Pelaphor lounged back in his chair and took in the sights of the tavern. The comb and wattle was the sort of place he liked, people didnt come here to sing songs or ask questions they came to drink quietly and mind their own business. The forlorn looking innkeep was wiping down the bar, sweat dripping down her forhead muttering about how the comb was just as good as the pony, the thought almost made Pelaphor chuckle as he doubted many of the pony's residents would be found here at any time, unless you counted the corpses that turned up in the rooms sometimes. The thought made him turn his gaze to the other patrons of the inn, in the far corner a group of four hooded men sat smoking quietly keeping to themselves. The other tables held residents of Combe who chatted happily enough though they kept their voices low and the conversation rarely jumped from table to table. One could hardly call this place a common room it seemed top Pelaphor more like private tables trying to pretend that the others didnt exist.
Oh well it didnt matter, he turned back to the fire place and began to stare vancantly into the flames as he inhaled from his pipe. Pelaphor loved his pipe. The feeling of smoke moving slowly through his nose, mouth and lungs gave him a sense of absolute control over his mind and body. Sometimes he would smoke for hours at a time letting the fumes waft over and about him as his mind slipped into restful blankness giving some relief to his often troubled mind. Tonight however the pipe brought him no tranquility, neither did the bitter beer that he'd been drinking alone for a god few hours. How many had he had? five, six no point lying to yourself more like eight or nine. He could still think clearly after eight or nine, that won't help the business here either or drown the demons that plagued him.
He raised himself slighty and poked at the fire with his boot before falling back and resigning himself allowed the thoughts of his wife to envelope him. Avorfalas...her name kept coming back to him again and again. She was dead, he felt no regret for that no man has power over summer fever. He felt no deep mourning out of love for in truth he had never loved her. She had been only fourteen when they had married, a slim fleet grey-eyed girl of fourteen who had given him such a look of fear upon their wedding day that he would never forget her face. He himself had been twenty and already seen battle on the Rhun border, he must have seemed a towering brute all muscle and ale belly with a unruly beard as he remembered. Poor girl, he'd taken her that night but after that he never touched her again. He was sent to fend off hillmen from the coastal towns a month later and though he wrote to her often and her back it was never a personal corraspondance. It went on like this for ten years and even when she was fully a woman he still did not spend time with her. His time at home was spent in the library looking over texts of battle lore and the great teachings of the elder days. He spent his nights in taverns drinking and spending easy nights with easy girls. When the fever caught her he had been off on one such trawl, she burned and screamed for four days and passed alone in the blackness. He had staggered back a few days later to find the truth. He had disgraced his position and they sent him to the Mordor front the same day. He had not stopped thinking about her since then.
Pelaphor had always considered himself a man of honour and duty even in his youngest days, sworn to die for the tower and die he would he always told himself. His men had always followed him well and his commanders had given him as much praise as he could hope for as a half-breed son of a Rohan woman. But he had failed Avorfalas his duty to care for her, his duty to give her children, he had never been honourable and done his duty at home. It did not matter that she was not of his choosing she was from a family of good standing and he had only married into that house as he was twice a man in battle as any of better breed. Too late to do anything now...too late.
He drank deeply of his ale and noticed that his pipe must have gone out as he thought back. Now he could not even serve his tower and steward. Trapped in the north like some kind of brigand on the run, yes he was fighting the enemy and yes he was writing books that would be of great use to the library but his duty was to stand on the borders of Gondor and fight or die. He had failed that duty and he had failed his duty to his wife and brought further disgrace to his house. Pelaphor who feld to the Eriador son of Pelafir who fled to Rohan they would say, craven house they would say.
He stared into the fire and began to light up his pipe again and stayed there until he awoke by a burnt out pile of ashes the next morning.
