She was still dreaming when the traveler returned to her side, flame-red hair askew on the grass, waifish body bundled deep within the cloak another man bought for her, face peaceful, lips slightly parted by her quiet exhalations.
She looked so much like his wife, like this. Beautiful. Young.
Alive.
He resisted the desire to pull up her cloak and wrap himself around her again. Perhaps taking her. Perhaps just enjoying her warmth and touch and nothing more. Calloused fingers lightly brushed her hair from her ear, and he bent down to place the barest of kisses on her cheek.
Leaning forward, he laid his battered rucksack beside her tiny sleeping hand. She would know that he intended to return to her.
Just as quietly, he slipped into his natural place of existence again. Obscurity.
Vaulting the gates of Bree was simple enough once he was beyond the view of guard posts. Into the black of night he retreated, letting tenebrous wilderness shroud his thin body.
Beyond the staid provincial town, without the diversions that the spirited girl often created, surrounded by the illusion of isolation - for the woodland beasts slept not, nor do shadier folk - he would wander a while, finding what useful things could be found, be it news or provisions or perhaps more.
And to invariably ruminate on his hazy path in the murk between life and death.
