed them in a leather bag he was carrying on his belt.
"I will talk to the Emissary as soon as time allows it. I might need a few days to reach the Grey Havens. Shadowfax is a King among horses, but even he can only run so fast. I have no doubt the Emissary will already be there when I arrive and I shall tell him everything you have told me. But," Gandalf said, "I will neither repeat your own wording nor shall I speak in your favour. I shall give him your message and a piece of my mind to go with it, provided that the Emissary wants to hear it."
Sauron shrugged. "I cannot keep you from doing that. I merely want you to relay the message and hand him the letters."
Gandalf nodded, albeit a bit unwillingly. "I will do that. However, I cannot guarantee that the Valar will grant you their protection after all you have done. All I can and will do is bring forth your request."
"That's all I'm asking."
"As for the other matter concerning your name, when do you intend to do that?" Gandalf wanted to know.
"Tonight. There is still something else I must do before we can do the trade," Sauron said, looking out of the window. "I still need some things before I leave..." His voice trailed off, then he turned on his heel and walked outside, leaving Gandalf to look after him with furrowed brows.
He found Goldberry in the gardens where she was tending to the flowers. She was kneeling in the grass next to a patch of tulips and lilies, singing softly and touching her fingers to them. They seemed to respond by bobbing their little heads slightly and swaying from side to side as if Goldberry's song was the melody to their dance.
o
Dance, autumn flowers, in your glades!
The year now turns towards its end
When the emerald of the forests fades
And the world will heal and mend.
o
Pumpkin, berry, meadow, heather,
Orange, purple, green and blue,
Cuckoo's call and starling's feather,
And everything will be made anew.
o
Sing, trees of forests, wide and deep!
When the north wind comes to whistle,
Echoing from the mountains steep,
Grazing, freezing thorn and thistle.
o
A sunset, gold and red and green
paints valleys, slopes and woods so bright,
The lakes are mirrors of fire-sheen,
Filled with the stars above, alight.
o
He watched her silently, kneeling in the green and gold orchard filled with sunlight and for a brief moment, he was able to see the beauty that lay in the world he had come to detest, almost as if one was looking at a malformed child and suddenly saw the radiant soul that was hidden behind his eyes. In that moment, he felt something stab at his insides, a feeling you might have after having set sail over the sea, during the very last moment in which you could glimpse your homeland before it vanished on the horizon.
In this very moment, he allowed himself to think Would it be so bad if I stayed?, just for the thousandth part of a second; he allowed himself to indulge in what might have been if he were able to be content wearing crowns of leaves instead of crowns of iron, if he could walk under trees instead of burning them down and look up at the stars without being afraid.
o
Sleep now, children of the earth,
The winter of the world is here,
Wake again when spring returns,
I will be waiting, have no fear.
o
The sun passed behind a cloud and the golden light was gone, and with it the radiant dream. The valley lay in grey shadow and a cold breeze came from the Barrow-downs that made the flowers cower and the trees shiver. And he knew that he would never be able to stay, that his path was a different one and that he would go through with his plan.
It was a dream, but never mine. This was never meant to be my road.
"Lady Goldberry," he said, his voice quiet, his tone sombre.
She rose and turned around and although she was smiling, there was a shadow on her features like on the entirety of the valley—and it made him wonder what she knew of the future of the world, and whether this was an autumn that was longer and greater than the ones before, that would have no spring following the winter and leave the trees black and barren, with no new green that would come afterwards. She stood there like a reed, straight and slender and incredibly sad despite her smile and when the next gust of wind came, it took the crown of lilies from her hair and carried it away. The air smelled of snow.
"You have been generous and kind, probably more so than you should have been with me," he said. "Still, I must ask a last favour of you."
"A last favour? So your mind is made up?"
"It is."
"Very well. Tell me what you need."
"Two times have you clothed me and two times your necklace has been renewed," he said. "I ask you a third and a last time for both; your nimble hand and your goodwill, for otherwise I will not reach my destination."
"You shall have both. What would you have me make you?" Goldberry asked.
"A cloak," he said. After a brief pause, he added, "And a hat. Both must be grey, but it does not matter if they are not of fine make. I need travelling clothes and old fabric will do just fine."
"Grey they must be," Goldberry said pensively. "Ah! I have an idea and I think this should suit you just fine. You are, I believe, adept at the various crafts that there are, but we have to wait until evenfall before we can begin our hunt."
He raised an eyebrow. "A hunt?" He tried to picture the smiling daughter of the River-god as a warrioress with bow and arrow in her hands and the look in her eyes ferocious instead of calm and lenient.
"Not the kind of hunt you are thinking of," Goldberry said and her eyes were twinkling. "Meet me at the pond a-ways up from the house where I found you at dusk. I shall tell you everything then; in the meantime, I will make my preparations and you will make yours."
Surprised that she obviously knew that he had other things to do, he inclined his head, taking her in fro head to toe. "You are a keen observer. There is not much which escapes your eyes, I guess."
Goldberry laughed, brightly and merrily. "And how good is that! Otherwise I would not have found you in the grass when you first came here, small as you were."
"True. Well, I shall leave you to your business then, and I shall attend to mine as you said." He bowed slightly which she answered with a slight nod and a smile, then he turned and left the garden.
It did not take him long to find Tom. He was neither singing nor skipping around on the meadows and over the river, therefore he had to be occupied with something that kept him inside. Seeing as he wasn't in the house that left only the stable where his old, fat pony lived.
Currently, Lumpkin had to share both hay rack and the stable with Shadowfax, the regal white stallion of Gandalf who seemed not at all pleased to be housed in such humble lodgings. The stallion stood proud and tall, looking down at the mousy pony along his aquiline, long nose in a very displeased manner. Lumpkin on the other hand took the slightly cramped space and the shared food with serene indifference and a bit of lazy curiosity. He was obviously set on getting to know his fellow kinsmember a bit better and started sniffing at Shadowfax's mane, who gave him a disapproving look, shook his head proudly and then turned away from the pony—and very nearly kicked down the back wall of the horse box when Lumpkin started chewing on his silvery tail.
Tom set aside the pitchfork with which he had refilled the hay rack. "Boys! Behave! If you ruin the stable I will have you drag the trunks for rebuilding it out of the Old Forest yourselves!"
The horses looked at him. Lumpkin wore an honest expression of baffled innocence, while Shadowfax looked as disgruntled as he had ever seen a horse looking. He leaned against the box wall, careful not to get too close to the white stallion. (In his dislike for him, Shadowfax had taken strongly after Gandalf, as he had found out.)
Tom turned around and noticed him. "Good morning! Or good early mid-day, if you prefer so! You seem to be sleeping well here. One barely gets to see you before late morning."
"A misconception. I sleep only as much as I need to and I doubt I will gain a fondness for sleeping while I am still here," he replied. "And I spent the morning writing letters, while we are at it. I will have you know that I rose with the sun and have been working ever since—which you would know if you did have breakfast like a decent person instead of skipping around during grey dawn and singing to flowers and trees."
Tom laughed and his entire face crinkled. "Who would have thought that a few days could improve your temper as much as your sense of humour?"
He smiled wrily and stepped away from the box when Shadowfax (who had silently crept up behind him) made a move to bite him. "It is either 'getting a sense of humour' or despairing. I prefer the first, seeing how I loathe self-pity."
Tom reached out to scratch Lumpkin's muzzle. "It seems like the sensible choice. But I know that even now we are not good enough friends for you to come here without a deeper purpose. What do you need?"
"A hatchet and a knife," he said.
Tom did not seem surprised. "Hm, dol, I see. I know what you intend to do, but I cannot give you tools that are suited for what you want to do. I have no axe, and no knives fit for anything but spreading butter. You can, however, use what you find in the shed. Maybe there is something in there that you can use."
They left the stable and entered the adjoining shed which was small and a bit dusty, but neatly kept. There was a wooden chopping block in one corner and a worn trestle in another. Hanging from nails on the back wall there was an array of hammers, tongs, awls and iron nails and on a small shelf he found a bow saw, iron clamps, rasps and mallets, but while some of those tools would be useful, they were not enough to make a hatchet or a knife.
He stood before the shelf, the cold of the stone seeping up his bare soles, absent-mindedly slapping the bar of the rasp into the palm of his free hand.
"There is nothing here I could use," he said. "I almost thought so. Therefore, I took it into account and as it happens, a place came to my mind where I might find something sharper than your butter knives."
"And where would that be?"
"A place that has a more violent past than your valley." He turned around to face Tom. "I intend to climb the Barrow-downs and see what I can find in the tombs under the stones. Would you accompany me?"
Tom's face fell and something dark seemed to flit over his usually so bright and joyous features. "It is not a good place. Even I go there only when I must. Cold stones and evil wights is what you will find there, and no treasure is worth taking the risk of going under the earth."
"The wights should be gone now that the Witch-king of Angmar is no more," he replied. "I need to go there and I will do it, the only question is whether you will accompany me or not. If your answer is no, I must hope Goldberry's magic alone is strong enough to overcome the dark power and the coldness of the tombs under the earth."
Tom gave him a sharp look. "The Witch-king's wraiths may be gone, but he was not the first who shed blood on the Downs and there are beings that are older than him or you that live there. I don't think you are strong enough to go there on your own."
"Then help me," he said sharply. "For days you forced your help on me when I did not want it, and now that I need it you hesitate."
Tom rocked back and forth, onto his toes and heels. "Wrong. Tom helped you when you needed it, but I still think one has to be careful to give you what you want, because you have an extraordinary talent to desire things that are bad either for yourself or everyone else."
"Well, I need some tools and therefore I will climb the Downs and I won't be dissuaded by word-picking or songs or enigmatic arguments." He put the rasp back onto the shelf and looked at Tom who in turn regarded him with his sharp blue eyes.
"We will have to be quick and silent as mice," Tom Bombadil said. "I can show you the way and the doors to the houses of stone, but you will have to find what you seek on your own. There are still a few sunlight hours left, and we must return before evening falls. We must have left the Downs far behind after sunset. Not even Tom's power holds there after night has fallen."
"This fits nicely into my own plans. I have to meet Goldberry at sundown, so I can do something useful in the meantime."
"Very well! Then come! We have no time to lose! Quick as a river, swift as a stream! Hop-hop, derry dol!" And with that Tom Bombadil turned around and skipped out of the shed.
He followed as fast as he could, which was quite fast, but nearly not fast enough. It obviously took some time to convince Tom Bombadil to go somewhere, but when he had made up his mind, he was quicker on his feet than a deer. He skipped past the house and up the path where Sauron had tried to flee during the first night he had spent in the valley.
The descended into a hollow and for a while they wandered between the hillsides on short and springy grass. The sun was high in the sky and it was warmer than in Tom's valley. It was a shadowless land, neither tree nor brook were to be seen and he thought how hot it must become here in summer, when the stone of the hills that were drawing up left and right were warmed by the sun.
They rounded the foot of a steep hill and the valley opened up broad and deep before them. Westward lay the distant Forest, ahead north lay the soft green hills that were topped with the old standing stones. But Tom all of a sudden turned right and started running up a path that was almost hidden in a fold between two hills and rose swiftly eastward, were the forbidding jagged Barrow-downs rose up. Tom's stride showed no faltering or exhaustion, even when the path started to rise steeply and it was all he could do to keep up. The grass receded to make way for treacherous slopes with gravel that slipped under one's feet and stones with hidden cracks where an unsuspecting wanderer could easily catch his ankle and break it.
"The land here looks more treacherous than the hills in the north. There are standing stones on them as well and I bet there are barrows, too," he said. "Why did you turn east?"
Tom jumped from one stone to the next. For a moment it looked like he would slip, but the stone held and did not roll away. "You are right, they are the mere outskirts of the Downs and easier to reach. The hills to the north are less dangerous and not as deeply woven into the dark workings that slumber under the stone in the heart of the downs and Tom prefers to have green grass under his feet, too, but we must hurry because it is already past mid-day and we need to be gone before the sun sets. Therefore we will take a path that is faster and more dangerous, but not nearly as dangerous as the Downs after nightfall."
They climbed on and the higher the climbed the cooler did the air become. Hard gusts of wind fell from the Downs and into the valley. He was stronger than Sauron had been during is attempt to escape and Tom was close by, but the ascent was still long and exhausting. The sun was already starting to sink on the south-western sky when they reached a flat hilltop that was grey and grassless. A lone standing stone stood there like a warning finger pointing skyward. A coldness emanated from it that came neither from the early winter nor from the winds that caught in the folds of their clothes and the blue feather on Tom's hat.
"Now we only need to find the house of a wight," Tom said. "They should be empty, although no one can be sure. There are a lot of tunnels that go deeper than their dwellings to the dark heart under the mountains. We need to stay away from those and be quick about our business."
Tom's words were quiet although his voice was usually loud and clear, and that was disquieting because it was as if up here the wind was suddenly strong enough to pick the words from his mouth and muffle them and bereave them of strength and melody.
He turned away, looking out over the flat hilltop and up to where a jagged ridge rose up to a plateau with even more standing stones. Even the sun seemed distant and powerless, an almost white circle in a washed out sky. "There are no marked entrances, at least no markings that you can easily notice. But I know a thing or two about dark magic and since we are looking for an entry to a shadowed place we should look for places the light doesn't reach."
Tom Bombadil walked off with his heavy steps, he did not skip any longer. Together they circled the standing stone, looking for something that might hint at an entrance into the Barrows. Sauron had been versed in the dark weavings and knowledgeable of the creatures that lived in the dark and shied away from the sunlight. He remembered Sauron's knowledge, but with a growing sense of unease as if his mind was reaching for something it should not touch upon. When he wandered under the shadow of the standing stone, an unearthly cold brushed him and he was harshly reminded that shadow and darkness were no longer friendly toward him— in the end he had forsaken even them as his last allies. He wanted to take the next step, but his feet felt very heavy all of a sudden and it cost him a great deal of strength to step out from under the shadow and continue his circling. He threw an angry glare at the stone who remained still and dark.
At last, he found what he was looking for.
"Tom, come here," he said. "I think I found a door."
For a while there was no answer and he began to fear that Tom had somehow skipped off a precipice or had wandered off into a wight-hole alone when the little man appeared from behind a boulder and stepped up to him.
"Where is it?" Tom Bombadil asked.
He pointed at a stone that, at first glance, looked like any other stone, but when you looked closer one could see that it had scratches and nicks as if sharp claws had been scrabbling at it. Also, the stone was suspiciously flat and even though it was lying in a sunlit place it appeared shadowed.
"Do you know how to enter?" Tom asked, almost slyly.
"We could knock and ask nicely, but as you said I do not think somebody is home," he replied flatly. "I would have paid in blood to enter. Blood opens many doors into the netherworld."
"You could, but I doubt you would be able to sacrifice a part of yourself without coming undone afterwards," Tom said. "Well, I can try to convince the door to let us in." And with that he stood before the stone, his feet a shoulder-width apart and raised his hands.
o
Bandings break and locks will shatter
Stone will crack and shadows scatter
All you of darkness' lurking slaves,
wights and wraiths, fly now and fear!
Crawl back into your empty graves
For your master is now here!
o
Underneath their feet there was a rumbling that seemed to rise from the bowels of the earth and then something cracked and snapped like something giving way under a heavy weight. There there was another rumble and suddenly, fissures appeared on the stone slab and with a deafening crack it broke into pieces.
"Well," he said, "I am glad no-one thought of bringing you to the Black Gate and make you sing before it, or I would have feared for my defeat much sooner."
Tom's eyes crinkled with laughter, but then his smile vanished and he said, "Quick now, let us carry away the pieces and enter. The sun is already halfway down the horizon and we must be gone before the shadows grow too long."
And with that they set themselves to the task of hauling the pieces of the stone slab away until a narrow tunnel was revealed underneath which quickly and steeply descended underground. Cold, stale air hit them in the face like a bad, ill-omened breath.
He stared down the path, then he set his shoulders and stepped forward. "Follow me."
Tom stayed behind him. The sunlight barely illuminated the first two fathoms of the tunnel, then they were left in the dark. There was no movement in the air and their steps didn't echo. He kept one hand on the side of the tunnel, but from time to time the stone fell away into nothing and then he knew that they had just passed one of the many invisible crossings that permeated the stone as if giant moles had dug their countless tunnels while millennia passed aboveground.
At last they saw a faint greenish glow before them and he realised that they had reached one of the lower chambers where the kings of old had been buried before Angmar's shadow had fallen over the city that had been here and devoured it, razed the living and their houses to the ground while the dead in their graves rose again to a new and dark purpose unbeknownst to everyone but themselves.
The sick green light became stronger, they rounded a last corner and then they were there. It was a small round chamber of stone and eight tunnels were hewn into the stone. Two were leading upwards, including the one they had come from, three were neither rising nor falling and three were leading even deeper under the earth. There were long holes hewn into the walls, forming a low, broad sill where a man could not sit but only lie down. In a few lay the remnants of the dead kings, the once royal funeral clothing falling to dust over caved-in ribcages and pale crowns on their head. Much more unsettling, however, were the niches that were empty—and there were a lot of them.
Tom stood in the middle of the chamber and turned his head. "A bad place. The air is stuffy and what should be asleep since hundreds of years ago is still running around."
"Do not fear the dead. Fear the living," he replied absently, walking around the room from niche to niche and looking for a sword or a knife or a hand-axe he could use. "The dead rarely do harm to anyone."
"Hm. You are right. What once was defeated and died may die again, but I am more worried about the things that never lived." He started whistling and the sound in the chamber was suffocated and yet somehow jarring.
"I wish you would stop singing and whistling and talking in riddles and instead help me find a sword or some such."
Tom stepped forward and started searching the chamber, walking into the opposite direction.
It was exactly in the moment when he found a small, jagged knife with an evil-looking saw blade and Tom turned around with an axe in his hand that a sudden draught of wind came blowing out from one of the paths leading downward. It was as cold as ice and it carried an echo of the void that surrounded this world, a memory so terrible and ancient that the mere memory was nearly enough to make him drop the knife and run. The sickly green light started to falter and darkness began to creep out from the tunnels. And then the draught reversed, as if something on the other end of the tunnel was breathing in, slowly and with a heavy sigh and there was an unrelenting pull on their clothes and hair and Tom just barely snatched his hat out of the air when it was ripped off his head.
"We must go," Tom said and he did not look cheerful at all.
He could only nod, because the wind was ripping the air out of his chest and for a moment he thought he would not be able to draw breath again. He wanted to move, but found that he could not. His feet would not lift and the pull became stronger. The light was almost completely gone, breathed in and swallowed by whatever that was creeping up the tunnel alongside the darkness.
"Come! Derry dol!" Tom Bombadil grabbed his arm and pulled and they both started to run. When he took the first step he felt like he was being weighed down by an ocean full of water, but when his bare foot hit the cold ground, the spell was broken and he ran as fast as he could. Up the tunnel Tom led him, his free hand brushing the tunnel wall, looking for guidance and balance. Suddenly the wall fell away—another tunnel branching off—but instead of emptiness he felt something touch his fingertips and he snatched back his hand and then lashed out with the jagged knife. He hit nothing.
"Now that I am no longer a friend of darkness a few of Elbereth's stars would be welcome," he said through gritted teeth. "I'd like to see what follows us."
"No, you would not," Tom said loudly, and in his voice was a warning. "Do not waste a good knife hacking at it. You cannot hurt the dwellers of the Deep Places. No stars shine there and neither Elvish names nor the daggers of Westernesse can harm them! Run!"
They did not see the sunlight until they burst forth from the darkness and into the light of the evening sun.
When they turned they saw that the tunnel was filled by utter and complete blackness that was as impenetrable and still as dark water that had flooded the tunnel. The sun was hanging low in the sky, a pale red disk that was sinking swiftly into a sea of grey and white fog.
"Quick now! Quick! As fast and far as our feet can carry us!" Tom called, waving the hand that still held the small hand-axe. As quick and nimble as a goat he hopped down the slope of scree and stones.
He tried to keep up and more than once he almost slipped when a stone suddenly rolled away under his feet. He skidded and leapt and although his legs were a lot longer than Tom's, he found it hard to keep up with him. When they reached the bottom of the slope and their feet touched grass, they stopped and turned around. The Barrow-downs were shrouded in mist, only the barest shadows of the standing stones were discernible and they thought they saw thin and crooked figures moving on the hilltops while weak voices were calling out, sorrowful and haunting and hungry.
He was breathing hard and his mouth was dry when he turned to face Tom, a wordless question in his eyes.
"Why are you so surprised?" Tom Bombadil asked. "Surely you were not so proud to think that you were the darkest shadow that has ever fallen upon this world? No, there are others that are far older than you and they have been sleeping for a long time. If fate wills it, they will sleep for longer still! Now come, we have to get home, I believe Goldberry is waiting for you."
Since I know from experience by now that I am bad at making good predictions about when I will be able to post the next chapter, I decided to solve this problem by simply refraining from making any more. Still, I do have a schedule (uncertain and flexible as it is) and this is it: I have some other projects going on that have priority over Fiddler's Green, but I will try (although this is a very, very cautious estimate) to update around the 5th of June. See you then and thanks for reading!
On a further note, thanks for over 1,000 hits to Fiddler's Green! Excuse me while I go and put on my party hat to celebrate the occasion.