In which there is equal truth to be found in wine and a weary heart.

Shit!

You trip over a lump of something in the dark. It grunts when your foot catches it, and you're in a free-fall. But then that something grabs you before you hit the floor and you let loose a full out, jump scare, high pitched, frat boy in the fun house scream.

"Hala!" comes a deep voice and you freeze in the grip that has tightened on you.

It had been a sunless day followed by a moonless and starless night and even with Bob's help you'd practically had to feel your way down the road home after working late at The Pony. It's even darker here in your hut, what with the fire burnt out and shutters lashed to the windows to keep out the rain.

"Estel?"

You may be sitting on his lap. At least, you think it's his lap you're sitting on. No, yeah, it's his lap. As your eyes accustom themselves to the shadows you can just barely make out the outline of his cheek and chin as the dim light catches them.

Oh, fuck. It is Estel.

"Aye, Hala, 'tis I," he says and, now that you're not screaming your fool head off, his grip softens on you. He's just holding onto your arms while you're sitting on his lap and his face is very very close to yours. You can even feel his breath on your cheek. His lips are right there.

Oh fuck. He came back?

Oh god, he came back. You could just kiss him. He's back, thank fuck. Every single part of you just wants to melt into him. Starting with your lips.

Has he really never kissed someone? That is so not okay. Someone should be kissing him and unwrapping his clothes as if it were their birthday and he was every gift they'd prayed for and gnawing on his love handles until he squirms and making him forget himself and moan thoroughly and often. God, you bet once he gets a little experience under his belt he'll be as good with his lips as he is with his hands. You could help him with that.

You blink at him.

He's not saying anything. Why is he not saying anything?

He's just staring at you and pulling in air like you might have startled him and he's a little slow to catch his breath. And then his eyes flick back up from where he'd glanced at your lips.

Is he… is he thinking the same thing you are?

You practically leap out of his lap like it's on fire and he lets you go with a startled huff of breath like he just got punched in the gut.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" You stumble over your feet, catching up against the bench.

Ow.

"Ai! Forgive me, Hala!" He shuffles about on the bundles of reeds and draws in his legs. "It seems I was more worn than I thought. I did not think I would miss your return."

He's bent over the hearth. You can hear him poking around in the ashes and so you put some effort into figuring out where all the different parts of your body are and get up to rummage through the wood in the bin by the door for something that will work as tinder.

Between the two of you, you get the fire restarted. He blows on the coals he's unearthed and they flare bright, bringing his nose and jaw and lips into sharp relief.

"Sorry I kicked you," you mumble as you scrabble at the straps of your soft basket and draw them over your head.

He shrugs, laying scraps of twigs and dried leaves on the coals before he breathes on them again. "I have taken worse."

"Well, sure, but let's not use near-death experiences as a standard to judge everything by, shall we?" you say as you make another attempt to hang the basket on its peg. It startles a bark of laughter from him.

"Mayhap not," he says and looks up at you from where he is bending over the hearth and flashes you a smile. "You are forgiven, nonetheless."

You've already loosened your belt and are shrugging out of your tunic when he is satisfied with the fire and sits back, his eyes latching onto you and flicking from hands to shoulders to knees to neck as if he were reassuring himself that you were whole and real and in good fit.

Fuck. Why do your clothes feel so tight all of a sudden? Half over your head and you've lost track of sleeves and neck-holes and what direction is actually up, and jumping and jiggling is apparently not a useful strategy in this situation.

"Do you hunger?" he asks as he rubs his palms along the top of his thighs, but you shake your head, finally free of the straight jacket that was once your tunic. You toss it into the basket without bothering to fold it, only to miss. You stare at it dangling from the basket's rim for a beat.

Fuck it.

You shrug and drop heavily to the cot.

"Lots of dwarves in tonight, on their way to the Blue Mountains. Kept Cook busy." You yawn through the rest of your answer. "Lot left over. She shared it with Nob and Bob and I… and me…and I."

You shake your head. Whatever.

"I ate food," you say, articulating the words with care and giving the pronouncement the weight it deserves.

"Ah!" he exclaims, a slow smile growing on his face as he watches you bumble your way through your attempt to get undressed and answer him. "You were fed by a hobbit! You had the much better meal, then."

He should be jealous; sausages, itty bitty baby potatoes roasted in butter, fried onions, gravy, a pot of greens with garlic and wine, and other hearty foods. Company in the common room had begun to thin after the harvest, but, flush with funds at the end of their season of trading, the dwarves had spent generously, so generously, in fact, that even with their feasting well into the night they left almost more on the last set of serving plates than they had eaten. All yours.

Well, yours and Cook's, and Nob's, and Bob's, until Barliman poked his nose in the kitchen. He had turned a blind eye on the feast but eventually declared the evening over once you took to the worktable with a couple of spoons and Nob and Bob started singing and dancing on its surface to the tune of Cook berating them for soiling it with their feet.

Well. You might have taught them some moves to Shake it Off.

You hiccup and then belatedly slap your hand on your mouth.

"And had much wine to drink as well, I see," says Estel, now smiling broadly.

You had indeed. Though not as much as might be thought, given how long it's been since you drank anything alcoholic. You've completely lost your tolerance for it.

"I am glad for it, then," he goes on, his smile softening to something fond. "You were due for some good fortune."

The fire has caught at some point and you can see him clearly. It strikes you then, he really is beautiful like this, in the soft glow of the fire with his joy lighting his face.

"You came back," you say.

"I said I would do my utmost to return, did I not?" He rises from the floor and pokes among your things on the shelf over the cot. He's taking a while to find what he's looking for even though it's not like you've got a lot stored away up there. Bob and his friends were as generous as they could be, but it's not like they have much more than you. You don't need to look at him to know what's on his face. He's got that line that appears between his brows when he's puzzled.

"Well, yeah." You shrug and he gives you a sharp glance.

"I enjoy your company. Is that not enough?"

"I see," you say and grin, as lopsided as it is, "not heard enough about my heretical, antimonarchist views?"

This does make him laugh, a sharp sudden burst while he shakes his head. Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're going to convert him one of these days.

He plucks a cup from the shelf. "Am I not welcome?"

You make a rude noise and gesture around the empty room. "I don't know, Estel, my calendar is awfully full these days. I'm not sure where I might be able to fit you in."

You thought you might make him laugh again, but he frowns at you as though taken aback.

"You think I would lie to you, then?"

Haha. That's funny. Funny man. Thinks you don't know he's hiding something; some many somethings. He can keep his secrets but let's not pretend that he's not blowing smoke up your butt.

His frown deepens and he taps his finger against the rim of the cup. He doesn't seem to settle his mind, as he shakes his head and remains silent when he goes to the barrel by the door and, lifting its lid, fills the cup with water. "Is it such an easy thing, then," he says when he returns, "to play your friends false that you think naught of it?"

Okay, now you're the one frowning. Where did he get that idea? "Well, no," you say and shrug again, "but you know how it is."

"I do not. Explain it to me." He hands you the cup and settles beside you. The webbing of the cot dips with his weight and rolls you up against his hip.

"I mean," you start and interrupt yourself to down a large gulp of the water. You hadn't realized how thirsty you were. Water's actually probably a good idea. Future-you will probably thank present-you in the morning. "I'm just, you know… " You trail off, making a swimming motion with your free hand and your best approximation of an underwater bubbling noise, having lost your grasp on the word you want to use. "And it's a big fucking ocean out there."

You finish off the water and lean back until your head bumps into the wall and you're curled up in an awkward slouch.

Ow.

You'd rub your head but that might just be too much effort for right now. You toss the cup in the direction of the bench and Estel makes an aborted attempt to catch it mid-flight, but it thunks in the reeds. You flap a hand in its direction. Yeah. Whatever. You close your eyes and let the room spin slowly about you.

Now that you think about it, you don't quite remember much of the trip home, Bob holding onto your arm and bumping into you now and again. Oh. Maybe it wasn't just the dark that had caused you to stumble about as much as you did.

God damn it. Anyone out and about would have seen you.

Welp, there goes your nonexistent reputation. Fucking incorrigible, that's what you are, remember? Another slip up like that and Harry's sure to bring out his hot irons and whip. Right? Ha ha ha ha ha.

Fuck.

Give it a half hour and maybe the room will slow down a bit and you'll feel better, but, right now, you think maybe you'll keep your eyes closed.

You open your eyes.

Estel has leaned over and picked up the cup. Apparently it hadn't gone far. He twists it about in his hands, examining it. His face is awfully solemn for the task.

"Did I break it?" you ask and he shakes his head.

"Nay," he says, "I was thinking." He taps the bottom of the cup against his knee in a brisk rhythm, his lips pursed. "I am unsure I am pleased with this view you have of me, that I would treat you thus simply because I could and fear no consequence, given your station, but it does seem to be deserved, at least in part."

You shrug, which is quickly becoming your preferred method of communicating tonight. "Pretty obvious you're protecting something," you say and the corner of his lip twitches down into a sour frown. "Listen," you say and knock your knuckles against his side. He glances at you before going back to examining the cup. "That's okay. Not like I've told you much."

He doesn't take the out, instead he shakes his head. "Hala, even should you say naught, much of your life is in full view, here." He looks about and gestures the cup at the walls of the hut that enclose what little you own, his eyes cataloging the small differences he's sure to catch. "You have the right of it. There are things I dare not tell you."

"Yeah, a lot of things," you say before you can catch yourself. He grunts in response and weighs the cup in his hand.

"Aye, many things," he confirms, "as have you. I hope one day you will trust me enough to speak of them.

"Hala," he says, glancing over from his study of the room to spare you an earnest look, "you need not fear. I have seen enough of you to know no matter the deeds of your past, nor what deeds in which you mayhap partake in even now, they are not the sum of your worth. I shall listen without judgment and aid you in whatever way I can."

Fuck, you don't know what in the hell he's thinking you need to confess. Should you ask?

There's no fucking way he's got any idea of the stupidity of the truth. But what happens if you actually answer his questions, what next? How much longer would he stay after that?

Shit. He really is back. What the fuck are you going to tell him about what's been going on? Maybe you should just get it all out there and over with and he should go on his way. Nice to see ya again. Good luck out there doing whatever the fuck it is that you usually do. Nah, I'll be fine. It's just Ferny putting the squeeze on me and the most powerful man in the quad-city area of Bree giving him the means by which to do it so he can sit back and enjoy the show. You just go on your way and forget about me.

Cuz that's gonna go over super duper well.

God, you maybe probably really certainly, yeah fuck, no way should you make this decision in the state you're in.

He sighs, clearly unhappy with your lack of response. He is silent after that, studying the rim of the cup as he runs his thumb along it. It goes on so long you begin to wonder if he is done and you should probably introduce the fact that you're rapidly starting to fade, the next phase of being drunk making itself known.

"But come!" he says, glancing over at you. "I should not ask of you what I am unwilling to give, and though I must be cautious, that does not mean I cannot tell you somewhat of truth. Ask me, I shall try to answer as best I am able."

Okay. Wow. Huh. You're kinda wishing your head wasn't so spinny right about now. You squirm your shoulders against the wall, trying to sit up a little straighter. It doesn't do much good, so you decide to give up.

What do you want to know? Like, really want to know.

Estel doesn't say anything to urge you on, but simply waits, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, clasping the cup between his hands.

"Why did you come back?" you ask. You didn't think it would come out sounding so needy, but it does and he straightens and looks at you.

"Need I a reason?"

"You said you would answer honestly," is what you say. Because, yes, he did, and, even if you hadn't meant to, you just revealed how bereft you have felt and how certain you were he was gone for good.

He is quiet for a while, rubbing his thumbs below the rim of the cup and staring at it as if it might reveal the answer. "I think I must start further back than when we first met, to explain it."

He laughs softly. There's no joy to it. "Ai, Halanya," he says and sighs. "I am older now than my father was when he died. He spent all but a little of his life alone in the service of our folk. He had but a small handful of years with my mother. He was shot in the eye with an orc's bolt when I was an infant. I have no memory of him."

He stops there. The muscles of his jaw work as though there's something else he wants to stay but is struggling to get it out.

"My mother loved him dearly, my father, and after his death bore what she could until she succumbed to the weight of grief and despair nigh ten years ago last spring," he grinds out and then stops again to draw in a breath. He clears his throat and blinks. "She was alone." He had been speaking softly, but now his voice sharpens. "I was not there."

Oh god.

He's wrapped his fingers and thumbs about the cup and squeezes and releases it as if testing its strength.

"I thought, once, I could reach higher than what you see of me here, and thereby satisfy the yearning of my heart and raise the fortunes of those dependent on me," he goes on. "I bent my will to it and judged all causes by its measure.

"Ai, but I was young!" His laugh is softly voiced, self-loathing and sad. "What a fool I was and thought it but I who would bear the cost.

"'Twas but a dream, Hala," he says and his mouth twists into something small and mean, "naught but infatuation, pride, and ambition. 'Twas an illusion cast by the stories I learned as a boy, naught more. And I pursued it at the cost of all else, when, instead, I should have been a better friend to my kin, a better son to my mother."

Oh.

Oh.

That's who… he had called out to his mother. And then wept.

Jesus.

Okay. That's.. That's…

Fuck.

With him turned away from you, you have some hope for hiding what's happening behind him. There's a very large part of you that wants to beg him to stop. That's enough. You don't need to hear any more. You pretty much know where this tale is going.

"Without that purpose that drove me for so long, I have been adrift," he goes on. He sets the cup on the bench with deliberate care and, in its stead, wrings his hands together. "I have inherited my father's struggle and shall be lucky should I do so well with it as did he, until I, too, am slain in its cause. It seemed easier to drive myself from task to task and care not what the future holds when it seemed the outcome was already determined. 'Tis a dangerous thing, I think, to attempt what I must alone. I have been careless, and allowed myself to spend far too much of the hope I have left. It took nigh drowning in a ditch full of the overflow of Bree's cesspits to realize how far I had fallen. I woke then to memories of a face hovering over me and speaking words I had long yearned to hear."

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He rubs at his face with his hands, pulling his hair back roughly and twisting it so it sits at the back of his neck before returning to staring out at nothing, his hands grinding into one another. He's got this hollow look about him that is ugly and sad. It is everything that seems wrong with the world.

"Ai, Halanya." He sighs. "I think I may owe you my life twice over," he says, his voice is grim. "No matter what comes, then, what you are forced to do when your generous heart is put to the trial, how our tale ends, I am glad to have had this time with you." He falls silent and sits there, huddled on the edge of your cot, as if he has drawn the misery of the world about him like a cloak.

You should say something, but what the fuck could you possible say to that? Where do you fucking start? Fuck, he's sitting here next to you begging for crumbs and feeling grateful that you might dole out a few before you do what, fuck him over? Because that's the best you, I mean he, can hope for? What the fuck! You blink, but the room is nothing but blurs of golden light from the fire and dark shadow.

"Hala?" you hear. There's a soft sound, a brush of cloth and leather, and the weight on the cot moves.

You bet you look just as pitiful as you feel. With all the sparking and shorting going on up in there in your brain the breaker has popped and now all circuits are shut down. You've got no words. They have completely and utterly abandoned you. You've twisted the hem of your shirt into a knot about your fingers. You'd been attempting to hide the fact that you started crying about the time he started talking about his mother. It didn't get any better from there. It did little good other than leaving you with a nose full of snot and a growing wet spot on the neck of your shirt.

"Ai, forgive me," comes Estel's voice before he laughs in a choked, bitter sound. "I have done naught but spoiled your evening with my-" he goes on but that's all he gets a chance to get out, because that's when you grab up a handful of the cloth at his shoulder and tug him down.

After a beat in which he is silent and considering his options, the big lug with his beautiful, emotionally constipated face, Estel folds himself into you, resting his forehead on your collar bone.

"Hala?" he says, his voice uncertain and muffled against your tunic. Jesus! You can hear the grinding in his head from here.

"Hey, you are not your father. You are not doomed to live his life, nor your mother's either," is all you can think to say as you wrap your arms about his shoulders, and with that he just kind of crumples until he's lying heavily across your front.

It's nice, laying there with his head tucked up beneath your chin as you pull him close and rub your palm across his back. He smells surprisingly good, like woodsmoke and the musk of earth and the fresh air of the forest, as if he had carried his travels back with him on his body.

Yeah. No fucking way you're doing anything that would risk betraying him. You're not giving away a damn thing about him to anyone; where he goes, who he sees, where he might be found. Fuck them!

Well, whoever they are.

In fact, he can stay here where he's closed his eyes and expected to do nothing but rest against you as long as he likes, despite the fact that after a while of being trapped under his weight and his back rising and falling beneath your hands you're actually kinda soothing yourself to sleep. You're having to stir your hand into moving again after it falls still every once in a while.

It's after you lose track of what you're doing that he shifts about, getting his hands beneath him and pushing away. You blink yourself back awake.

He hasn't gone far, just arm's length away. He's got this look of wonder about him and you want to capture it somehow, enshrine it in glass and gems and precious metals, someplace safe, secure, away from this thing that shadows his steps and waits to strike, someplace that is maybe just yours and you can pull it out and look at it every once in a while when things get tough.

"You are going to wake wishing you had not slept thus," he says and wipes at his face roughly with the edge of his hand. Your shirt seems a little extra wet, but you probably shouldn't mention it. He's having a hard enough time meeting your eyes as it is.

His hands take a hold of your upper arm and lift your head from the wall by your neck. He turns you about, laying your head on the pillow and untying and tugging your shoes off before resting your legs on the bed.

You marshal the energy to mumble. "Sorry. I probably shouldn't have asked."

He smiles, soft and a little sad. "No matter," he says and spreads your blanket over you.

You've seemed to have gained enough control over your limbs to turn on your side and snuggle into your pillow. He seats his hip on the edge of the cot and tugs on where you've tangled the blanket beneath you to smooth it over your shoulder.

"I doubt not you have guessed enough of it even ere I spoke of it."

"Will you be here," you start and then interrupt yourself to yawn fit to crack your jaw, "in the morning?"

"Aye, my friend." His hand lingers on your shoulder before he withdraws. "Sui aníradh."