The inn had been quiet when she awoke, save for the occasional snore from where one or another of the owners’ kinsmen had collapsed into deep, exhausted sleep. The sound was muffled even then, absorbed by the blanket of quiet. It was as if the Hammer and Harp itself was resting, the wild celebrations of Durin’s Day having saturated the floors and walls, and left the inn exhausted. In silence, Nínimil had risen, throwing on a simple green dress and shoes before wrapping her cloak around her and pulling up the hood. Her hand drifted over the wooden table near the bed, softly closing a little leather book before sliding up to trace the wall as she made her way towards the door. The Elf paused only briefly as she looked at her belongings, before collecting her bow and quiver, and leaving the rest.
The Hammer and Harp’s location just outside the walls meant that even the handful of Breelanders awake at this hour were not likely to have seen the green-cloaked ghost of the Elf as she slipped into the pre-dawn shadow of the forest. Her path was quiet and wandering, and she let herself be guided, gaze fixed forward, by the subtle sounds of woodland life until at last she came upon a small clearing, and a still, clear pond. After a cursory examination for a suitable tree stump to use as a target, Nínimil moved to the water and set her bow down, wrapping it in her cloak as she entered the water.
She could have bathed at the inn, but the water here was cold and refreshing, jolting her and sharpening her thoughts, preparing her for the next step of this odd ritual. As she dried herself, dressed, and plucked up her bow and arrows again, Nínimil took a long, deep breath. It was a familiar routine, a regimen for her head more than her eye or arm. For a long moment, she simply stood there, still and unmoving, bow raised and a hand on her quiver, focusing on her surroundings. On the grass, wet with dew beneath her bare feet, alive and growing. On the morning breeze, giving movement to the leaves and flicking at her hair and cloak as it gently, almost apologetically, brushed by her. A frog by the pond, stretching as it looked for food. A bird in its nest, winking awake with a ruffle of feathers. A squirrel, watching curiously the Elf in the centre of it all.
In one fluid motion, she nocked, drew, loosed.
Thud.
From that first shot, a gradual cluster of arrows began to form in the makeshift target, but Nínimil hardly noticed. The rhythm was more important, the staccato thud of arrows echoing in the dawn as she performed the same motion again and again in silent meditation, settling into the routine while she let the thoughts of recent days filter in and out.
The last looks back, first at Felegoth, and then at Lorien.
Thud.
The early, heavy snows on Caradhras.
Thud.
An old Dwarf, back in his Halls, thinking of his children.
Thud.
Joyful meetings, and difficult ones.
Thud.
Wargs in Breeland.
Thud.
Elves in Angmar.
Thud.
Missing faces. New faces.
Thud.
They had been very friendly to her so far, Cedmon’s friends, although it was hard not to notice the occasional sense of unease. Mostly from the young Silvan, who at times seemed on the cusp of saying or asking something, and at others, seemed only to want to divert attention away from himself. The other Elves she had only briefly spoken to so far, and some Men had come in and out, but all seemed to be good and friendly sorts. And that Dwarf - Gurnisson, the loud, coarse, but… Hospitable and friendly owner of the inn - seemed to view her as largely interchangeable with any other Elf that he might be half-listening to at the moment. But for all of that, he was, she supposed, her best understanding that Galtharian’s occasional unease around her was only mild - had there been a problem, even just from her presence, it would have been made clear. According to Galtharian, Dalbran had rescued him when he most needed it, and even now, he clearly kept a close eye on his Elven friend.
Thud.
No matter the Dwarf’s… Rougher edges, he was at least owed a good measure of respect for that. Something weighed on the young Wood Elf, and while it was not her place, as barely more than a stranger still, to press the issue, it troubled her nonetheless - a faint sense of something that eluded her even now. Here, at least, at work in the inn, he seemed happy, though. Here, with that motley band of Elves, Dwarves, Men… It was home. And perhaps that was part of it. Perhaps she had been an unpleasant reminder of something from Mirkwood, as he continued to call it. Or perhaps not. It shouldn’t be any business of hers, but then...
Thud.
The thought lingered in the air as Nínimil watched her last arrow sink into the target, remaining still for a long moment and holding the pose as she let it finish its winding course through her mind. The trip to Bree had only meant to be brief: a delivery, a reunion with the Dwarves, perhaps seeking out signs that Cedmon was still alive. After that, perhaps back eastwards, without delay. Now, though… Now, the days seemed to stretch in front of her, and the road to wind and curve. With a deep breath,she let it all fall away and went to pull her arrows from the stump, checking them before stowing them once again. If she headed back now, she might even find the inn still quiet, and Dalbran’s various relations still asleep after yesterday’s festivities. There were other tasks ahead, other meetings, and other journeys on this side of the Misty Mountains. But at the right time, she would perhaps ask the Dwarf about setting aside a room for a little longer.
