In which our fish out of water finds ditchwater a poor choice for swimming.
"That's no concern of mine," comes Barliman Butterbur's voice from down the hall as clear as a bell. "Aye your money is as good as any other man's, but I have no need of the trouble that comes with it."
The answer is a low rumble you can't quite discern.
Nob's home with a fever, or he would be the one spending the day pouring out the pisspots into the barrel for the honey wagon, sweeping out the hearths in the empty rooms, making up the beds in the occupied ones, and the million and one other small things that need to happen to keep the inn running, but when Bob appeared at your door before the crack of dawn you leaped at the chance. Barliman paid in coin.
"No, it don't matter should you keep to your room," comes his voice, closer this time. "I'll not have you and your lot here. Not after what happened the last time!"
What the hell happened "last time?"
No. No, you don't want to know.
You'd give Barliman his privacy, but you can hear his voice all the way down the hall and through the closed door. Not that his whisper couldn't travel that far. The man has a voice like a foghorn from all that shouting over his customers in the common room. Wasn't much that was secret here at The Prancing Pony.
"Now Bill Ferny is a regular of mine and you've no call to speak ill of him like that. Off with you now, or I'll call Harry from the gate and have you dragged out and thrown onto the Road should you force me to it."
This last makes you snort and then the memories of the man catch up to you and you feel vaguely ill. Bill Ferny! What an asshole. He's been eyeing you since you first arrived begging for work at The Pony, what with his 'cotters like you'll never make it here like that on yer own,' and 'not one of these pledgeholding blokes will take on ye, fealty oath or no, have ye not figured that out, yet?' and promises of an easy life and money and good food when you wish it if only you knew what was good for you. Yeah, you can just imagine what he'd ask you to do for it. It makes your skin crawl just thinking about it. Far, far too eager, his eyes following you around during your duties. Oh, he 'talks fair' when 'Master Butterbur' is around. But he was up to no good, or your name isn't -
Well… yeah. But it isn't any more is it.
Picking up the broom and coal and piss buckets, you open the door to the hall to find some Hozier-looking dude leaning against the wall and curled over his breast so that all you can see is the fall of his long, dark hair. It's not the narrowest of halls around this place, but he is a big dude; tall and broad shouldered, and he takes up a lot of space. And yep, that is a knife tucked in his belt. And yep, he is between you and where you want to go. He makes his way slowly down the hall, the palm of his hand trailing along the wall as he walks and leans on it. Him and you and your buckets are going to be a squeeze. If he's as desperate as he was hinting at earlier he's got just enough room to pull that knife with the lovely swirling designs worked into its hilt and pin you to the stucco.
Well, shit. You've got the parlor and upper floors to do before you prepare the private dining hall for dinner. And you really, really, really need the money. Winter comes up faster than you'd think and you do not want to be as unprepared as you were last year. A few more pennies and you could even buy a couple hens and feed them through the winter instead of slaughtering them so you'd have eggs. Or maybe a goat? They eat pretty much anything. Right?
You could do it, though. You knew some things about raising animals before you appeared here. The equipment may be vastly different but the principles remained the same: water the animal, feed the animal, muck out the results of having fed and watered the animal, keep the animal from doing something stupid, rescue the animal when it has done something stupid… and repeat ad nauseam until either you or the animal dies.
See? You may not have lost your sense of humor after all.
His eyes come up sharply when you approach him. They are a beautiful grey, and startlingly keen for all his unkempt look and the ragged edges and patched clothing. He stares at you as if it was you he had come to see after all, not Barliman.
And then you have passed him, and you let out your breath. Your ears ring as if someone set off a fire alarm next to them and your heart is pounding a mile a minute. What the hell! That was intense. Why was that intense? It's not like he made a move to try something and you had to fend him off, not that he seemed up to it, but he wouldn't be the first in this place. Find a penny, pick it up, all day long it will… tempt other equally desperate people to steal it from you. And some people are more easily tempted than others.
Huh. No idea what it was about him. Never seen someone like him before here. All right, well. Just file that away for later, you guess. One of the many weird things that can happen here. Though, now that you think of it, you suppose it makes sense. If this place has innkeepers, farmers, plowmen, smiths, tanners, washerwomen, and traders, it would stand to reason it would also have vagabonds, wanderers, thieves, and, well, drunkards too, going by that bump against the entry that made him hiss and stumble out into the yard.
Welp, Cinderella? The nights are warm this time of year, if not dry. Worst thing that'll probably happen to him is he'll wake up under the hedges soaked to the bone and with a pounding headache. Better get a move on. That penny isn't going to earn itself.
It's past dark by the time you are done and Barliman has counted out his tin penny from the till into your palm. You sling your soft basket over your shoulder and stuff the coin deep in the pocket you sewed into the inside of your tunic. There it taps against the last remaining thing you have from before you popped into existence over a year ago.
The common room is busy tonight, light and heat and noise spilling out from the open windows. As you pass a voice rings out.
"Should ye not do somewhat about those vagabonds and cutthroats harassing good folk on the Road, then we shall do it ourselves!" it says, followed by a roar of sound.
Yeah, yeah. Not the first you've heard this. It seems to come and go with the warm weather. They'll wind down soon enough.
No use looking within. You've got your penny and you need to get it home. You have the oil lamp that Bob lent you for the walk. Maybe if you hurry you'll have enough of the oil left you can get some of that darning for Mistress Blackthorn done tonight.
Thank all that is holy for Bob. Bright spot in your day, 'thank ye kindly for your help with that one, he were a fiery one that he was,' 'don't let that one catch you turning down the rooms on yer own if ye know what I mean,' 'here, the missus made more beef and kidney pies than we can eat in a week, you take them' Bob. Saved your ass a few times and was polite when you did what you could to save his in return.
Okay, okay. It's been wet all these past few weeks. Maybe you can go do some mushroom hunting and add to your funds. Cook mentioned something about a party of hobbits from Staddle being expected. Maybe you can gather enough to earn something worth the time you'll spend tramping through the woods north of the Road.
You were a programmer and web designer for a nonprofit in your old life. Not terribly applicable here, true, what with, you know, the lack of computers and internet, and, well, electricity, but at least it taught you to look at a problem as a series of puzzles, and that each solution would likely only lead you to the next conundrum. And to not look too far ahead.
What the fuck is that?
Talk about not looking too far ahead. You stare up the road. A dark pile of something against the light reflecting off the water in the ditch. Just there, past the circle of light thrown by the lamp.
Aw, shit. Fuck! You clap your hand to your forehead and halt, grabbing at your hair. You're half-tempted to reverse your step and simply avoid this whole mess.
Damn it! That's got to be him, Drunk!Hozier. He's sprawled in the ditch upon the side of the Road as if he had stumbled and collapsed into it. Jesus. How long has he been there?
Fuck. He's not moving. Is this for real? Or is it just a ploy and you'll get up close and he'll…
Fuck, he's still not moving.
You've seen people die here. It's just as ugly and awful as you would imagine. You've had your share of funerals, but it's one thing to see someone waxy-faced in a casket, and quite another to watch their eyes grow dim and everything go still and not be able to do anything about it.
Before you know it, you're all up in his business against your better judgment, peering at him in the dark and searching through that mess of mud and hair and wool and leather. Where is his pulse? I mean, you know CPR. Though what good it is going to do here without 911 to call, you're not sure.
When you touch him his skin is a lot warmer than you feared it might be. In fact, he's quite warm.
He rouses with a sharp grunt, his eyes closed tight and face grimacing, and knocks your hand from him. You leap back, nearly kicking over the lantern.
Well okay, he's definitely got a pulse, then.
He drags his arm from beneath him.
Fuck! He's trying to crawl.
He doesn't get very far.
"Hey, hey." You pull at his shoulder as he sags back into the mud. "Hey, you do not want to die from drowning in ditch water."
Maybe you should lay him on his side, put him in the rescue position so he doesn't choke on his own vomit or something.
That's when you chance to put a hand in just the wrong place and he cries out something you can't understand and curls about his shoulder. Shit! When you withdraw your hand it is stained red.
Good god! He's soaked through! How much blood has he lost?
Well, that decides that.
"All right, man, I'm willing to try fixing you up, but you're going to have to help me, here."
Somehow, don't ask you how, you get him upright and he gets his feet beneath him. With his jaw clamped as tightly as it is, he doesn't make much noise, just a lot of gasping and heavy breathing. Fuck. What kind of life must he lead that he is in that much pain and out of his mind and he can still keep that quiet?
With all the concentration it takes to get and keep him on his feet, you nearly forget the lantern. Yeah, no. That would be a great way to repay Bob's thoughtfulness and wear away at his willingness to help you out here and there.
Big, tall, and feverish teeters on his feet and nearly crashes back to the ground, but you lean over and snatch up the handle to the lantern and then off you two go. He stinks of mud and the refuse from the overflowing cesspits found in Bree's ditches after a heavy rain this time of year, his hair lank and hanging in his eyes. He's putting so much effort into dragging one foot in front of the other that he doesn't seem to have any left for asking you who you are, why the hell you plucked him from the ditch, or where the fuck you're taking him, but with your arm about his waist and his about your shoulder, you shuffle along down the road.
God, if he dies in your bed, what the hell are you going to do?