Dagramir

Deep within the usual content bustle of the Prancing Pony, Dagramir stood with his back to a barrel. Nestling comfortably back into his old, well-worn spot upon the framework of oak, he stood with a fair look of complexion upon his smooth features. In fact, the only real tell-tale sign of his confusion lay upon the orbs of his soul, the blinking dots of blue encased within his eyes, and the slight wrinkles that had began to crease beneath them.

There she was...

How long had it been?

Dagramir, himself, had lost count of the days he had spent in a self-imposed confinement within his own home. Or was it weeks? The windows purposefully blackened with charcoal so they may not distinguish any life that may have reeked from inside. Or was it months? The door jammed shut, despite any passers-by, potential scoundrels, or perhaps even concerned neighbours and kin clattering on the door to rouse some form of response. Or was it...years?

My love,

She'd always loved firelight. Whether from a blazing hearth, or a solitary, flickering candle, the golden dance of light across the plush coverlets, the various angles and curves of bare skin, never failed to be mesmerizing. This particular evening was no different, save for one, small factor that she strove to push from her thoughts. 

"Him?"

The wind would never feel so freeing upon her skin as it did in that very moment. Tousling raven locks, green eyes concealed by darkened lids. Rouge lips stretched into a toothy smile for the first time in the longest of a while. Slender fingers capturing the much smaller hands of her daughter as the two of them spun around and around in dizzy-inducing circles. The familiar, higher-pitched tinkle of the little girl's laughter. 

The rain had not stopped, though the dim, grey light of day seeped through the thin gaps around the curtained windows. It had pounded heavily throughout the night, creating a feeling of being within a dark cocoon; a dangerous mood that only served to fuel the interactions between the hostess and her guest. 

It certainly hadn't been the best few weeks of Dagramir's life, by any measure.

Not that he was one to have great weeks as a man of a certain repertoire, where he was used to being within inches of certain death by sword, or the hands of a scorned lover. Or even a scorned lover's lover. But he was beginning to feel the world turn against him one moment at a time, and the hole he usually slipped back down into when things turned sour was looking so awfully tempting.