A Better Place - The Hobbit Fanfiction

Fifteenth Entry - Small Enjoyments

“Sing us a song, Mabyn!” Soviel shouted from down the bench of me.

I slammed down my mug of water and stood on the bench—this put me just a few inches taller than the seated elves, which I found vastly amusing, even if I was used to being the smallest in my world. “What about, you fools? I can’t remember them all anymore, you’ve got to narrow it down.”

“Laughter!” called one. “Love!” bellowed another.

I threw out my hands to silence them, being overly dramatic because I’d found they considered it a hilarious aspect of my character—I’d specifically overheard one woman theorizing to another that perhaps I was compensating for my diminutive size by having an expressive personality. “Hush peasants!” I hollered over all of them, then cleared my throat. I hummed first, starting out slow, then began my song.

“I’ll swim and sail the savage seas

With ne’er a fear of drowning

And gladly ride the waves of life

If you would marry me.

No scorching suns or freezing cold

Will stop me on my journey,

If you will promise me your heart,

And love me for eternity.

My dearest one my darling dear

Your mighty words astound me

But I’ve no need of mighty things

When I feel your arms around me.”

As slow as it may start they were all stomping and clapping by the end of it, amused, perhaps, by my kicking and stomping of my own. I couldn’t help it—the song had an Irish lilt, and who can resist kicking to an old Irish tune?

Mirinel sat beside me, and looped her hand behind me in case I faltered as I returned to my crate-seat. “I believe you are fair ridiculous when you have too many eyes on you.”

“Of course,” I briskly replied. “What else should I be besides a force of entertainment?”

“Do you not mean ‘source’?”

I pretended to consider it. “Nope. I’m a force. Like a dust devil or a very localized tornado.”

“Gracious.”

“Tell us a story, Mabyn,” another implored.

“A story of what?”

“One of your favorite days, favorite moments.”

Some people thought that with my life having so many sour spots it ought to be hard for me to find the good ones. But sorting through one’s memories wasn’t like sorting through rotten fruits for the few fresh ones—my memories were all separate beings, uncontaminated by each other unless I let them be. “I entered a talent show once,” I said. “And this isn’t really a story. But I didn’t want to sing because singing is very common, and nearly everyone can do it passably if not quite well. So I, absolutely determined to be an individual, decided to recite a poem to music. One of the lines was something along the lines of ‘the sky’s too small to hold us so don’t keep yourself inside’ and one of the judges, after a surprising pause at the end of my bit, said to me ‘I think the sky’s too small to hold you.’” I smiled to myself, nearly into my lap. “I always rather thought well of that day.”

“What was the poem about?”

“Oh, a girl telling off the boy who loved her, because he wanted their relationship to be what society thinks of as ‘perfect’ and she was telling him that nothing is perfect, and if it is it probably isn’t real.”