In which our fish must choose between a boat of villains and shrieking eels.
"Drink this." Estel raps the cup against the edge of your cot when you finally stir, stretching and squirming about so that you can hide your face in your pillow. The barista had just called your name to come get your triple shot. They even spelled your name right this time.
"Hala." Thunk thunk comes the cup again and your cot jostles.
"What?" you grunt.
Damn it. Teeny tiny paper cup in your hand warming the tips of your fingers. Foamy rim of fine bubbles about the espresso. A dollop of half and half. Should be in your belly. It belongs in your belly. It's going in your belly. Well, after it's been on your tongue for long enough you can torture yourself with the memory of what coffee tastes like.
"Come. Wake! You have slept late enough. I have somewhat for you," Estel says. "You are to have company soon, and best you be awake and ready to receive them."
"Gimme a minute," you grumble and sink back into a pleasant drowse. It's nice there. No sticky webs drawing you in. No jerking awake in the middle of the night at every sound. Now, where were we?
Wait. That smells nice.
You squint an open eye at Estel. He's bent over you, cup in one hand, the other planted on the wall above your head.
In fact, it smells really nice. I mean, it's not coffee, but it smells rich and spicy.
He holds the cup by the tips of his fingers. Oh good! It's hot.
But when you extend your hand for the cup, Estel steps back out of reach.
"Ai, no!" he says and, wagging his finger at you, he steps over to the bench and sets it down.
"Aye, 'tis yours. I have prepared it for you," he says, returning to the fire, where more of the milky tea simmers in a small tin pot sitting on a hearth stone, "and it shall be here on the bench awaiting you when you get up from your bed."
You scowl at him. Fucker thinks he has a fucking carrot. 'Company,' my ass.
So you get up, shuffle over to the bench, and promptly bring the cup back to bed with you.
"Ah!" he exclaims, making a grab for it, but you twist the cup out of reach, shielding it with your shoulder.
"Nope. Mine now." You plop back down on your cot.
You take a cautious sip, the steam lighting on your cheeks. Damn. It's good, too, the milk hot and frothy and the tea strong. Fuck. How'd he get the spices? Cook keeps hers under lock and wears the key around her neck, if that's any indication of how much of an investment they represent to The Pony.
Estel huffs and shakes his head, squatting back down in front of the pot. Seems there's more than enough for him, too. He wraps a towel about the handle of the tin pot and, lifting it high, pours the tea in a long stream to the cup waiting below. He does this back and forth rather expertly, pulling the milk into a froth.
"So, where'd you learn to make tea like this?" you ask, tapping at the cup with your fingernail and his head jerks up.
He seats himself on the bench, cradling his own cup between his fingers. "You find it good?"
Of course you do. Shit. Not quite like chai, but very close. His face brightens when you smile at him over the rim of your cup.
"Ah," he says and rubs his lips together after his own sip, his tongue peeking out to catch the milk that clings to his mustache. Dude needs a trim. Things are getting a little bushier than usual.
"'Twas on one of my many travels when I was young," he says. "Far to the east, in the lands of Rhûn can be found such delicacies in each house or sold in the market. Trade with those of the east has dwindled from what it once was, but still, atimes, you can find hearty folk of the Iron Hills who will still make the trip this far west on their way to the dwarves of the Blue Mountains or the elven folk of Lindon."
You snort. Of course it comes with a history and geography lesson.
"I came upon the last of their folk of the season on the Greenway." He slowly stretches out one leg at a time, angling them to the side of the hearth so that he can cross his ankles beneath your cot. "They carried some of the spices that I recalled from my time about the Lake of Rhûn and the street sellers there. They were happy enough to pay for my time should I scout the Road ahead on their way to Bree and help with the watch set about their encampments at night."
Huh. You suppose the sword should have given him away, but you hadn't really pegged him for a merc. "Do you often sell your services as a soldier?"
He shrugs. "When I need coin or when there is an advantage of skill or statecraft I would wish to learn." A slight smile touches his lips and his look warms as he bites at his lip. "Or should I come across somewhat special I would wish to give in gift."
You nearly choke on your very excellent tea, completely forgetting your question about why the hell a vagabond Ranger would need to learn so much about politics.
Holy shit.
"You got me something?"
"I may have," he says, raising his brows and giving you the barest hint of a smirk. "But should you wish to discover it, you must first rise from your bed and prepare yourself for the day. We have little time."
Fucker.
God damn it. You swirl the dregs of the tea around the bottom of your cup.
Okay, he wins.
And so you down the last of your tea, and, completely ignoring Estel's chuckling, thank you very much, get up and go through your routine of washing your face, fixing your hair, getting dressed, etc etc etc. Fucker firmly refused to give you any hints until you were scrubbed, bright-faced, and fully dressed.
"You satisfied?" you ask, turning around for his inspection and then stopping in front of him to give your best courtly bow, leg turned out and fingers touching your forehead before you spin your hand loosely in front of you and bend deeply from the waist.
"Aye, aye," he says, grinning and waving you over. "Come sit with me." He scoots over and pats at the bench beside him. Once you've settled next to him, he drags his pack between his feet.
Well, okay, whatever it is, it's smaller than a breadbox.
He opens the flap and rummages about inside. And rummages around inside. And rummages around inside.
Good god, he's taking forever.
His eyes are all but twinkling when he finally locates it, but then he halts, his hand in his pack clutching something. He peers up over at you. "Close your eyes."
"Ah, c'mon!" you protest. "You're killing me here."
"Nay, close your eyes or else I shall pack it away until the morrow and not take it out ere that, no matter what pains or complaints I suffer at your hands."
Fucker. Okay okay okay.
You close your eyes, though, shit, he's sitting right next to you, so close you can feel the warmth coming off from him. You are all tingly and twitchy from head to foot on that side. So not helping. God you wish he'd stop. Or, well, that you'd stop, or just something would stop.
More rustling and then he brushes against you as he straightens up from bending over his pack.
"Give me your hand."
When you raise it from your lap he takes it and, cupping it in his hand, he -
Have you mentioned his hands are huge and completely engulf yours? Because they do. He should probably stop touching you like that. You've never had a size kink before but you may just develop one. Who cares about his dick, you want his hands on you. You know, with how gently he's supporting your hand all the while it's pretty apparent he could probably crush you if he sneezed at just the wrong moment. It's like he's all warm and his muscles are all cushiony and strong and he's kind of all over the place everywhere -
Oh.
When you open your eyes you find he has pressed a leather bundle into your palm, sandwiching it and your hand between his. He is watching you very closely and smiles when you give him a quizzical look.
"Open it," he says and jerks his chin at you, withdrawing.
So that's what you do. It's heavier than you thought it would be from its size. The leather is thick and worked with a repeating geometric design that is decidedly dwarven in make.
"What is it?" you ask, cuz you have no fucking clue.
"You shall see." He's smiling, but then bites at his lip.
Adorable. Abso - fucking - lutely adorable. Like he's all worried you may not like what he got you. Shit, he could get you a bathroom scale and protein powder and you'd be over the moon.
All right then. He is obviously enjoying the suspense. Far be it from you to ruin it for him.
You lay the bundle in your lap and pull the thongs binding it apart. The gleam of metal catches your eye as you unroll the length of leather in your lap.
Holy shit!
Your eyes burn as you brush your fingertip along the metal and sharp points of the scissors and tang of the straight razor, tap your fingers against the brush to watch the boar bristles rebound back, and pluck at the teeth of the combs of carved bone all tucked in their pockets that were made just for them. Fucking little pocket with hair pins, a flask for oil, a pocket for soap, and a mirror in there, too, of finely polished metal.
"Oh, Estel," you say, your voice gone all soft and wobbly.
"You are pleased?" he asks, hovering close.
"Fuck, Estel," you say, blinking quickly. "Thank you. They're awesome."
And they are. You can't take your eyes off of them. Gorgeous in fact. Not only are the scissors and straight razor well made, sturdy, and obviously keen-edged, but the handles are etched with interweaving designs that match the case they come in.
Shit. He's gone and got you a farewell present. One final gift designed to help you stay afloat before he goes.
You look up to find him watching you, his face all soft and warm.
You clear your throat. "We should try them out," you say and make an attempt at a smile, glancing at his beard and that overgrown thing settled on his lip.
He blinks, surprised. "Ah, well, you will have the chance soon enough. I spoke of your skills to the master trader of the company I escorted to Bree when I obtained these from her, and she expressed the intent to see you make use of them after they broke their fast at The Pony. She should arrive very soon should she not be at your doorstep even now."
"Oh shit!" you say. Oh god. You launch yourself to your feet, clutching the bundle of leather to your waist. It's going to take forever to get ready. You're kinda out of practice given how sharply business dropped off after the trial. Oh god. You should make sure you've got enough clean towels. Where should you put the kit? Wait, you should get the fire started outside beneath the big pot to heat the water. Oh, god. You're going to have to run to the market to fill your water barrel from the well. Shit, she's a dwarf isn't she. Soap. Soap! You're going to need soap, then. Wait. Or do you have enough water? Oh god. Damn it, you should lay the bundle down on your bed already.
"Calm yourself!" Estel laughs from where he watches you turning about. "I had all prepared ere you woke."
You turn on him, squinting and examining him closely.
"Ah," he says. He makes an attempt to reign in his amusement but he's only partially successful. "'Tis prepared to the best of my knowledge, but should you wish to know, the buckets are cleaned and the water is heating even now. I have left the rest to your judgment."
That's more like it.
You roll up the leather kit and fasten it, laying it carefully on your cot. Okay. Linens first, set up a box for a seat with a pad of wool, and check the water heating outside, hopefully before it burns down the shed and your house with it.
"Later, mayhap, you may cut my hair," Estel says, rising and going to the tin pot of tea cooling next to the hearth, "and we may discuss what foodstuffs you wish me to purchase on your behalf for the winter. We could spend this afternoon at our leisure, but 'tis market day upon the morrow and we should arrive early and prepared, for I have duties to attend to after."
Oh.
Yeah.
Fuck.
You pause in the act of rummaging through your basket for the towels you want. "Uhm, yeah," you say, standing and rolling the towel against itself and worrying it in your hands, "about that."
At the tone of your voice, Estel stops in the act of swirling the tea about in the tin pot over the coals.
Fuck, this is really going to suck. He'd probably be able to stretch what few pennies you have left pretty far, but you're going to have to explain why you have so few, which is going to lead to talking about what led to that whole tangled mess of Blackthorn's revenge and Ferny's scheming and the whole fucking kangaroo court. And, well, if you don't tell him about what happened afterward, he's going to figure it out pretty quickly on his own. Just wait until the afternoon sun beats down on the garden side of the house, things heat up indoors, and he gets a whiff of the odor.
They did everything they could, Bob and his friends, digging out the dirt of your floor and repacking it and replacing the rushes, scrubbing down your walls and giving them another coat of limewash, and replacing the woven ropes of your cot, but there's really no getting rid of all of the smell. It was fucking everywhere.
"Uhm," you temporize. C'mon, c'mon. Just say it. "Look, we do have some things to discuss, but, uhm," this last comes out in a rush, "you're going to have to promise me something first."
He straightens up from where he was bent over the hearth. You suddenly have his full and undivided attention. It's a bit, well, intense. He takes in a deep breath, looking at you like he's preparing himself for something big that he's been waiting a long time for and it's a relief to get it over with.
"Hala," he says, softly, "I swore I would forgive whatever acts you had been forced to. Do you not recall it?"
"No, no, I remember." You do. Kinda. No, you do.
Well now that he said it, you do.
"Surely I have given you no reason for alarm," he says, glancing at where you are crushing the towels in your fists.
"I just…" Fuck does he look incredibly earnest. That's part of the problem, though, isn't it. "I just need to know that you're not going to go off half-cocked yelling at people, or stalking, or beating people up, or taking revenge, or anything like that."
He doesn't answer right away. Whatever he thought you were about to say, this was most decidedly not it. Not only have you surprised him to silence, he's looking a little like you just pulled back your arm in a threat to punch him, crestfallen and blinking and wary and thinking quickly, not sure which way to dodge.
Movement catches his eye and he drops to a crouch, removing the tea from the coals where it threatened to boil over the pot and swirling it about until it subsides. He's only half paying attention to what he's doing, his eyes only partially focused. Once he's satisfied that the tea is done attempting to climb out of the pot, he rests it carefully on a flat rock near the coals where it can keep warm before he stands up.
Your knuckles hurt from where you've been attempting to twist your towels in half while you wait. Shit, if he gets it in his head to take up your cause, it's likely to rebound on you spectacularly once he's gone.
He glances pointedly about the room, and, for some reason, his voice sharpens. "Does this have somewhat to do with what became of your things and how your house came to be refurbished?"
You nod, but then shrug because, yes? it is? but there's a lot more going on. He nods, too, though less in agreement and more in thought. His eyes glance to a point high on your chest for some reason and then away, something wretched in his look. It's all you can do to not hunch your shoulders and protect against your phone pushing against your tunic. Shit. It's not showing, is it?
Estel scrubs roughly at his mouth and jaw.
"Hala," he says at last, his look grim, "I can make no such promise. I know not who you desire to protect and what they have done. You, I can forgive, but now you ask me to extend my mercy ere even I know of their crimes?"
Oh god. What the fuck are you going to do?
"I'm not exactly asking you to forgive them, Estel. It's just that I have absolutely no power here. It's just wiser to -" you attempt to explain, but he cuts you off.
"Wiser? What am I to think of you," he cries, gesturing at you with the cup, "when you refuse to confide in me and ignore my offers of aid? When you could be free of it and yet you choose not to when you are offered the chance."
You blink at him. You are really fucking confused. What the hell are we talking about here? Help to get free of what?
And, Jesus! The last time you told someone your secret, that you weren't quite from here, they kicked you out of their home and set you on the Road to Bree with a loaf of bread and a note for Barliman that you were a reliable worker but not really quite right in the head. Pretty much a mixed bag in the helpful department. Though, given your host's reaction to you holding out your phone and begging him to look at it, at the time you were feeling pretty lucky pitchforks and stakes and burning piles of wood weren't involved.
"Ai, Hala! Will you not -"
"Hello to the house!" you hear cried outside by the Road and you startle, nearly dropping the towel in your hands.
Estel halts, falling silent and considering you, his mouth working. Shit, you're not sure he's about to erupt into shouting or tears or both.
He then bursts into action, grabbing up his empty cup, wrapping his hand in the cloth he had dropped by the hearth and taking up the tin pot.
"Strider?" comes the voice again.
"Ready yourself and I shall meet you in the garden," he commands, backing his way out your door, opening it with his hip.
"Duriel, daughter of Gimlîth," you hear him say when the door closes behind him, "good morrow to you and well met. I trust you slept well."
"And good morrow to you as well, Strider, and aye, I did. You look well, yourself. A fine morning, is it not?"
"Verily. Come, make yourself welcome and we shall see should I have made good use of your spices."
And with that, their voices soften to a murmur and you hear their footsteps on the path and the creaking of your gate as they go deeper into the garden.
Well. That's the best you're probably going to get, isn't it. You suppose that it's only sensible for him to avoid making promises. He never really struck you as someone to act rashly, but it sure isn't giving you much by way of reassurance.
God, you wish you had Estel's confidence that something could be done about your situation.
You are so not looking forward to this.
Look, as glad as you are to see Estel again, there's a large part of you that wonders if this is a good idea. Maybe it would have been better if he hadn't made it back.
"'You seem a decent fellow,'" you say in as close to a Spanish accent as Mandy Patinkin himself managed, touching the cloth wrapped about Mistress Duriel's face and testing its temperature, "'I hate to kill you.'"
Estel scowls, scratching at his eyebrow where he sits with his back against your hut. You ignore him.
"'You seem a decent fellow,'" comes The Man In Black, aka Westley, aka The Dread Pirate Robert's answer in your voice. You shrug. "'I hate to die.'"
Mistress Duriel chuckles at this, her voice muffled beneath the warm cloth.
You unwind it from about the dwarf matron's face and drop them in the bucket at your side. You've got her seated on an overturned bin in front of you, the morning sun behind you and throwing shade over where she's leaned back on the blanket on your legs.
Well into the prime of her years, what with the lines about her eyes and the white slowly lightening her dark hair, she's got these lovely patches of white beneath her lip and from her temples to past her ears that you're itching to get your hands on. She's got some negotiations over routes and remuneration with the other dwarven master traders coming up this afternoon. They've booked The Pony's largest parlor, and Mistress Duriel has every intent to make a grand entrance and slay the entire room with one look. You intend to help her do just that.
In the meantime, since she doesn't have a phone to keep her occupied and it's not like you have any magazines like maybe Shield and Axe (cover story: 10 Best Oak Branches for Shields in a Pinch) or Better Gates and Chambers (cover story: Light and Splendor! This Season's Wraps Pretty Enough for Your Elven Princeling), you're attempting to keep her entertained with a story of the greatest swashbuckling contest that ever swashed and buckled its way across uneven terrain, spins and acrobatic tumbling and all.
"'Begin' declares Inigo and takes up his sword in his left hand," you say, gesturing gallantly with your brush before giving the soap in the cup a scoop, "and so the Spaniard and the Man in Black circle each other, assessing the shuffle of feet and the dip of a shoulder here, the flick of an eye there, three opening moves considered and rejected within the first moments before they even raise their blades."
Estel snorts.
Fucker. It's not like he's not heard this part of the story already. In fact, the meeting of the Spaniard and the Dread Pirate Westley is usually his favorite part of The Princess Bride.
It seems Mistress Duriel paid Estel in tobacco as well as spices from Rhûn for his services. He leans against the back wall of your hut, drawing air through the long stem of his clay pipe, when he's not snorting or huffing or whatever, and sending thin streams of smoke into the branches of the ancient apple tree that overhangs your roof from the other side of the garden fence.
You shake your head. It'd be healthier for him if he shoved the whole packet of tobacco up his butt. More entertaining, too.
"'Ah,' cries Señor Montoya, 'you are using the ancient Gondolinian defense against me!' He thrusts and finds it parried with a flick of the Man in Black's blade but attacks again and forces him up another step of the fallen tower," you say, daubing soap on Mistress Duriel's cheek. "'I thought it best, given the rockiness of the terrain,' says the Man in Black, his voice coming as a hiss through gritted teeth. Inigo shrugs and bats away a slash at his shoulder, forcing him up another step. 'But the Fëanorian attack cancels out its advantage, do you not think?'"
Estel takes the stem of his pipe out of his mouth only to say, "There is no such thing. And no matter how honorable either man is, no swordsman of any experience, much less a master, would begin a contest to the death with his unskilled hand."
For fuck's sake.
The brush sends up a glob of foam when you drop it in its cup. You may have done so with a little more force than necessary. "Hey, are you telling this story or am I?"
"Aye, you are most certainly making an attempt of it," he says, brandishing his pipe, "but I am unsure should your changes improve its telling."
"Please!" you say, flinging the towel over your shoulder and taking up the straight razor and gesturing at Estel with it. "If you think you can do better, you are quite welcome to take over."
"Peace! Peace!" says Mistress Duriel, raising her hands and chuckling. "Ah! Far be it from me to interfere in the quarrels between friends, but my dear Strider, forgive me, but I've had the chance of hearing you tell your tales during our travels. Let Hala speak!"
"Thank you!" you say and return Estel's dour look with sour one of your own. He wipes at his mouth and, shaking his head, returns his attention to his pipe.
You're sizing up the best spot to push at Mistress Duriel's cheek and tighten the skin when she turns a stern look on you. She's got her chin all jutted out and her face screwed up like a displeased cat.
Here it comes.
"Now, you'll not take off more than you need," she says, straining her neck to catch your eye and giving you a look that could freeze the heart of the big guy, Sauron himself.
"I wouldn't even dare," you say. You know better. This is certainly not the first dwarven beard you've shaped up. "You're going to walk out of here with crisp lines and a nice, full, well-shaped, and oiled beard that would make Durin, Father of the Longbeards himself jealous."
"Aye, and right you are about that," says Mistress Duriel, unrepentant, but at least she settles back onto your lap, shifting her shoulders until she is more comfortably supported.
"As I was saying," you go on, warming back up to your story of the greatest sword fight in the history of whatever world is involved, no matter what Estel's opinion of it is. You push your thumb along her jaw, drawing the skin of her cheek taut, and scrape the edge of the blade just below her cheekbone. "Up the ruined tower stairs Inigo presses the Man in Black, blow by blow, step by step until his back is pressed to the broken battlements. Down go stones to tumble into the surf far below the Cliffs of Insanity as their blades catch and Inigo pushes the Man in Black against the tower wall until it buckles and crumbles behind him. 'Why are you smiling?' asks Inigo, his face just inches away, and the Man in Black's grin deepens. 'Because I know something you do not.'"
You can practically hear Estel's eyes rolling from here.
You turn your attention to Mistress Duriel's other cheek. "'Ah,'" you say as the Man in Black and draw the edge of the razor down in short, gentle movements, barely scraping her skin. "'But I am not left-handed, either,' he says and with that Inigo stumbles back in shock and the Man in Black, tossing his sword from one hand to the other, is soon upon him."
"Aye, Strider, you may have a point," she says as you wipe the razor on the towel you've slung over your shoulder, and Estel grunts in response. She winks at you. "Och, these men of yours with their cavorting about and fine words. Are they fighting or are they flirting? Give me my axe, dear Hala, and I'd have them both on their knees ere they'd drawn their swords."
"Well, yes," you allow and, switching the razor out for the cup and brush, "that is rather the whole point, isn't it?" You tap under her chin to urge her to lift her head back and start soaping up her neck. "They don't really want to kill each other. I mean, they're kindred spirits! It took hardly any time at all in each other's company to figure that out. They'd be great friends if they weren't at cross purposes and Inigo could get himself out from under his obligations to the Sicilian."
"It would take naught but a child to put an end to them, such fools are they."
So bitter is Estel's voice that it shocks you into silence. You're not sure why but his words sting as sharply as if he had slapped you. For a second you completely forget what you are doing and all about Mistress Duriel's head in your lap and the brush in your hand.
Jesus. His face is so grim and full of shame he looks like he just might grind his teeth down to the bone. He's not looking at you with such deliberate care it's very apparent that this last was for you and he regretted it as soon as the words popped out of his mouth.
Well. Shit. You have no idea what he is so unhappy about, but you're sure to find out as soon as you two have a moment alone.
Great. Add it to the list.
With a sudden jerk, Estel rises to his feet and goes to the hearth over which he had hung your big tub. The fire has burned down to a few coals and, his back to you, he crouches down and busies himself with scraping out the ash and cleaning out the bowl of his pipe over it.
"Ah, don't you mind him," you hear and blink back down at Mistress Duriel. She's looking up at you with an expression you're not sure you know what to make of. "Go on with your tale, Hala. Aye, they may be fools, but I find I wish them well and would know more of them."
Oh. Uh, yeah.
You recall yourself and, urging her chin up higher, dab soap on her neck.
Shit, where were you?
Oh, yeah. Okay.
"And with that," you say and switch out the brush for the straight razor, shaving Mistress Duriel's neck with steady strokes and wiping the blade on your towel in between, "the Man in Black beat upon his sword and a great clashing of metal arose as the Spaniard was forced to retreat, step by step, one after another. Down the stairs he stumbled, the Man in Black pursuing him. 'Who are you?' Inigo cried. 'No one of consequence,' said the Man in Black and with a flurry of attacks cut off Inigo's retreat to the boulders where he had hoped to hide. 'I must know!' said Inigo. If he was to die at this man's hand, and it seemed that he must, he hoped only to know more of who had bested him so thoroughly. 'Get used to disappointment,' came the quick reply."
You've set down the razor at this point and are wiping at Mistress Duriel's neck, but a low sound from Estel startles you into looking up. He turns about and strides over from where he had been tucking his pipe and small knife into the pouch at his belt. His face blank and giving nothing away, he bows to Mistress Duriel.
"Forgive me," he says as he straightens, his voice low, "I am afraid there is much weighing upon my thoughts and I am not good company. Should you need me to scout the Road ahead of your departure, I have things I must attend to."
You stare after his back as he makes his way into the hut. He goes through the garden gate and closes the door behind him.
"Ah, Hala," says Mistress Duriel and sighs as she sits up, turning around to face you. "Forgive me," she says and, taking the towel from your lax grip, finishes the job of cleaning the soap off her neck, jutting out her chin and rubbing gently at the skin. "I don't wonder I am the cause of your man Strider's poor mood." She folds the towel on itself and taps your knee with it when you can't think of anything to say to that. "Now, don't fret. Give him time to settle himself. I doubt not his temper much taxed by the shortness of his visit, and I am to blame for that, not you."
She peers up at you, cuz, yeah, you've fallen silent and, despite all of your intent to show your customer a good time and reason to spread the word and send others your way, you've lost the mood and can't seem to recover it. You fiddle with the razor before dunking it in the bucket and swishing it about. You wipe it off on the hem of your tunic and lay it on the bench in the sun to dry.
"I am sorry to steal him away from you so soon after his return," she goes on, standing up. "There is naught for it, should I keep both my goods and folk safe upon the Road. But he must come through Bree on his way back to his own kin and you are sure to see him again when he is done."
You nod. Well shit. Sounds like Estel's duties aren't here in Bree. Awesome. Just awesome. Just enough time to get into things and not enough time to resolve whatever the hell Estel is going to make of them.
You force yourself to smile. She is being terribly kind, after all, given the circumstances.
"Thanks," you say and take the towel when she offers it to you. You stand up and pat the bench. "Now! All right then, come have a seat and I'll trim up your beard. Do you want me to keep it full around your jaw or do you want me to straighten the sides?"
She recoils with more than a little horror as she sits and you grin.
"Full about the jaw, it is!" you say and grin, shaking out a clean towel to put around her.
"'Tis hardly a matter for jest!" she cries as you wrap her up, "You and your men and women with your beardless cheeks! However can you stand it? Och, what must it be like to kiss a face with naught on it but smooth skin! Naught to tickle or warm the lips. Like kissing an Elf, it would be."
You snicker. "And you know something about that, do you?" You've come around to her front and start combing out her beard. She's kept it up well and it's in good shape for all they've been traveling since early spring. You'll just need to trim it a little to sharpen the form up.
"Nay, no!" she cries, "and I'll thank you for not spreading that about. Aye, there's enough gossip and rumor flying about the inn as it is."
"Yeah," you say, getting up closer and squinting so you can snip a path to her neck at the longest point of her beard below her chin, "there's always something going around. Keeps the room entertained and coming back for more."
"Aye, well this may not," she says and you glance at her for how rueful she sounds, "should all of the shouting coming from the innkeep's private rooms be any sign."
You snort, combing out her beard on the side and getting under her jaw so you can start creating a nice line from ear to chin. You can just imagine. Whole inn must have heard it. Someone's probably shorted the bill again. "Yeah, Barliman's no stranger to a good bellow."
"Oh, aye," she says, "but 'twas not him raising his voice but the matrons of Bree all come to voice their displeasure."
Well damn, you kinda wish you hadn't missed it. That would have been a sight to see, or, rather, to hear. Wonder what got their knickers in a twist.
"Seems there's been talk of one of his folk whoring behind his back," says Mistress Duriel and you nearly choke on your own spit.
Oh, god.
Oh, god, oh god oh god oh god.
Shit. It's not like they were talking about Cook.
C'mon c'mon c'mon. Just breathe.
And so that's what you do, breathe in deep, plaster a wry smile on your face.
"I never did finish my story, did I?" you ask, even though what you really want to do is borrow Mistress Duriel's axe and mow down anything that stands in your way from here to Barliman's office.
"Aye, indeed!" she says, "and what did those fools do when done with their prancing and waving about their swords, eh? You cannot tell me it ended in one's death by the other's hand, but do not tell me they parted."
"I'm afraid they did," you say as you snip carefully at the hair beneath her jaw now that you've established a line, focusing closely on what your hands are doing. Don't think. Don't think. Don't think. Just do, that's all you need to do right now. "'I'd sooner destroy a masterpiece of colored glass placed in a window than kill you,' said The Man in Black when Inigo was disarmed and begging for a quick end."
"Ah, a shame it is," says Mistress Duriel. "Then they are fools, indeed."
"Yeah, well," you say, "it's not the end of the story quite yet."
Somehow you get through shaping up Mistress Duriel's beard and refreshing her braids and the beads and swirling hair cuffs of precious metals and chips of clear gems that decorate them. She looks awesome, like she'd as soon take an axe to her fellow master traders as say "hello," and they might just beg her to do it.
When you open the door it is to find Estel sitting upon the floor, holding his sword with a scrap of cloth while he sights down its length and runs a whetstone along its edge. The grinding of stone on metal stops abruptly when you enter and he looks up. He sets his sword and the stone down upon the rushes but waits until you've placed your bundle on the cot before he speaks.
"Hala," he says quietly, holding his hand out to you. When you take it, he holds it warmly in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like a kiss. "I must beg your forgiveness. I have wronged you," he says and lets you go. "Should I quarrel with you, I should not do so in front of our guest. I fear for you, and, in truth, Hala, I fear for myself and those who look to me, but it is no excuse for the manner in which I treated you."
"Yeah," you say and fuss with the hem of your tunic. You're having a hard time meeting his eyes. "You, uh, you kinda made me feel kinda small back there."
He winces at that. "I should not have. I will not do so again."
You nod. "Thanks," you say but when he shuffles about and it looks like he's going to get up, you hasten to add, "Uhm, I've, uh, I've got to go to The Pony."
"It cannot wait?" he asks, surprised, and, well, more than a little disappointed, watching you closely when you shake your head.
"I need to talk to Butterbur before the lunch rush or who knows when I'll get a chance to speak to him alone."
You were really hoping that you wouldn't see that wary, spent look on him again, but there it is, lurking behind his eyes where he's trying to hide it.
"We will talk when I get back," you say and he nods.
"Do you wish me to attend you?" he asks, and it seems he really does want to be as helpful as he can to you, but you shake your head. This conversation you're about to have is going to go a lot better if Strider the Ranger isn't sitting in the corner glaring at Barliman Butterbur.
That's pretty much all you've got to say. Everything else is going to have to wait until you get back. But, still, you pause before you open the door.
"Estel?"
He looks up from where he had been studying the cold hearth and the remains of your breakfast together, something sad and resigned in his look.
"I've never lied to you," you say, as if that's somehow enough.
It doesn't help.
"Mayhap," he says and, at least, gives you a brief, small smile, though it doesn't exactly warm his face. "But neither have you told me all of the truth."
Well, you can't argue with that.
Your conversation with Butterbur goes about as you expected.
"Do I still have a job?" you ask, sitting on the bench that lines the wall across from his work table, and Butterbur sighs, looking troubled, but, unfortunately, not indecisive.
It's usually a mess of piles of letters and notes and invoices and tally sticks, but today Barliman's office is surprisingly well-organized, papers and letters in their cubbyholes. He's got a whole system for going through them and keeping track of what he has and has not recorded in his daily logs and, with business going as it has lately, more time than usual to actually keep everything up to date. There's a tall chest with shelves and doors behind him that he keeps locked and the key at his belt. That's where the money goes at the end of the day. Something like an abacus hangs from the wall to his left, beneath which are his books lined up in their chests. You have no idea how many generations his accounting goes back, but the notes are certainly well preserved. He keeps them wrapped up and locked in their chests. He pulls out the latest out and sits at his table, making meticulous notes of the comings and goings and debits and credits to his accounts at the end of the day while you and Nob and Bob and Cook clean up the common room and kitchen after close.
About this time every morning, he's usually in the kitchen checking on Cook's progress and assigning duties to the staff, but not today. Today, he's pulled out his accounts and been going through them, running his hands through his hair. So not a good sign.
He rubs at his forehead, scratching his scalp, seemingly at a loss for words. Also not a good sign.
Well. Shit. You can't say as you blame him. You'd probably do the same thing in his place. You're just one person he employees, after all, and that just when he needs an extra set of hands.
You find you can't look at his fingers fiddling with his inkwell or his books or his tired, well-meaning face any more.
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.
Your head is in your hands, elbows propped on your knees where you can't quite keep them from jiggling up and down. Fuck, it's all you can do to keep from swearing in front of Barliman. And you are not going to cry, god damn it.
"Ah, Fish, I would keep you on," he says, "but they've threatened to keep their menfolk from frequenting The Pony and shaming any women who show their faces in the common room or take rooms for hire as strumpets and harlots should I not do somewhat. I have naught but my reputation hereabouts to ensure their business when the weather grows cold and travel upon the Road dwindles to naught. Had we a better summer and not had the trouble with rough men making the good folk of Bree uneasy in the common room, I'd let them know just what they could do with their rumors and threats. But, aye, Fish…" here he trails off for a moment as he turns the inkwell around and around and around. He points in the direction of the common room with a rough gesture.
"And there's Harvey Tunnelson out there just the night afore bragging as loud as he can raise his voice that he'd bedded you in the stables and paid you for your time with his friends both at once. It don't matter that Bob vouches you've not stepped foot in there in nigh a month, what with you being friends and all. 'Tis all but luck the matrons of Bree didn't call for Bob and Nob's removals as well. What ill words they'll say of Poppy I don't know."
Well. Shit. Harvey Fucking Tunnelson. Of course. Who else would it be. Your gorge might have threatened to cut off your breathing at the thought.
"Well, Harvey'll not show his face here again," Barliman says and slams the inkwell into its place on the writing tray. "I've booted the lot of them out, Harvey and his two friends, not that they don't usually make themselves scarce with the winter. Off to wherever it is that they go to hole up. That kind of talk's not welcome here and I made it plain that should they attempt to set foot across my threshold again, I'll beat them off myself and not wait to send for Harry."
Well, that's something, you guess.
That can't have been the first time someone's brought up the idea that you've been hustling or whoring yourself out on Butterbur's property, though. Harvey's not what you would call an independent thinker. He got the idea from somewhere, not stirring shit up himself on his own impulse. And it would have taken some time and effort for Mistress Blackthorn to whip up enough moral outrage to arrange a delegation to confront the innkeeper. You can just bet who the source of all the rumors leads back to. And his name begins with Bill and ends with Ferny.
Well, fuck.
"Now, Fish, don't you worry. Just lay low for a little, aye?" you hear and look up to find that Barliman's closed his book and slotted it back into its place in the chest. He leans on the table, watching you. "Stay out of trouble, aye, and I don't wonder this will all blow over and we'll see you back here in a month or two."
Fuck, yeah. That's so not going to happen, not with Ferny whipping up rumors whenever you get a little too close to having anything you can count on other than him. You just don't have the heart to tell Butterbur that, though, not with how eager he seems to be to make sure you're okay with his solution to the squeeze that he's in.
Yeah, probably a really good idea that Estel didn't come with you. He'd be pissed. But he's not the one who's going to be here over the winter.
You rub at the tops of your thighs for a moment and then stand up. Well, this isn't the only painful heart to heart you're going to have today. Might as well get to the next one and check it off, too.
"Och, Fish, wait a moment," he says and then, turning away, pulls out a drawer where he keeps ready cash and rummages about. "Here you go. I put aside a little somewhat for you, to tide you over."
He counts out about five pennies into his hand and, pausing for a beat, gathers himself and turns to offer them to you. "A bonus, as it were," he says when you take them. They're warm from being in his hand. Real copper coins this time, not the tin you usually get.
Well. Fuck. So much for not crying.
"Now you need not pay me that back," he says, pointing to the coins in your hand. "I'm more grateful than you know, you getting along so well with my folk. Not all Big Folk I've had here do. And it not being right your kindness to them being used against ye like it is."
He waves away your stammering attempt at thanks and you wipe at your face with your sleeve. "Aye, well, I should have been more help to Ruby, though, aye, that's neither here nor there. But I've learned my lesson, that I have, even should it be too late for her."
"Aye, but Fish," he says as you put the coins in that pocket hidden inside your tunic, snug up against your phone where they slide against its smooth surface and settle to the bottom. "You can't come to the kitchen door in the back this winter," he says, his face sad and a grimness settling on him, "not like last. What you work out with Cook or Bob on your own, I won't pry, but you can't be seen about these parts, aye?"
"Okay," you say, cuz what else are you going to say, and he nods and takes a breath, the most unpleasant part of this conversation over for him.
He stands up and comes out from behind his work table, shuffling between the corner of the table and the wall to escort you to the door, so that's where you go.
"Now, this isn't goodbye. Do what you can to keep your nose clean and we'll see your face here ere the midwinter feast, if not sooner. I'll need the extra hands then, that I will. And it will all be forgot and be as it was before, aye?"
"Thank you, Mr. Butterbur," you say, meaning 'goodbye' actually. Cuz that is what this is, really. The bonus was truly a lovely gesture, but let's not fool ourselves here. It'll hold you until midwinter, yes, but not any further, and there's no chance of the pressure on him going away, not if Bill Ferny has anything to say about it.
Of course Ferny took a shot at Barliman. Can't have the second most powerful man in Bree sticking up for you, can we? And so publicly, too, at the trial where everyone could see it. It would be just the kind of thing Ferny would do; set out the bait and wait for Mistress Blackthorn to start salivating all over it. That he caught Harvey Tunnelson in his net was just a bonus. A nice little shitty cherry on your day.
You would like to say that you popped Ferny a good one on his smug little fucking smirk when he comes up behind you as you make your way down the stairs into the courtyard of The Pony. Fuck, almost like he was waiting for you, isn't it.
Down he goes and your knuckles burn. You've caught him on his jaw and bloodied him and knocked a tooth or two loose. He'll wear the shame of it on his face in purple and red and green for long enough that it'll warn off anyone else that would have a go at you.
But, you didn't. You don't.
You can't.
"In need of work, are ye?" he asks, as if he didn't already know.
They're right there, on the tip of your tongue, every curse and imprecation you can yank out of every language and cultural tradition you had at your disposal, both in this world and the one you vacated. They're all lined up and ready to go.
And there they die, unsaid.
Cuz it's not just you. You keep coming straight at Ferny and he's going to not only take you down but also anyone that helps you. They'll be marked and harassed and cornered into a rock and a hard place. Barliman can take care of himself, but Cook? Poppy or Bob? There's not a single one of them who should have to choose between their well-being or yours.
Fuck. Even Estel, for all his cunning and the sharp implements at his disposal. He's barely tolerated here as it is, but he wouldn't keep coming back if he didn't have something that required his presence here. You don't know what it is, but it tightens his jaw and jerks him awake to keep him company on those nights he rises from your floor and sits in his spot at the back wall and watches the moon rise instead of sleeping.
Fuck.
"Come now, Fish," Ferny says, his hands in his coat pockets, rocking on his heels. Fucker's taken heart with how long you've been silent. "I've got somewhat you could do. I'll even let ye fill that bag of yours full of my very own taters I've set aside for the winter as payment, eh?"
Is that what your soul is worth these days? A bag of potatoes?
He cocks his head at you, smirking. "It's naught even so onerous as your work with the nightmen, or have you forgot what that was like?"
Fucker.
It's a wasteland of choices you have in front of you.
Fuck it.
"Okay, yeah," you say.