Torrance and Millaray watched Cutch, Caladna, and Claywick ride away westward on the East Road. Adso’s camp was starting to bustle with workers rising to another day of construction on the future hunting lodge, but the two Watchers decided delay a bit, finishing off the pot of coffee before packing up and heading east into Bree.
“So, you knew the whole time, Watcher Greenlake?”, Millie asked, then sipped, peering over her coffee cup at the three riders shrinking into the distance.
“No, Watcher Boggs”, Torry answered sheepishly. “Well, not the whole time. Just since Captain Teahesto told me, here, when we camped on the way to the Shire.” He sat next to her waiting for whatever answer she might have for his omission.
After a quiet minute, Millie drained the rest of her cup, then said. “Family is important, I know, Watcher Greenlake. And sometimes it does come before duty, when no harm will be done.” She thought of her own family privacy concerning a lost necklace of gold and rubies, a thing envied by neighbors in Staddle, and a thing not ever to be mentioned again by family, considering how it was lost.
“Crane was taking care of family business, true enough”, Torry answered, finishing his own coffee and rising to break their camp. “And he had to seem dead to do it the odd way he chose. But I didn’t like keeping it from you. It felt like lying, and you weren’t really deserving of that.”
Millie shrugged, rising to assist Torry gathering up. “I understand, Torry. Sometimes we are asked to do things that wind up making no sense at all. No harm is done if no harm is done. It was nice to see the Shire again, though.”
“First time for me, Millie”, Torry announced. “Wouldn’t mind going back someday. That’s some beautiful farm country, and right good folk, all things considered.”
The two Watchers worked wordlessly to finish loading the horses, and then mounted them for the final leg of their journey, which would end in Mayor Tenderlarch’s office in Bree.
“It’ll be early afternoon by the time we get back to town to deliver that bogus report.” Millie mused as they began to ride at an easy walking pace. “I think we might be needing an ale by then, Watcher Greenlake.”
Torry grinned. “Aye, Watcher Boggs, I believe you are right.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“N’tha happens sun-tines", Millie drawled, her ample consumption of ale dragging her words out soggy and slow. “Jus’ go there …. n’ do that … n’ don’t get kill’t … n’ come back.” Her hands drifted before her as she slurred along, fingers waggling with the barely discernable syllables, and when she was done, she stared with wide and bleary eyes at Torry and bobbed a clumsy nod.
Torry listened, motionless, eyes vacantly pointed at her, then he abruptly released a long, deep, and rich belch, the kind one would expect from a giant. When he had finally exhausted his beery, bubbly rumble, they both blinked with proud, silent amazement at the fullness of his gaseous release. In unison, they broke into side-splitting laughter, faces soon reddening at the lack of air until desperation overtook their inebriated humor and their lungs forced copious, rasping inhalation. Tears streamed down their flushed cheeks, their eyes locked one onto the others’, and their Watchers Bond wove ever wider.
“You win’gain … you …. high-hipped ….” she began, but could not complete the phrase before convulsing again in sudden airless laughter.
“HOO ... HOO ... HOOLIGAN!!”, Torry choked out between gasping breaths before they joined again in another drunken, raucous chorus of laughter.
Barliman watched the pair as he leaned, arms folded, against the frame of the doorless entry between the Prancing Pony common room and the innkeeper’s cubby behind the bar. Anticipating Millie’s call for another order of his Best, he began to draw the ale into a clean pitcher as she smiled and waved at him, still squirming to catch her breath. He nodded his assent then shook his head in good-humored disquiet at their behavior.
“So”, the innkeep inquired as he delivered and poured for them from the new pitcher, “did I hear you say Cutch Crane is actually alive?”.
The laughter faded, and the two Watchers looked at each other. Millie lifted her mug, her ale-fogged mind stumbling for words. Torry gleaned what she wanted to do, and lifted his mug as well. With what meager sobriety as he could muster, he offered, “To the living dead.” Torry and Millie froze for a moment as their soaked brains processed his words, then in unison they haphazardly set their mugs down, leaned towards each other, eyes wide and locked, and began yet another round of howling laughter. Their mugs slopped the tops of their contents onto the already wetted table, and Barliman shook his head with a chuckle. The innkeeper returned to his cubby, resolved to cut them off after this last pitcher.
“Shoulda r’ported to G’rmbriar ‘nstead of comin’ here”, Torry loosely mumbled, lips drooping at the corners. “S’gonna be very ‘pset.” He sipped some ale and leaned back.
Millie nodded, head loose on her neck. ‘Mmm hmm,” she replied. “’’N I shoulda checkered in with the Cons-able. But they will both be as stinkery about the wasted trip tomorrow as t’day, so....”
They giggled again, and Torry’s eyes began to roll back under drooping eyelids. “Gotta get some sleep, Washer Boggs”, he muttered, smiling stupidly at his mis-pronunciation. Millie, in the midst of a huge yawn and stretch, nodded and grunted her agreement.
“And neither of you are in any shape to ride a horse”, Barliman called over from the bar. “Like as not, one of you would fall off and break your neck. The hobbit room is empty tonight, so drag yourselves there and get some sleep. I’ll get your horses stabled.”
The Watchers rose and staggered together to the back rooms of the Inn, Barliman keeping close to shepherd them safely around furniture and through doors until they were before a room that hosted several hobbit sized beds. He opened the door and ushered them in. “Should I put this on the Town tab?” he asked.
Torry shook his head and clumsily pulled out his coin pouch and tried to open it. “Nope. I’ll pay for this, ‘cuz iss not Call to Dirty...Duty.” He giggled and opened the pouch upside down, spilling the contents onto the floor.
“I’ll get it”, Barliman sighed, gently nudging Torry against the wall while he gathered the coins, took his fair price, then tucked the remainder back into the pouch. As he returned it to Torry, he noticed that Millie had already entered the room, dropped her helmet on the floor next to the nearest bed and flopped face first across the neatly laid covers. Almost immediately, she began to softly snore.
Barliman and Torry exchanged glances before the innkeeper wordlessly headed back toward the bar.
Torry entered the room and closed the door as quietly as he could. He stepped over to Millie and removed her boots, setting them next to her helmet. He gently straightened her on the bed, yanked a blanket from one of the other beds, and covered her. Looking around the room, he noticed the size of the beds, then looked down at his long frame. Guided by inebriated math, he pulled the mattresses from three of the beds, tossed them on the floor, and lowered himself unsteadily onto them. He struggled with his boots, but was finally victorious. “G’night, Washer Boggs”, he said with a wave-like salute. Her response was her continued snoring, and with contentment he laid himself down. Soon, their snores marched in step.
