His right shoulder ached, not with sharp and present pain as when the injury was new, but with a cloying and dull throb. So too did his left leg pulse with a vague yet persistent needle continuously piercing his flesh. These two injuries had kept him in Bree for the past two months. Two months of solitude and recovery. Two months of pain and anger. Mostly at himself.
Tarsorel resumed his business dealings in Bree. His time in Herne, he now realized, had caused his business interests to deteriorate far more then he had thought. Such dealings, he now understood, required more frequent and present attention. He had at no small cost purchased living and office space above a shop near the Iron Gate. From there the old soldier resumed his prior business dealings.
He coordinated lines of credit between caravan masters and suppliers across a wide area. The winter was a time preparation for spring travels, and Tarsorel made the most of it. He utilized his prior contacts, and some new ones he had acquired during his travels over the past several years of travel, shaping and reforming his network. It had taken surprisingly little time for him to start accepting contracts again. After the first month his financial house was set in order again. By the end of the second month business was once again good and the gold was coming in a steady stream.
Yet Tarsorel rarely left his rooms. He would have food and supplies delivered to him. Meetings and other business dealings were done in his office or by trusted proxies. And all the while as he focused his energy on rebuilding his networks, on growing his business, the pain remained. His shoulder. His leg. His heart. For he could not forget what he left behind in Herne A woman and her child, a love declared but never truly fulfilled. A dear friend, slighted in her own way by misconceptions Tarsorel tried to put right at her request And a brother with whom he was now, or so Tarsorel assumed, estranged
The letters he had sent he knew were wholly insufficient. Sicarra had never replied nor, for all he knew, had even returned to in the last two months. This he understood and accepted. Their relationship had been new and without true depth. The suddenness of Tarsorel's decision to remain in Bree was a factor, he knew, as well as the young woman's need to care for her daughter. He hoped they were both well and frequently prayed for their well-being.
Neither had he heard from nor seen Winnie, Dandy, Bryn or Ryheric while he convalesced. This was more surprising but Tarsorel was inclined to allow for some grace, too. They had a long road ahead of them, full of uncertainty and danger. A broken old Gondorian soldier could not help them. Not in his current condition at any rate. And though he wished he could speak to them again he understood that a letter to the company was a poor way to leave things after all they had been through together. So it was the poor way he had left things with Ryheric Perhaps someday there could be a reconciliation And perhaps not and thing would remain as they were. Tarsorel hoped for the former, dreaded the latter and did not know which would come to pass
And so Tarsorel kept to his rooms in Bree. Fortune favored his business as it continued to grow. And every day the old soldier trained his pained shoulder to once again hold a sword. He bade his injured leg to bear the weight of an shield once more. The progress was slow and arduous, some days showing small improvements while other days bearing nothing but pain and disappointment. Still he tried, everyday, to heal. To be the soldier he had once been.
He is known as Tarsorel, son of Bansorel, from Calembel in Gondor. Known as Amathwain, the Renewed Shield of Gondor by the elves of Imladris. And he is a broken man, trying to heal.
