In Your Room, part 1

Some few days after the company’s return from Angmar.

A flutter of fabric passed over the inn’s premises in the odd few hours before eve and morning. The grass, settling into those distinct early stages of frost, still did not give out any sound as footsteps flew over it. It would be an odd thing, perhaps, to those that knew him, to see him in this state. Cloaked and hooded, he resembled one of his own kin. Such was the curious nature of this Breelandish Silvan, that his own nature coming to the surface would be surprising.

A burdensome silence fell upon his posture once he reached the entrance. It was a useless gesture, this, one of habit. The inn had no reason to stay open at this hour. With a fruitless motion, he reached for his pockets, his fingers searching for the keys to the entrance. They found nothing. How this could be any surprise, would remain a mystery; it was him that handed them over to Dal but hours earlier, pleading for a few days away from this busyness. But then, there he was, his forehead pressed against the wooden door, lamenting that it stood before him locked.

A moment passed, or two in this burdened silence, and then he pulled away from this embrace with a sharp movement. A moment more, he thought, and perhaps his own grief might seep into the wood, leave it stained. Leave it unwelcoming, as he now felt. No sound came from the rooms beyond, and he noted this somewhere unconsciously. With the dwarf sleeping in the Silvan’s own dwelling, the red-bearded brothers would find no reason to be waddling around in this odd hour. He had made sure no one had followed him.

Then it seemed fortunate that he knew the inn as he did, for it took no more than a few more silent steps and a gentle push of his hand to open the sole creaking window that always stayed slightly open. One more step over the windowsill and he was engulfed in that familiar warmth. Jars of spices, improperly closed, ale dripping from the sides of mugs, and his ever-so-lovingly folded washcloths now disbursed into piles and hanging off edges of tables in never-repeating patterns – he had always known none could ever place as much love into keeping the kitchen tidy as Dal and he had, yet the sight before him still felt like a surprise. The pieces of the intricate puzzle of their kitchens stood before him mockingly, and he could not fault them. He could not fault anything.

Mere moments passed (or perhaps days, he could not tell). Whispering desperate prayers into each cup, he knew the hands that shall never hold them again. He only did not know whether they would be his own. He stood wiping tears from his eyes as one would stand wiping sweat off their brow in days of hard work. A terrible routine to behold, coupled now with such purposeless thoughts. He had promised it would only be a few days before his inevitable return to his tasks; he held no intention within him to break this promise. He had never broken a promise to the dwarf before. Doubt settled onto his posture, asking ‘How much will you have to lie in order to return?’.

Branches twisted over his form, one not unlike those in the forest that held him once. His tears left to dry, his work unfinished, he stepped away.

 A flutter of fabric, over the stairs. Cloaked. Hooded.

They both were one and the same.

And one was loved.