"Now..." breaking the silence. "A long time passed since I did it last time and normally I'd order you to stick that opinion of yours to your own, damn garden!" Shacking a fist, she plants the biggest plate of the room near her guest's nose. "But you make a great exception. Please, be honest." Shyrode is slowly raising her head as it's getting warmer, her eyelids follow right after. Absorbed with fascination, the old hobbit appears to lightly copy her as her fork is awaiting command: "Clink!" The startled elf glimpses abyss, however, soothes back the moment her own hand lets loose of the potato. A short pointer at the cutlery, and the meal begins.
It takes time. Yet as soon as a snail's bite, tiny candles melt in envy. The old woman has to face the truth: She is now the cause of a sudden, endless tide of satisfied munching, and an ancient spark finally finds its place back deep into those muscles long forgotten. "I knew I was right to do it all!" she rises, swinging fingers around the world - they hit the jars. "Hmpf, hm!" her guest signalizes, directing back and forth between kitchen and its chef's own, untouched serve. To avoid any confusion, the hobbit chooses to calm down "Maybe we'll cook together, show you some of my tricks." and takes a bite.
Unknown to each other a little while ago, now like dining friends. Even the outside takes its place, voices with muffled melody. "O I loved it back there." she dwells. "It's just not the same any longer." Shyrode's breath carves its path, something woke her up. "Oh, don't mind them. On any other day, I assure you, this is the quietest piece of land." But the elf isn't coughing at the window, it is actually a small painting of ol'Rosemary held by somebody in her younger days. Both arms of her chair, gripped. "Old beggar..." feeling the mist, imitating a fork. "...always picked a fight with me if he could, especially in his last, few weeks. No, don't season that! Oh, didn't see the puddle? He was a monster..." she leans forward, determined. "...and I loved him!" delaying her smile, Shyrode mirrors her.
"And you?" Miss Hobbiton searches her neck for a way to ask. After all, she has never heard the voice of her elven guest. "Excuse me, my eyes are quite a bit blurry under the belly – but I saw there was an insignia, behind that belt of yours." It doesn't take far for the silverware to sink, alike the elf. The hobbit promptly reaches over the whole table which she uses to support her knees, pouring in the first tea. "Applebee, a smallest touch of mint. It looked pretty elven to me." Although not of the biggest help, it gives occasion to stir. The elf's tongue rashly adapts to the shocks of heat, gulps as an answer. Realizing this is all one gets, the hobbit remembers something...
...One day, her father took her on a trip, her birthday. "I asked for a year, probably many years." she chuckles behind closed lips. "But on my 11th, he did." Her reflection turns into a stare, she is drifting somewhere. Shyrode remains engaged with the tea cup. "I tell yer, there is nothing more beautiful than being alone with your dad on any sunny autumn. Lil' bunny was hopping so strong, she grew a little." her breath is shacking audibly. "Then he laid on a rock, just laying there but concerned about something. So I asked: "What is it, pa? There is nothing. Believe me, I've always played in that forest." He didn't hear me, I just sat with him." she frowns. "It's not a worst, last memory, yet what in hell's name was he looking at? Usually, whenever he saw my sisters playing, he sent them to ma, but every time he saw us together, he could not bear it or left. What a really weird way of love." mouth open, letting it speak. "Funny." she says monotonously. "I've never noticed it was actually cloudy." And so her eyes meet Shyrode's, for the first time.
