The days pass and nothing changes. Everything is as it was. The same people pass me by when I sit in the same chair in the same inn in Bree. The same problems are spoken of, the same troublesome matters persisting to wear us all down with the infinite patience of a river over rocks.
The sun sets and I toss and turn in a failed bid to sleep. The sun rises and I measure and pin and cut and sew before returning to the town to watch the world slide by, contemplating the very things I had considered only the day before, and the day before that and the day before that.
Arugru sits with me. I am glad for his silent presence, his comforting bulk. The warm weight of him as he leans against my leg, his head laid in my lap, speaks of unerring devotion and unconditional love. I know that with him I am safe. I know that with him I do not have to worry myself about affairs of the heart and I wonder if such indulgences are not a mistake.
What worth is there to this waiting? What value is there in such uncertainty? Flowers and trinkets and empty words. What purpose do they serve except to leave me feeling more alone than ever I have before?
The days pass and nothing changes, but I know that without my silent shadow I would have succumbed to the crushing weight of despair long since.
