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Cutch of Torech Besruth



Mortals:  A Case Study (Cutch of Torech Besruth)

Torech Besruth, Falathlorn, Lindon

17 Quellë in the Reckoning of Imladris (compiled from recollections of the day)   

          Our first day of our ride west from Bree went swiftly by us for Cutch, being so excited and plainly happy at the prospect of living with Elves, challenged me to a race.  Our steeds thundered down the road towards the Brandywine, our laughter filling the air, the sounds of our horses’ hooves in time with the piercing ringing of Gairion’s harness bells.

          On my several rides through the district called the Shire, I made careful note of the establishment of inns and services that the Halfling inhabitants of these lands provide.  Of the many inns and public houses along the East Road, two of them have accommodations for Big Folk (as they refer to anyone of non-halfling origins):  the Golden Perch in the hamlet of Stock, and the Ivy Bush in the village of Hobbition (such quaint names, these Halflings use). 

          Along our journey we stayed at both establishments, and the halfling proprietors were only too happy to provide us with adjacent rooms, and with stabling for our mounts; as for the fare, I was amused that Cutch was quietly being as observant of the halflings’ cooking as manners allowed.  He asked questions about each dish, how it was prepared, and we got many answers along the lines of ‘it’s an old family recipe’, belonging to ‘Adelia, she’s sister to my second cousin twice removed’, and so forth.

           So it was that, on the third day of our ride west from Bree, Cutch and I approached Falathlorn in the late afternoon, a few hours of daylight still left to us before the cooling gloaming settled in.  We had pushed our mounts harder and farther that third day, starting early and hoping to arrive as early.  The look on Cutch’s face as we approached my Lair was wistfully transported; it seemed he was finally letting himself believe he was actually going to live here.  He was genuinely surprised to see me remove Gairion’s harness, then let him roam free; that is the way of Falathlorn, I explained.  Our mounts wander freely, though there are stables nearby where steeds can be cared for and foddered.  They come when called, and I assured him Gairion would watch over his mount.  We then gathered our belongings and went inside.

          At this point, as I dropped my gear in its accustomed spot and kicked off my boots, my labors of the past few days were rewarded, for Cutch’s eyes went wide in wonder.  The hall was well-lit and inviting; the side board was loaded with all manner of foods from the market at Imlad Lind; but it was the adjacent room that was the prize of all.  I had every trophy, every memento removed from the Gallery and stored in the village stalls, stripping the room bare.  The deliveries from the previous days brought wooden furniture imported at cost from Bree-land and beyond.  A new coarse-stone fireplace adorned one wall.  This chamber now boasted a cupboard and wardrobe, an ornate antique chair by the fireside, and a wooden chandelier adorned with antlers.  A thick bearskin laid before the fireplace; I apologized that the bed I had arranged had been delayed and would not arrive until the next day, but the bearskin would serve, and I had blankets and cushions in plenty.   

           Cutch’s reaction was the payment for all my efforts.  Choking back a tear of gratitude, he swept up to me and took me in his arms, and our lips met once more.  After the lingering kiss broke, he walked out of the chamber and to the sideboard, where he immediately – having had barely a glance at the table’s fare – fashioned a supper plate for both of us, complete with carafes of both water and wines.  Here I had to assist him, for he could not read the labels on the bottles of my wine hoard; he had mistakenly poured two glasses of Duillond Gold.  I explained that I had procured a few bottles of Southridge Farm, a vineyard local to the Bree-land, and far less potent than the wines of the Elves.

           The meal was up to the level of delight that I have come to expect from Cutch’s skill.  The bounty of river, forest and field shared by fireside made Cutch’s first evening at Torech Besruth a pleasant memory.  Later as we reclined by the hearth warming our feet, we talked and talked late into the night.  He confided things to me that proved the depth of his trust; I confess that I, too, shared things with him that I had not spoken of to anyone, save my oath-sister Hartagil.  Some of these were secrets held so dear that their revelation brought tears (I will not write here as to who cried first, for it matters not).  But as the wine took hold and we both became weary at last, I told Cutch the only rules I would expect of him:

          “This house, and the village where it sits, is open to you, dear one.  This is your home now, but recall that it is also mine, and others.  Courtesy to all whom you meet will stand you in good stead.  For here within the Lair, remember two things.  First, the Sanctum is a place of lore and secrets; enter in freely but know the risks of what you may see within. 

          “This chamber here is yours.  The Tower Is Mine.”  I said that with such finality that Cutch nodded, silently.  With that, I touched his cheek in my hand, kissed him softly and whispered a good night, then padded quietly up the stairs.  

Next Entry:  The Heart Meets the Fist