In which our Fish takes a walk in the woods.

"Eight million?" Estel exclaims and stops flat in his tracks and stares at you with a look of dawning horror on his face. Despite his shock, he keeps his voice low. "All in one place?"

"Well, yeah," you say, halting to turn back the way you'd come so you can face him. You shrug and, cupping your hands together, blow into them to warm them up. "And it's only the third largest city in the country."

"That is not a city," he says, aghast, "that is a…" He falters, at a complete loss for words. "How is such a thing even possible?" he exclaims softly, gesturing about you. "How does one feed such a populace? Or provide for their security? And deal with the petty squabbles that are sure to arise from such a gathering of folk? The transport of goods alone! Ai! And the waste in the streets!"

Oh, this is so so awesome. You can't stop grinning at him. At last someone else has a tiny, miniscule, infinitesimal insight into just how bewildering your experience has been.

Luckily for him, Estel doesn't have to cope with being plucked from his world and dropped onto the corner of State and Michigan to experience it. Not that anyone there would give him a second thought. They'd probably just walk past him staring straight ahead but getting in a good look through their periphery. Most someone would do is drop a "Sweet cosplay, bro," as they passed.

"Yeah, well, the Bureau of Streets and Sanitation does kinda run the city and that's not even counting snow removal," you go on, grabbing onto the straps of your pack and jogging it a little higher to try to get the weight of the potatoes off your hips. "Mayors live and die on whether or not they keep the streets clear during blizzards."

You let him chew on that for a bit while you continue walking down what this place calls a road.

Well, it is a road. Or, rather, it was a road at one point. The farther from the hedge and ditch encircling Bree you get, the less of a road it becomes and more of a sunken path. You can still see patches of stone paving, rounded and slick in the wet with time and wear, emerging from beneath leaves and drifted mud and moss and other growing things of Chetwood forest. A line of drainage ditches run along beside it, clogged though they are with leaves and undergrowth.

The Great East Road travels, well, east, unsurprisingly. It's a day's walk from Bree to The Forsaken Inn and most of that under the cover of the Chetwood. Gold, copper, and red leaves cling to the branches of oak and beech trees, appearing at times to be floating in the air against a sea of pines and green underbrush of bracken and some type of bramble. The tops of the trees sway with a freshening breeze overhead that sends leaves twirling down here and there. The dawn chorus of birds has faded to the occasional smack of falling acorns against the road, the tick of water dripping from the canopy overhead, and the echoing rattle of a woodpecker or cawing of crows.

It's a pleasant enough walk, or, it would have been if it weren't for the light mist of rain that started some time in the early morning hours in the dark. When the sun rose, its light drifted through the trees in a haze which only gave way when a cold wind from the north pushed clouds to skim over the tops of the trees. You're nearly soaked through, hood and all. You wrap your arms against your chest and stick your fingers beneath your sleeves. Fuck. Your hands are freezing and your nose just absolutely refuses to stop running. The fact that Estel has practically disappeared into his hood but otherwise hasn't commented on the travel conditions doesn't promise that it's going to get much better.

You kick at an acorn, lazily crossing the path to get behind it and give it another kick when it ping-pongs off the worn edges of paving stones.

"Hala," chides Estel. When you turn around you find him fixing you with a gently disapproving look from beneath his hood. "Best not make noise that shall carry."

Yeah, yeah. Okay. You know he's right, so you don't protest. Not like you've run into anybody coming the other way, but, still, probably not a great idea to announce yourself coming around the bend more than you can help. As it is, once he led you down Bree-hill and struck the Road, Estel instructed you to keep your voice low and walk ahead of him where he could keep an eye on both you and the countryside about you. And so you turn back around and do your best not to shuffle through the damp piles of leaves.

"So 'tis cold then, this city of yours?" Estel asks after some time.

"Uh, well," you say and wipe at your nose, sniffing, "it's pretty far north, but the arctic air mass just likes to dip down and cover the city in freezing temperatures, and then there's the Lake. The city is laid spread out from the shores of a large inland lake so the wind just whips the moisture over the water and into the neighborhoods. And that can mean lots of snow and freezing winds."

"Ah," he says and you can practically hear him nodding behind you, "we have somewhat like that in the Northlands. When Elendil and the Faithful fled the ruin of Númenor, he established his court upon Lake Evendim from which the Branduin springs. The cliffs rise high above the lake and upon there they took refuge. The wind was said to be fierce and biting, atimes. They kept fires in the lower levels that heated clay chimneys throughout the tower to keep away the cold, or so I have been told."

Fuck yeah, radiators! That sounds ingenious. You'd love to see something like that someday. God, you miss steam heat, hissing, clanking pipes and leaky radiators and all.

"Does anyone live there now?" you ask, glancing back. He's peering beneath the eaves of a grove of pines. There's a sudden rustling through the bracken, but he straightens back up and doesn't make a fuss about it.

"No," he says. "I have traveled there, to see it. Once it was the center of trade and knowledge in the Northlands, with canals and paths built from Lake Evendim down the Branduin for the passage of barges and beyond to the sea and roads as far east as Rhun and southeast to Rhovanion and to the Southlands of Gondor and beyond. 'Tis said the tower of the King's Keep rose as the prow of a ship upon the cliffs about the water, with a light of cunningly wrought silver and glass that shone as a star lit down upon the high tower. 'Twas a place of many natural defenses and they kept it long."

He pauses here, as if he were actually remembering it, not just telling you a story he heard. He then sighs and goes on, his voice sharpening. "But it has fallen to ruin and is a sad and empty place," he says. "'Twas my distant kin who raised the stones and built the tower and filled the city below it. But that was many years ago, and they do so no longer."

Well, shit. That sucks. Doesn't sound like there's many of his people, or surely you would have heard more of them before now, or met more than just Estel. They'd have to travel and engage in some kind of trade, right? You're really curious what you might be headed into. Estel wouldn't say more than they had a few holdings between here and the Misty Mountains, which really doesn't tell you much other than that's a hell of a lot of empty land and not many people in it.

Soon you come upon a swift-moving stream that runs parallel to the Great Road below a fall of land and you can catch glimpses over the tops of the trees through the scrub at the side of the Road. The further bank falls steeply to the stream, which seems to have cut a deep path between rolling hills. There's little point in attempting to talk over the rush of water and so you're quiet for a while, listening to the birds and the stream, putting Bree behind you step by step.

Fuck. You're feeling a little like Orpheus stumbling your way out of the underworld. Estel walks quietly enough as it is, but now you can't hear him at all over the rush of the stream. You almost don't want to turn around and check to see if he is behind you. It's not like you're superstitious. So stupid, the growing sick feeling in your belly and tightening of your shoulders. He's right behind you. No need to check. You don't have to check.

Was that him? That rustle?

God, you kind of wish he had a great lumbering gait to go along with his ridiculously long legs.

You pass beneath a tree bent over the road and, when through, give in and glance back and there he is, in his long coat with a woolen mantel about his shoulders and chest, his nose and chin poking out from beneath his hood.

When he gives you a quizzical look, you muster a grin, clamping down on an urge to give him a thumbs up, because you are, of course, already enough of a fucking idiot. Of course he was still behind you.

C'mon, c'mon. You've got this. No big deal. Just a walk in the woods.

"There once was a farm boy named Westley," you say after you take in a deep breath and let it out as silently as you can, grabbing a hold of the straps of your pack. Estel snorts softly behind you.

"There once was a Ranger named Westley,

who really could use a good bath, he

took off down the Road

and the clouds loosed a load

but the rain just made him more messy."

Okay, yeah, he's still walking behind you. You can hear his snorting.

"Hala," Estel says, "'tis the weakest of your efforts thus far."

You roll your eyes. Apparently Estel's the substitute kindergarten teacher today. 'Today we're going to work on rhyming. Does anyone know what rhyming is?' 'Inside voices, please.' 'Everyone found your buddy? Good job! Now it's really important you don't lose your buddy, so hold their hand. Okay now, we're walking in single file.'

"You try rhyming something with 'Westley!'" you protest, turning around and walking backwards so you can see him.

You swear you can see the twinkling of Estel's eyes beneath his hood. He nods, screwing up his mouth as if he actually needed to think and absolutely had not been composing a limerick of his own over the past mile just so he could pull it out fully formed for this occasion.

"There once was a Dúnedain named Westley," he says, "whose demeanor was most fair and lordly."

You snicker at that. 'Fair and lordly.' Sure. Keep dreaming, bud. But Estel ignores you and goes on.

"…whose demeanor was most fair and lordly," he repeats, a bit more forcefully.

"Said he, 'Aye, as thee wish'

to an outlander named Fish

and across the wild lands did they flee."

God damn it.

Fucker's smirking at you, practically sauntering down the Road as your heel snags on a root and you stumble, catching yourself before you go down.

"Fucking potatoes," you grumble as you turn back around and keep walking, ignoring the flash of concern on Estel's face. Your whole center of gravity is completely off.

"The load you carry would cause you less trouble should you watch where you place your feet."

Yeah, yeah. He'd stumble too if he was trying to carry a buttload of potatoes on his back, fancy footwork or no.

"I could keep trying to insult you, if you like," you say, but he huffs.

"You are welcome to, should you be able to do so with some wit."

Fuck the potatoes. If you go down, you go down. You spin around to walk backwards again and find the fucker grinning at you. Oh, really? Really?

Oh, it is so on.

"You got something to back all that talk with, big boy?" you ask.

"I may," he says and then purses his lip before going on. "I have not yet spoken of the Rohirrim. They are a folk of proud people of the grasslands north of the White Mountains where they raise horses and are riders of no parallel."

You roll your eyes. Oh god. Of course it comes with another history and geography lesson.

"There the king's men gather in his golden hall of Meduseld beneath the shadow of the Starkhorn and perform the flyting in which insults and barbs are put to verse and thus they attempt to outwit the other," he goes on, squinting at you from beneath his hood.

He's all puckered up trying not to grin. Oh, you get it now. This isn't just one of his stories. He knows about this personally.

"The victor is granted a mead-cup from which they must drink in one swallow," he says, looking at you with this little smirk on his face like he can't wait for you to ask.

"Okay, Biggie Longshanks," you ask, jerking your chin at him, "how drunk did you get?"

"I fear I recall little of the feast after," he says and then a broad smile breaks across his face, "but I hear it was glorious."

You do your best, but it is really hard to keep from laughing loud enough to wake up every traveler, deer, woodpecker, bear, or fox in Chetwood from here to Bree and back. Oh, you like this Estel. Look at him, so pleased with himself, all smug and trying not to grin.

"So, uh…" You lick at your bottom lip before you very deliberately bite on it. And yep, there goes his eyes, flicking down to your lips. "This inn we're going to, are we going to stay there, like in our own room with a bed and a real mattress and everything?" you ask and it startles a bark of sound from Estel.

"Ah, Hala," he says after clearing his throat, "I do not think that would be wise. News of our departure is sure to catch up to us soon. We shall be lucky to leave the inn unremarked. I would pass it by should we not be in great need of news of the way ahead."

Well, shit. There goes your hopes of a hot bath and, well, whatever other activities that might be inspired to occur afterward.

What? You're cold and could definitely use some warming up. You can think of at least a couple different ways to get all warm and cozy, this way just happens to involve hot water.

What do you mean 'but you'll be naked?' Of course you'll be naked. Isn't that how everyone takes a bath?

Something of what you're thinking must play across your face because Estel about strangles himself stuffing down that sudden flash of pure heat that crossed his face.

"Ai, Hala," he says, his arms practically wrapped around his chest. A thicket of some type of thorny plant, a fluttering leaf, the swaying of pines overhead, all so very interesting and deserving of his attention right now. "I would wish for such a chance, too… but I cannot, I do not…" He trails off. "Ai!" he exclaims, muffling the sound in his hand as he rubs at his face.

You really, really should stop teasing him like this. I mean, of course he's a Romantic(tm). And a massively touch-starved one at that. You'd imagine it's all just a little much for him. But he's just so, well, irresistible. God, you want to make him blush and stutter and go completely incoherent. And he's so fucking easy. Just a little innuendo and he's stammering like he's completely forgotten what words are.

And he did kiss you first.

Both times, by the way.

"Ai, Hala," he says, regaining a bit of his composure. So adorable, how he's packing everything back in its box, thinking he can reign it all in. "I have been, mayhap, more free than I should have," he admits.

Oh, really? Do you think?

"Aye!" he exclaims, "I had not intended to seek your affections but you seem to confound my best efforts."

"Oh," you say, nodding, and purse up your mouth. "I get it now. It's my fault then, that you can't keep your hands, or well, actually, your lips, off me."

"Indeed it is," he insists, contrition and irritation warring on his face. And then he lets loose a sudden soft sound of disgust and grinds his teeth.

Ouch.

Shit.

You don't realize you've stopped in place and are staring at him until he's on you in one long stride, a look of alarm on his face.

"Ai, Halanya, forgive me." He doesn't seem to quite know where to put his hands. They light on your shoulders and then next cup your face, but when that seems a bit too much for him and he's backing off, you reach up and take his huge paws in your grasp, clutching them against your breastbone and worming your fingers between them where he warms up your fingertips. That seems to do the trick, not too close and not too far away, and his shoulders soften and he leans his brow against your head.

"My impatience is not with you," he says, insistent despite how muffled and soft his voice is. "I had intended to avoid all intimacies with you until I could at the least reveal my true name and speak more fully of my kin. It is with myself I am dissatisfied.

"In truth," he goes on with a wry sound, "I have not felt so at the whim of my desires since I was a youth."

"I kinda liked kissing you," you say. Cuz, you did, and you thought he did too, and, shit, you knew exactly what you were doing and made the choice and would have been down for a hell of a lot more, and it kind of twists in your gut that maybe he's regretting it.

"As did I," he says, "but you do not know to what you are consenting."

"Okay," you say, and shrug, "then tell me." Why, why are we waiting?

"Ai, Hala," he says, sighing and leaning more heavily into you. "I left you last so that I may ensure our way was clear of those men who have plagued the roads and travelers who would ride upon them. Aye, I have not seen them upon the East Road, nor heard tell of them traveling upon it. 'Tis said they found shelter north of Bree in a homestead there, but it is naught but rumor. I hope to hear more once we reach The Forsaken Inn. The more I learn of them the more my heart misgives me.

"They are cruel, Hala," he goes on earnestly, squeezing your hands in his, "and they shall be searching for me and tales of my kin. Our hope is in speed, for I can give you no guarantees. Should it come to it, I would not have the loyalty of your gentle heart put to the test should you know too much."

Yeah, okay. Shit. You supposed he's not lived this long without having backup plan after backup plan after backup plan nested one inside of barbed wire fences of a need to know basis for everything.

You know you should let go of his hands, but it's just so nice, this little shadowed space between you where his breath runs across your cheek and his forehead presses into yours with the soft rustling of leaves and drip of water from the canopy above around you. God, you've had so little chance to be this close and you just want more. Can't you just have a little more? You can't really bring yourself to care if it is all sure to go to shit later.

"There once was a man called Estel," he says when you can't seem to either let him go or say anything,

"In the lands of the North did he dwell.

Never knew he such bliss

'Til your sweet lips he kiss'd,

But much more of his tale has he to tell."

"That's so not helping," you say and his face lights with a sudden smile.

"Hala," he says after a little. He shifts on his feet. You grunt in response.

"May I have the return of my hands?"

"Nope," you say and clutch them tighter, cuz, damn, he must have the metabolism of a pro athlete with the way he puts out heat.

"Do you not have gloves of some kind?" When you shake your head he pulls his hands out of your grip only to wrap your fingers in his own and draw them beneath his coat and tuck them in his armpit. He winces and screws up his face. "Ai! They are cold!"

"I'm not even touching you!" you protest.

"It matters not, they are like unto ice!"

"Oh my god, you are such a baby. You've got like three layers of wool and leather on under your coat."

"Aye, and I can feel the cold even then."

"Shut up, you big lug, and warm me up," you command. You make a big deal of shivering. It is a wet cold damn it and your winter clothes are basically your summer clothes with a cloak that's pretty much pinned to your back by your pack. Estel takes pity on you and by dint of pulling your arm around him, wraps you up in his other arm and tucks you against his chest.

Which, okay, this is nice. Mmmmm. So warm. You tuck your nose against the cloth of his hood, careful not to press your cold nose against the skin of his neck despite your protests.

"What I really was hoping for was a steaming-hot bath," you say to his chest.

"Aye, indeed! An agreeable prospect," he says with some enthusiasm, rubbing his hand up and down your arm and tucking you more closely to him. "There is naught for it, though."

Yeah. You suppose the last thing you want is some asshole sent by Blackthorn or Harry Goatleaf to take a very wet and naked you by surprise.

"But come, be of good cheer," Estel says and draws away. He eases himself out of his pack and goes down on a knee to rummage inside of it. "I know of a place where we may shelter in comfort no more than four or five day's walk from here. There we may take rest and replenish our supplies for the remainder of the journey."

When he stands up and shrugs his pack back onto his shoulders he's holding rolled strips of wool in his hand. He motions to you. "Come, I shall show you the way of wrapping your hands to keep them warm."

He hands you one of the rolls and takes your other arm and, starting with the palm, unwinds the other roll of cloth as he wraps it about your hand like he's getting you ready for a prize fight.

"Should I recall it," he says, "there is a large tub and should you still desire it after hauling the water from the spring close by, you may heat it and have your bath."

Well, okay, but it sure sounds like a lot of work.

"I suppose it's too much to hope there'll be a bed?" you ask, cuz maybe method number two of warming yourself up would be a better bet.

"Ah, no bed," he says, "but I shall build you a bower of pine branches upon which we may take our rest…

"… after we have had some chance to talk and I have answered all questions you may have that I can," he goes on firmly, giving you a light reproving look as he tucks the end of the strip beneath itself about half way up your forearm, cuz, yeah, that might have been a bit of a transparent ploy there.

But then he goes on, taking the other roll from your hand and smiling, "You will have to wait until the end of our journey for a bed."

Ooo. Now that's a bit more promising. His smile deepens at your look.

Shit, an Estel-sized bed with a real fucking mattress? Fuck. Snuggled all in under blankets and naked together? Forget kissing and sexy-times, you just want to use him as a hot-water body pillow right now.

"Like with a real mattress and everything?" you ask as he secures the end of the strip of cloth against your palm, supporting your hand in his.

"Aye, a bed of our own with a real mattress of down feathers and pillows and thick blankets, doors we may close to keep out the drafts, and a lit brazier to keep us warm," he promises while he works in a criss-cross pattern over your wrist and up your arm, his fingers brushing against your skin, "should, once you know more of what such a choice entails, you choose to share it with me."

He tucks in the end of that one, too and looks up and smiles when he finds you watching him. He's pinker by the minute, the color growing on his cheeks before he drops his gaze and runs his hands over the cloth about your wrist to test its tension while examining it critically. Of course it's fine. Not too tight it should interfere with circulation and not too loose it will come apart with movement. He doesn't really need to check.

Well, shit. Estel just invited you into his bed. All while using his hypercompetent skills to keep you safe and warm. And now he's all embarrassed and unable to meet your eyes and covering it by checking whether his attempts to keep you safe and warm are actually going to keep you safe and warm.

That's got to be the sweetest shit you've ever seen.

He then tugs the sleeves of your shirt and tunic over the wraps and looks you over from head to toe, frowning as if he were just getting a good look at your clothes in the light of day. You're not sure what he's looking at. It's not like you've ever worn anything else around him before.

"We must find you somewhat to wear of warmer and sturdier stuff, but this, at the least, will keep your hands from growing so cold until the day warms," he says, and he releases you and that seems to be that.

Four or five days, huh?

Okay. You can live with that.

Until then, however, before he can back away, you tug on the front of his coat, keeping him in place. He watches you with some wariness.

"So until then you're going to be all big, bad Strider the Ranger watching out for me, then?" you ask and he smiles, covering your hands with his and pressing them to his chest.

"Should you permit it."

When you press your lips to his skin, just there between his cheekbone and the line of his beard, he breathes in deep, his chest rising beneath your hands.

"Thank you," you say when you draw away at last and, raising your hand to his lips, he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles before letting you go.

"Five days?"

"Aye," he says and shrugs as if this next were no matter, "though were I traveling alone it would take me naught but four."

God damn he's a competitive asshole.

"Damn right you're going to make it in four," you say and, brushing aside his hood, lean in close to his ear and lower your voice as if you're telling him a secret. "Because after we talk, big boy, there's going to be a lot of snuggling and maybe even some kissing."

"Hala, should you wish, but first you should consider -" he begins, but you ignore him. Yeah, yeah. You get it. Fully informed and all that jazz. You'll sign the consent form, well, if you can read it. Let's just get there. Fucking fucker and his long fucking legs that eat up the miles.

"Maybe I'll start by nuzzling you right here," you say, moving over his skin so that your breath tickles him in that sensitive spot behind his jaw before you place a finger just there, on the divot in the middle of his chin, and tilt his face down. "And then work my way, little, by, little, all the way, over, here." By now you're practically whispering against his lips. "What do you think of that?"

Fuck. There it is. That look of heat stealing over him as he considers it, his eyes latched onto your lips. Yep, definitely likes that idea.

"Yeah?" you ask, keeping your voice low.

"Aye," he says, his voice coming softly against your lips.

It's then that you back away from him, pushing away with your finger on his chin, grinning. You step back, walking backward. He's smiling that cagey little smirk of his with his hands on his hips as he watches you, like he's a Great Dane watching a Chihuahua bark and parade around with his favorite chew toy.

"There once was Strider the Ranger," you say,

"And to kissing he was a stranger.

But he got close to a Fish

and said, "As you wish,"

And then he was in terrible danger."

Estel shakes his head, but you continue undaunted.

"Well c'mon then," you say, jogging away from him backwards, the potatoes banging against your back. "What are you doing just standing there? Get a move on!"

God, he's going to be fun.

He lopes up to you with his long legs, catching up quickly, what with you carrying the weight of a preschooler on your back, and falls into step behind you as you turn to face forward and off you go again.

The Chetwood fades slowly to scrub and then opens onto meadows and rolling hills. The cloud cover deepened and it was truly raining by the time you get an hour out from The Forsaken Inn. As the cover of trees and bushes wane, so does Estel's mood. He's all twitchy, his eyes scanning the way ahead, behind, and to each side, alert to each movement. His disquiet is catching and your shoulders ache with feeling it behind your back.

It's a bigger relief than you admit when the inn and its outbuildings appear like a black smudge on the side of the road. Slowly it grows bigger and you kind of get why it's got the name it does. Among rolling hills of meadows and tree lines meandering through the valleys, it's about the only structure standing within view. One day long ago, there may have been a small thriving village sprung up on business coming up and down the Road clustered about the inn, but as trade dwindled, so did the populace. They left behind what they couldn't carry but even the stones of the walls have been looted at some point. Fire took the rest, it seems. The weeds took over the gardens and the woods lining the valley crept through the fields and yards all the way up to the tumbled and soot-blackened foundations of stone like an inexorable tide lapping at the village's back.

Pigs huddle together beneath their shed but that's pretty much the only living thing you see until you get closer. Further down the Road smoke rises thinly where men gather seated in small clusters beneath bushcraft shelters of branches and bracken and moss, waiting out the rain. Estel examines each man in turn as you get close, clearly dissatisfied, frowning.

"What is it?" you ask, doing your best to not make it obvious, cuz just about every face is turned toward you and watching you approach.

He shakes his head ever so slightly. "I know not."

He nods at the shelters and the men there. "Most I know from dealings with them o'er the years. I would not call all of them men of honor, but I do not think them cause for alarm. Some, though, I know not, and though they bear the dress and manner of men of the Northlands, it would be best to avoid drawing their attention."

Okay, well, you can do that. Fuck a warm bath or bed, just stick you in a dark corner some place where you can get inside away from the wet and off your feet and maybe put something hot in your belly while Estel does his business gathering news and sending out messages.

So when you finally reach the building itself and Estel pulls you off the Road and into a corner between the inn and the stable, you go with him without a word of protest, but fuck!

"Stay here," he commands and you gape at him as he unfastens his belt. He's got to be fucking kidding!

A sudden loud burp sounds from behind Estel and he crowds up against you, turning his back to the Road. The vague shape of a man slogs through the mud over Estel's shoulder.

"Oy!" he barks as he passes before hawking something very loud and rubbery into the mud. "Rooms are naught but a tin penny. Take your whoring off the Road!"

Great. Just great. Wonderful introduction to the folk of The Forsaken Inn.

Estel presses his knife and its housing into your hands and rebuckles his belt once your heckler tramps his way past the stable. "Stay out of sight and like as not you shall not need this."

"What's wrong?" you ask as his quick fingers work at your own belt, thinking of the rough clientele who visit The Pony at times when the weather encourages wider travel. You can handle them. Okay, it might be a bit of a stretch with all of them in one place and no Barliman to threaten to throw them out, but, shit, Estel can glower with the best of them and they'd probably avoid giving him any trouble if you stick close to him.

"I know not," he says and grimaces. He slides the hangers onto your belt and quickly refastens it and tugs the knife into place. "The closer we have come to it, the more my heart misgives me."

Well. Shit.

He takes a quick look at his work before catching your eye. "Are you skilled in its use?" He nods at the knife fastened to your belt.

You look down where the hilt juts out right next to your hipbone.

Well. Shit. Yeah. Okay. Yeah, you've told him a bit about your martial arts training and yeah, you've had some training in how to survive a knife fight, but you're a little rusty and you much preferred the bo staff as a weapon when given the choice, but sure, you guess?

"I have some ideas," is what you say instead of explaining all that and he nods, his lips pressed thinly.

"I shall bring somewhat hot for you to eat when I return," he says and then squeezes your shoulder when you nod, cuz what else are you going to do? "I will be as swift as I can."

With that, he slips around the corner in that silent way he has in which he can become one with the shadows or whatever else it is that he does.

Shit! Shit shit shit.

You lean back, huddling against the wall with what little shelter it provides against the rain, and tuck your hands beneath your arms.

God this is going to suck. Yeah, it's raining. Yeah, the place is a pit. But a rumble of voices drifts out from beneath the awnings over the windows at the front of the inn along with the smell of smoke and that ubiquitous tavern stew that seems to always be bubbling on the hearth. It's no hobbit feast and it's about as risky as the who knows how many days old sushi in the deli case of your neighborhood supermarket, but it's a hell of a lot more appetizing than the fish leather and mushrooms you had for breakfast.

More men rumble past laughing and talking and they look pretty much like you'd expect, rough and irregularly but heavily-armed. They pass on by without a glance. The longer you wait, though, the more the corner you're tucked in smells like a urinal. Fuck, you're in the middle of fucking nowhere, at least as far as you know, and fuck, it's just a matter of time before someone stumbles out of the common room and looks for somewhere to relieve their bladder and you're standing in as likely a spot as any. Maybe you should slip into the stable and hide out there, but what to do when Estel comes looking for you and he freaks out?

Shit, where is he? Listen it's probably not even fifteen minutes and you already feel like when you were little and your mother just could not for the life of her quit talking to her friends so you could go home and omg they've struck up another topic and omg where the fuck is Estel?

Okay okay okay. Close your eyes. Deep breaths. In the nose, out the mouth. That's it.

The group of men trailing past the pig peg and approaching the corner in which you are tucked and then heading into the inn aren't at all interested in you, and Estel is just on the other side of this wall talking to who knows who. No way is he ditching you no matter what your paranoia is offering up as scenarios and he's definitely not fighting off a band of highway robbers and trying to get back to you cuz that would definitely be something you could hear through the windows.

Okay. That's better. You've got thi-

"Aye, save somewhat for me. Oy!"

Your eyes flash open.

Fuck! Harvey Rat-bastard Tunnelson, his hand digging under his tunic and looking like he'd about mistaken you for the wall he had intended to take a leak on.

"Fish?" He goggles at you. You goggle back.

What the fuck is he doing here?!

"Fish!" he exclaims, a broad smile spreading across his face. He yanks his hand from his pants to fling his arms wide like he's going to come in for a hug. "Of all wonders! We thought you in Bree and here you are!"

Holy shit.

Wait. What the fuck does he mean 'We thought you in Bree?' Who thought you were in Bree?

"Look here! It's Fish!" he calls to the retreating backs of the group of men who are shouldering their way through the common room door. Or, rather, he opens his mouth to call to them, because that's when something takes over and the next thing you know you're off the wall and he's coughing and clutching at his throat, you're shaking out the stinging in your hand and you've got a vague memory of the palm of one of your hands slamming into his forehead to knock his head back and then following up with the other and slamming it into his throat.

Jesus fucking Christ! You just did that.

"Son of a cur!" he grunts, coughing, and then up he comes, a blur barreling at you straight into your gut and your head bounces off the stone wall with a smack. Something tightens around your throat and you choke, blinking the haze out your eyes and clutching and flailing at something, anything.

Fuck! Ten seconds. Ten seconds. That's all you've got. Do it!

The hand pinning you to the wall by your throat ends in Harvey's reddened face.

"Think you're too good for the likes of me and my friends, eh Fish?" He licks at his lips, tightening his grip and pressing in with this full weight despite the fact you're digging your fingers into the tendons of his forearm.

Fuck! C'mon! You've gotten out of this hold a hundred times before. Bigger guys than him with longer reaches. Do it! Do it! Do it!

"Well I've got new friends, now, see?" he says and leans in, his grip lightening as you let your eyelids droop and your body go lax. "And we'll just see what you're good-"

With that he's collapsed against you, stumbling when you pivot and strike his arm away. You catch him about the throat in the crook of your arm, his head in your armpit and banging against the wall to your back, cuz he's in a perfect position, legs spread and stumbling and hunched over. Up rockets your knee into his gut practically lifting him from his feet and he lets out a sharp voiceless woof of air. Then for good measure you pull him closer and haul back and kick him as hard as you absolutely fucking can between his legs and suddenly he's dead weight, groaning and clutching at his balls.

You're all ready to let Harvey drop to the ground so you can kick him in whatever soft body part presents itself again when you get yanked back, an arm clutching you across the chest and shoulder against a very solid and rather damp chest. Without thinking you grab the arm and back out against the wrist, turning and ducking and shoving away and then before you can stop yourself, you've swung your body at the shadow looming over you and you're throwing hips and shoulders into a palm strike that catches Estel right on the nose. Back his head snaps and he stumbles, catching himself up against the wall. He curses softly, sniffing and blinking at you.

Shit shit shit shit! Oh god!

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," you say, your hands hovering over him as he lifts himself from the wall and dabs at the blood running across his lip with the back of his hand. "I didn't break it, did I?" you ask but he doesn't answer you. Instead, he grabs you by your arm.

"Run!" he commands.