Company

Little ornamental fish in a pond, indeed.

It had been a long time since Es had been cut off from everyone he knew. His house, his family, colleagues, employees, allies, acquaintances.

The stowaway, at first distrusted, was now gaining some rapport with him. Now he knew more about her.

Korvynn and Narelin both had a strange openness to them. A fearlessness to share and expect well of other people. Normally Es would have dismissed such behavior as sloppy. Sappy. Unguarded. But he had the breathing room here to be unknown and observe it from the inside. Without external expectations. So he did. 

He realized as he spoke with Lemrad and Nerolian at the bridge how deprived of company he'd really been. A slow realization, made in pieces like a picture formed in another puzzle.

The more sober he became, the less he could avoid that need for social interaction. He had been so well-connected back home. So used to it... 

...Before.

Nenaura and Korvynn, in the way they were isolated without being desperate, enabled him to view the same trait in himself. Isolation.

Narelin's offered little secrets as if she already trusted these would-be friends. That, along with Nerolian's forward queries, was different to the sort of company he was used to. 

Lemrad's light-hearted ribbings were more familiar, not unlike Es's brother, though Lemrad seemed a great deal more sheltered whimsical. Lemrad speculated with all the aggression of a teething pup about Esgaulegor and Nenaura's so-called complicated involvements.

Esgaulegor veered, on one hand, tempted to ham it up in response, to utter some ridiculously sordid morsels for the repressed accountant to chew on. For entertainment's sake.

.. On the other hand, jaded weariness. The weight of loss suppressed his ability to jibe or verbally spar as he usually enjoyed.

Complicated, though? Ah, to have the small-time escapades of a Breelander.
 
Nenaura was by far his most straight-forward companion. For the simple fact: he'd known her the longest of anyone in his life.

... How disturbing that everyone else was dead.

He swigged more from his flask. Tonight, it contained wine instead of spirits. So he drank himself not into oblivion. Only until his more morbid line of thought vanished into the haze of stars and moon, and cold, unrelenting stone at his back.

His eyes closed a while upon the bridge where he sat, just outside Bree.

Other sleeps he'd had like this were a death-wish; a dare for the world to finish it. As if he were baiting murder upon himself.

But this sleep was lazed and restful. A will to live behind it, and much needed ease.

Holiday, indeed.

Bree, after all, was a small pond. Here, the little fish hungered for hand-fed bread.

Not stone-weighted bodies thrown overboard.