Wherein there are more fish out of water than it first seemed.
And so, life goes on much as it had before.
You get up, scrounge up a little something to eat. Now that Estel isn't here and you only have one stomach to feed you can skimp on your meals again. You're not the size of an NBA top recruit so you can spread what you've got a bit more thinly and save up for the winter. You roll your plans for the days and weeks and months over and over in your head, mentally count your pennies, do your absolute best to stay in Barliman's good graces, pray for storms to knock down old branches and trees you can help clear off someone's land and take a portion in payment, wonder if it's worth the risk to venture out further into the wild country outside the hedgerow and ditches circling Bree if the weather stays nice like it has, count down the days until you can turn your phone back on for thirty seconds, wonder how many more times you're going to get the chance to do that, wonder what Estel is up to and why he left like he did...
Try not to take it personally.
Take it personally.
Feel stupid for taking it personally and wonder why the fuck you care.
Resolve not to take it personally.
Take it personally.
You get the picture.
In the past few days, you've pulled what was essentially an extra double double shift at The Pony. Scraped more mud off the brick hearths where men cleaned their boots, drew more water, rubbed down more ponies and horses, carried and fetched and scrubbed and answered calls, and fended off more advances than you want to remember. Summers when the weather is warm and good for travel and trade are the worst there - understaffed and all hands on deck all the time. Ferny was hard put to corner you, and you'd worked the common room every night until close. He had to put in extra effort.
"Not seen ye much of late," Ferny'd remarked after last call when most of the out of town guests had retired. Even his new friend, some dude from some parts south of here had up and gone to wherever he was spending the night.
"Thought mayhap you'd been lost to mishap with none to look after ye as they should, but no, eh?" Ferny looked you up and down. "Stick at Naught found somewhat to stick at last?"
If you hadn't had a tray full of empty mugs, you might have "accidentally" poured one in his lap there and then. You did happen to drop your cleaning rag into his mug later. Barliman might have told you off for your clumsiness, but he did send Ferny packing off home after the resulting outburst. All told not a bad night, even if it was a very, very long one, or, rather, several very, very long ones in a row. You haven't been home in a while. There's a cot in the kitchen where Cook lets you sleep, not that there was much sleep to be had.
So, by the time you've shuffled down the road, the moon has risen and set, and all you want to do is fall into your cot and sleep until the world has revolved on its axis a few more times than the last time you saw it.
You open the door and nearly leap out of your skin.
Holy fuck!
He doesn't even look up when you enter, though, with his skills you suppose he would have heard you scuffing through the gravel on the Road long before you turned onto the path to your door.
What the absolute fuck?
Oh. Oh no. If Estel thinks he can come back here after everything he pulled, he has something else coming. You have words for him. You thought him long gone, with no chance to unleash every bit of your hurt and betrayal on him, but well, things change apparently. But then you get a good look at him and every angry and unkind thing crowding in your throat and clamoring to be let out completely evaporates.
He sits on the rushes on the floor with his back to the bench and his leg drawn up and arm resting upon his knee. He's built up the fire and all else around him is dark with shadows. But even in the dimness his eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot.
Shit. He looks like hell. He's not injured again, is he?
"Estel, what's going on?" you ask as you pull the handles to your soft basket over your head and let it dangle from your fingers.
His eyes flick to you and then away. His eyes shimmer and the tears that have caught in the skin beneath his eyes catch the firelight.
You hook your basket on its peg by the door. There's nothing in there that can't wait until the morning.
He's giving you no leads and so you do the only thing you can think of. There's a tic of muscle at his jaw that catches the light and then his face crumples when you sit beside him. He turns his face away and clenches his fingers into a fist over and over so that the knuckles show white. Jesus. What the hell? He looks like this is the absolute last place he wants to be.
"You want to talk about it?" you ask and he takes in a shaking breath and slowly and very deliberately shakes his head.
"Okay," you say. So, we're not talking then.
His pack is by the door, but he's not unlashed his blanket or coat and cloak from it. The linens and pillow on the cot are undisturbed. Geez, how long has he been sitting there waiting for you?
"Where were you?" he asks without looking away from the fire. His voice sounds like it was dragged over rocks.
"The Pony," you say. "Why, what happened?"
"Do you always stay through the night?"
"You could always come looking for me there if it's that important."
He scoffs wordlessly, turning his face to the rafters and then, with an abrupt gesture, wipes at his face.
His eyes come up on you then as warm and welcoming as sleet in November, his gaze boring into you. "I need to know, Hala," he says, shaking his head. "No more of your delaying and tales and jests to distract me. You must tell me this. Who did you speak to of when I left and of the folk I was to see?"
What?
"Who did I tell?" you blurt, stung. What the hell! "Look, Estel, I'm sorry for whatever has happened that's freaking you out, but as far as anyone knows here, you never left Bree. I've not had a chance to say anything more than 'what can I get you?' 'where would you like this?' and 'kindly get your hands the fuck off me, I don't care what you're offer-"
"And those who have interest in my whereabouts?" He jerks his chin at you. "What have you said to them?"
You snort. Fucker. Yeah. 'Interest in his whereabouts.' Yeah, sure. You'll try to narrow that down some.
"Estel, I do know when to keep my mouth shut. I would think you found that out when you tailed me and asked everybody in Bree about me. So, if that's what you've come to do, to accuse me of ratting you out to god knows who, then you can pack up your shit and get the fuck out!"
His eyes narrow and seem to sharpen intently on you. You can see the beat of the pulse in his neck in the light of the fire. There's this ache swiftly building in your temples, but he's pissed you off. As hard as you've worked to shield him from the gossips and how much it costs you to do it, and he comes here pointing fingers? Nah. Fucker thinks you're an easy mark for intimidation? He's got another fucking thing coming.
"Estel," you say, very slowly, articulating every word, "you gotta know, everybody here wants to know something about you. Everybody. If there's someone in particular you don't want to know your business it's on you to tell me. Every single person who is still willing to talk to me has asked about you. But the way they get off talking about you is so gross, I haven't said a fucking thing or changed a fucking thing I do to tip them off."
And then, as quick as he had pinned you with that sharp gaze of his he releases you. The feeling of pressure vanishes and you are left rubbing the ringing out of your ears.
God damn it. Just like at The Pony. What the fuck was that?
You'd ask, but then Estel turns away. He's gritted his teeth, breathing harshly through his nose. He looked grim then and he looks even grimmer with a side of despair and indecision now. He's shaking his head at some internal conversation and starts doing that thing with his hand again, squeezing until you can almost hear his joints creaking and then releasing. He abruptly stops and rubs his palm against his thigh, his fingers trembling.
"Estel," you say and then come to a stop. Fuck. His eyes shine in the firelight. His breath comes in short grunts and his mouth has clenched into something twisted and hard, his face twitching with effort to keep still. He looks so fucking miserable. God, if he would only let it go. "C'mon."
He huffs a sharp sound. It might have been laughter, if it had not been so bitter. "You, you would offer me comfort?" he exclaims. And then he laughs, long and loud, his face ugly with it.
"I have gone mad!" he shouts so forcefully that spit flies across the room. "'There is naught of sense to this world!" He laughs harshly again and keeps going until he is nearly out of breath and his eyes shine with tears. It's starting to weird you out but then you realize, oh, he's not laughing.
Shit! Oh, god.
Your hand barely lights on his shoulder and, in a voice distorted by rage and grief, he roars, "Do not touch me!"
Fuck! Okay, okay. You hold your hands up, showing your palms. No touching. Got it.
Shit, it's kind of like watching a mountain crumble, seeing Estel break down like this. He's bowed his head, crumpling in on himself and hiding his face in his hands, keening and shaking with it.
Damn. You're not really sure he wants you anywhere near him, much less finding you of any particular comfort. And so, you just… sit with him. Not putting your hands on him anywhere, not talking, not leaning on him, just sitting there with him while he weeps. He lets you.
After some time, when he seems to be breathing a bit more normally, you get up and pour water in a bowl and grab up a piece of linen out of the big basket. When you hold it out to him, he stares at you as if it would make just as much sense if the bench he was leaning on had turned sentient and offered him the rag. He huffs and takes the cloth with a weary, resigned look. When done, after he's wiped at his face and pressed the wet cloth to his eyes, he doesn't look at you or speak, his head propped on his fist as he sits and watches the fire. He looks utterly drained, his face empty and drawn.
There's really nothing for you to do. So, you do nothing, just sit next to him and pull a rush from the floor and fold and refold it back and forth until it starts to break down. You've done this before, sat beside someone like this. You recognize it. You don't know exactly what he's grieving, but that's what this is. It's grief. It's not always pretty. It just is what it is and you have to roll with it.
"Do you think you can sleep?" you venture after some time. Not like he looks like he's in any shape to go find somewhere else to crash. There's not much left to the fire but coals. Either it's time to add more wood or let it die out.
He scoffs, though you're not sure if it's in reaction to your implied offer or the idea that he might be able to sleep. "Only should you have somewhat harder than Bree's well water to drink."
That does sound nice about now. You shrug, considering it. "I could go back to The Pony, skim off some whiskey out of Barliman's barrels in the cellar if you've got something I can put it in. I mean, it won't be his best quality stuff, but that's why nobody notices if you add water to it to make up for it."
"Ai! Halanya," he says and sighs, taking up the rag again. "You confound me atimes." He wets the rag and, bowing his head into his hands, presses it against his face and makes a soft noise into the wet cloth.
"I will be well enough," he says, sniffing and rinsing and wringing out the cloth. "I beg you, do not endanger yourself further."
'Further.' Great. 'Further.' I mean, now's not the time to talk about that, but we definitely need to talk about that, damnit.
Estel then pushes himself awkwardly to standing and, taking up the bowl, lifts aside the woven shutter and tosses the water out the window. Once he hangs the cloth on a peg in the rafters to dry and sets the bowl on the bench, he unbuckles his heavy leather belt and eases his vest off his shoulders and down his arms as if every part of him aches. He hangs them by your soft basket at the door.
So, apparently he's staying, then.
"Do you want to talk about it?" you ask but he shakes his head.
"'Tis better you do not know."
Well, fuck. Yeah, okay. You can see that.
You'd thought you'd appeared in some sleepy little village where time passes and nothing changes. What the fuck kind of things are happening here? You are seriously regretting how spotty your information about this place is.
You thought maybe he was preparing himself for sleep, despite his protests, but he stops there, leaving on his tunic and boots. It only takes a couple steps to come back to the bench but he picks some wood out of the basket and shuffles through the journey across the floor and, leaning on the bench, lets himself down heavily to sit back beside you with a grunt.
Fucker left before he should have. Well, if what he's implying about these people he was to meet is what you think it is, you suppose they were in such danger he really didn't have much of a choice.
He pokes at the remains of the fire with the end of one of the branches he'd plucked from the basket, pushing the coals into the center, breaking down the twigs and laying the branches on top. Together you watch as it grows and flames lap at the bark of the branches.
You're so mesmerized by the light dancing amidst the coals, you startle when he speaks again.
"I once hoped for more," he says, his voice slow and hollow, "but I think, now, my fate is but to usher my people to their deaths, until I can no longer do so, and we are all forgot, no more."
He laughs, sharp and short and ugly. "What say you to that, Hala, child of no man, and of no land you will claim? Is that a tale worth telling? How many pennies might you get should you tell it to the right ear?"
You're not sure what there is to say to that. It's bitter and angry and wretched. There's enough evil out in the world, and it seems that Estel has been drowning in it. He's hurt and lonely and not even yet fully healed from his latest brush with it. You'd probably lash out under the same circumstances, too.
He closes his eyes, a pained look on his face, as if he deeply regrets what he has just said. "I should not lay temptation at your feet," he says when he opens his eyes again. "It is not fair of me."
"I'm not particularly tempted by it," you say, because, seriously, you're not, but he shakes his head.
"Mayhap, or mayhap not at this time, at the least," he says and then sighs deeply. He falls silent for a long moment, considering the flickering light of the building fire. "Aye, I find no lie in you," he says, speaking to the flames, "but neither have I answers to guide me. Mayhap you have not succumbed and had no part in this, and the doubts that troubled me are unwarranted and I should not mistake your kindness for a lure. Should that be the case, then you have a gentle heart made for lost causes, I think. Let us not, then, put it to so cruel a trial."
Yeah, okay. Add all that to the list of things to be discussed at a later date, too.
Well, the hours of night when you are alone with your thoughts can be the worst. It's not the greatest time for either of you to be deciding what direction your life is going to take. You untie the laces on your short boots and ease them off your feet, tossing them below the cot. Off, too, comes your woolen hose and the ribbons that tie them above your knee, and your belt and tunic, until you're in your shirt and pants.
"You should sleep, Hala," says Estel, once you've rolled everything up nice and neat and reached over and dropped the bundle in the big basket at the foot of the cot. "I shall not be good company."
You shake your head. You're not sure you want to lay in bed and think too much, yourself. Cuz, there is way too much to think about here.
You settle in, your back against the bench next to him, and stretch out your toes in what is left of the rushes.
"Okay, this is going to be a little weird," you say instead, "but I think it is time for us to learn more about the Spaniard's story."
He grunts, a soft, surprised sound. He doesn't look pleased, he doesn't look annoyed, but he doesn't protest. He scratches at the short hairs on his jaw. "Aye, you have spoken little of him. How did he enter the tale?"
"We'll get there," you say. "But let's start at the beginning."
This does make him laugh, a short huff of breath. "Forgive my impatience, oh teller of tales."
Yeah, yeah. You ignore him and gather your thoughts, rubbing at your neck. You grab the pillow off your cot and put it behind your back. Once you have settled into a comfortable position there, you start.
"Inigo Montoya was the son of a sword smith, the most gifted in three lands. His blades were prized more than gold and rubies and shining stones, sharper than a former lover's tongue and quicker to make you bleed. They never shattered. They never grew dull."
"'Twould be a sword well worth any price," Estel interjects when you pause. He's turned himself about so he can watch you, his arm resting along the bench.
"Yeah, you would think so," you say. "You would think, too, Inigo's father would be sought by princes, kings, and the great of many lands, and hush of reverence would follow the speaking of his name, but this was not so. Diego Montoya was his name, and he lived as a pauper in the hills outside the great city of Seville. He had but one thing which he treasured over everything else, his son, Inigo."
This was not quite the case in the original story. But you don't think the author, William Goldman, would have minded, Mandy Patinkin even less so, what with how much he loved his own father.
He is a good audience, Estel is, once you get into it. His face lightens when you attempt to be funny. He shakes his head and huffs when you hope to shock. He interjects observations that tease or inspire other thoughts. He is somber and quiet when the story leans toward loss and sorrow.
And so you keep going, settling on your own cot and staring at the play of shadows in the rafters. Estel's pulled off his boots and belt and taken the pillow you toss at him. You get through the six-fingered man's cruelty, Inigo's father's death and his own despair and ruin, and he's stretched out by the hearth, propped up on the pillow.
He makes a thought-filled noise when you tell the story of the sword that was all Inigo had of his father and how it inspired him to take it up and use it, but does not speak. But he is quietest when you speak of the spring of hope, when Inigo meets the Dread Pirate Roberts atop the Cliffs of Insanity and finds himself delightfully well-matched.
It is just before dawn, when the sky lightens at the horizon and the birds start to become restless that you realize that Estel's head lies heavily where he has rested it upon the pillow, and he has not moved or commented for some time.