Marganil could not decide what was most suffocating, the heat or the loneliness. She had spent all morning wandering among the Bree-fields, the golden wheat her only companion. She had no right to feel lonely; living in a full house again alleviated a lot of her pain. And yet, today she could not find what there was needed to fill her soul.
On her way home, she passed the Hammer and Harp Inn. She paused briefly outside its doors; ale and company should lift her mood, no? The ale was always good, and Mr Gal was always nice to her. Besides, she should apologize to him, after all she must have caused a lot of distress to him as well.
She entered the Inn, only to find a quiet hall, cool and empty but a man with a mask. Why was it so disappointing that Galtharian was not there? In her mind, the elf and the inn were
one, perhaps more so than the inn and Master Dalbran. She had been naïve to think that the proprietors never left the Inn, a thought that made her feel even worse than before. Soon, though ale was served to her, and both her mind and soul got lighter… the heat combined with an empty stomach enabled that quick effect on her.
Marganil spend time observing the masked man; he had a scar on his face, a tense body and empty eyes. If she had walked in any other day, she would not have dared to even ask this man’s name. But today, she did not feel like any other day and she ended up learning that his name was Theothar, he usually worked in the kitchens and he had no idea that female dwarves sported beards.
“Of course, there are female dwarves… if you didn’t know that female dwarves exist, then how did you think they produced baby dwarves?” she had asked him, never wondering if she was inappropriate or not.
He gave her a rather long blank stare, slightly tilting his head at her, “I didn’t really care”.
This seemed to be this man’s attitude towards all; cold and distant and somewhat detached. Still, Marganil did not spend a second thought on his alien behaviour, as a horrific thought had entered her mind… what if she had been misgendering elves all along? She thought of polite Mr Gal, who would not object to the pronouns she picked and she thought of Mr Lighthouse’s constant frustration; what if she had to call Calaedor mom instead of dad?
While trying to figure out if her thought had any basis on logic or not, Theothar did not do much to calm her nerves; his curt answers and stiff manners were unnerving, there were points that she would swear he mocked her. Neither her understanding of him nor their interactions improved over time, but somehow, that day she did not care enough to try something else… At least, when Aearrien joined them, he was convinced to sit down on a table. Soon, the heat must have also bothered him; he revealed his face to her for the first time.
The young woman could not keep her eyes from his face; the scar mutilating his face was somehow fascinating and captivating at once. What had happened to him? Was this the reason behind his blank expressions? Could she learn to hide her feelings if she observed him long enough? For the next quarter of the hour, she studied him. She tried to mask her disappointment in not receiving a tale, she mirrored his expression, his movement. When he picked up his mug, she did so as well. When he took a sip, she took one as well. Marganil wondered if this would allow her to unlock the way to mastering her emotions.
Aearrien broke her concentration with a very important question. A question that brought up a topic she didn't want to address, but once brought up, she couldn't ignore it any longer. Why did she care about elven genders? Why did she not ask her friend, Mr. Lighthouse?
The answer was simple; he was gone. And for the first time she realised how much it annoyed her. When Aearrien asked the very simple and straightforward question "Is he dead?", Marganil could do nothing else but face a deep fear, which she had ignored till then.
He was dead, he had gone in pursuit of his death.
"He went to his brother's dying place!" She voiced her illogical suspicion. "He is dead, isn't he?"
In midst of her tears, the other two tried to reason with her.
"He is not dead... Probably" the Gondorian was always the logical one.
"How do you know he died?" Theothar asked, his eerily calm face ever present.
"Dalbran told us" Marganil answered. She was so upset, all of the emotions out of control, that she had no good understanding of the real question. How did she know that Cal had died? No, she knew that Cedmon had died and Cal wanted to go to his brother's resting place, in Angmar.
"Half of the patrons have gone there, apparently". Theothar offered, a statement that offered her hope. Yes, she was irrational... "Did he go alone?"
Aearrien grimaced at her positive answer. "Well, that's not... Great".
It was Theothar's impassive assessment of the situation, while drinking his whiskey that finally broke her at that minute. "He's doomed".
His words, their presence, the ale and the whiskey, the whole Inn was suffocating. Marganil later would not remember if she excused herself, if she paid, if they told her anything else. She simply had to get out of there, and escape all of this.
Run away from the memory of yet another person in her life who chose to kill themselves, instead of staying there, with her.
