2268
BS
Monday, July 19, 2004
Monday, July 19, 2004

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all its characters, places, plot, etc. belong to other people. Too many to list them all. No infringement intended. Not claiming it as my own . . . not that it really matters. -sigh-
Warnings: Umm . . . angst. Hard labor. AU-ness.
Notes: Hah ha! Oh ho oho ho. Umm . . . hahaha. It's just one of those fics. Hahaha.
Also, I am aware that Aragorn's birthday is in March. It will be revealed in a later chapter.

Ephemeral

chapter four

He was awake before dawn, rolling out of his straw bed and onto the dirt floors of the stable. The horse in the stall next to him put his head over the stall door and nickered at him. He felt his skin grow cold, even though he couldn't hear the noise -- only saw his top lip going up and head pushing forward. He didn't like horses; he had never gotten over the fear from his accident four years prior. He sighed deeply and washed himself with a basin of water poured from a jug in front of his straw bed. He'd pumped the water before retiring the previous night. He dressed in his homespun trousers and an azure waistcoat. White sleeves had been stitched onto it to give the appearance of an undershirt. He slid his feet into boots two sizes too big, and felt his gold coins clink over his toes. He'd managed to keep all six, even after three years at the inn.

He sighed again, thinking of the elderly couple who had found him unconscious in the road, suffering from exposure. They had laid him in the back of their wagon and he had woken hours later, suffering from fever. He had found his knife next to him, and the old woman had told him something. Embarrassed, he had brought his hands to his ears and tapped against them. She caught on, then told her husband something. The old man had turned to look at him, then smiled sadly. He had spent two more days on the road in the back of their wagon, huddled under thick blankets and soaking up the warmth of the sun. He had found his own blanket there, folded in a corner, but his cloak was nowhere to be seen. They had arrived in Bree, and the couple arranged a job for him at the inn. It was more than he had hoped for.

He'd never intended on staying in Bree for more than a few months, but he'd been there for three years. The work was hard and the pay was minuscule. He was rewarded free board and lodging, though, and it could have been much worse. Each morning, he went to the wooden well outside and pumped water. He had to water each horse before the stable hands woke, although no amount of money or prodding could make him go into the stall with one. Then, he had to go into the inn and clean tables and chairs. After that, he would mop the floors and sweep the stairs. He would take his breakfast after all of the guests had eaten and then go back to work. After breakfast, he was paid to empty chamber pots and make beds. He took the dirty linens to be washed, and every other day he would clean the windows and floors. He worked until all the rooms were clean, and then was sent to wash dishes in the kitchen. He hated this task, for the smell of the dirty water made him nauseated. But, after every dish and every mug was clean, he would take his supper under the stars and wash that wooden plate and cup. Then, he pumped more water to give the horses, and retired to his little straw bed for the night. When he didn't have to work as hard -- when there were fewer guests and thus fewer chores -- he would sit in on the bar room and watch the people talk and sing and laugh.

It was one of those nights, he thought with a small smile. He'd worked beyond hard all day, and wanted to see who had wandered into the Prancing Pony this week. He took a deep breath of the night air and left the stable to go for the inn. A stout teenager was standing in front of the door, looking in at the room. Yellow firelight glowed from the room, showing off the teen's brown skin and dark hair. He was the innkeeper's son. He didn't know the boy's name, only that the family's name was Butterbur. The teen took notice of him, and motioned for him to join him. The people of Bree knew of the little deaf-mute boy, but still talked to him as though he could talk back. The boy said something, then pointed inside, his face awed. Estel had come to know that expression as one to signify a new event, something unexpected. Timidly, he looked inside and immediately jerked back. He saw the innkeeper's son chuckle.

Inside, at a table, sat an Elf. He had been so surprised to see one inn Bree! He hadn't seen any Elves since leaving Rivendell three years ago, and the sight of one rattled him. He looked in again, this time keeping his body behind the door and just his eyes and the top of his head in sight. He relaxed a little when he noticed that the Elf wasn't one he recognized. His dress was different from that of the Elves in Rivendell, so he guessed that this was an Elf from Mirkwood or Lothlorien. 'What a long way to be from home,' he thought. The thought made him sad, and he studied the elf as he watched him glance along the bar walls with disinterest. Suddenly, cool gray eyes locked with his own. The Elf had spotted him and was staring unabashedly.

Estel met his gaze for a moment, then felt a tug on his shoulder. He turned to see the Butterbur boy looking at him anxiously. Suddenly not in the mood for sitting by the fire, he turned back to the stable. He would rest well this night, and in the morning he would go about his chores as usual. He stripped from his uniform and folded it neatly by the bed. He lay on the straw, with just a thin sheet between him and it. He itched through the fabric. He pulled his blanket over his shoulders -- his well-worn blanket with the Elvish embroidery. He stared at the ceiling for hours, and then watched mice crawl along the walls. Sleep evaded him. He was very tired, but he could not stop thinking about the strange elf. Eventually, exhaustion overcame him, and his dreams were full of gray eyes and smooth Elven raiment draped over worn wooden chairs.

He awoke in the morning and found his body was stiff. His head was aching, but he didn't concede to it as he washed and dressed. He went to pump water, and found that it was frozen. An hour was lost there as he shivered in the chill wind. He hated winter, the barrenness and coldness that it brought. The handle on the pump stuck to his bare palms. Eventually, the water came and he carried it in buckets to the horses. He hurried to the inn and shook snow from his boots. He readied the bucket for mopping while wiping down the tables and chairs. Then, he took to the floors and scrubbed them until they reflected the light from the fire. He worked until his fingers started bleeding, then waited in the kitchen to take his meal. He washed his hands in a small bowl with a cake of lye, and poured water over them hurriedly. They were burning, and he moaned with the pain. The cook came in after a few minutes, took one look at the blood staining his fingers, and scowled. She disappeared for a few minutes, then the Innkeeper followed her inside the kitchen. His wife followed him inside, and started bandaging his hands. The cook set to work and handed him a piece of bread and stew. He stared at it in confusion. It wasn't time to eat.

The cook said something and waved him on. He ate each bite and then went to perform his after-breakfast chores. The Innkeeper stopped him with a hand to his shoulder, and shook his head. He pointed to a chair in the corner of the room, by the fire. Estel sat there gratefully, watching as guests came and went. To his surprise, he wasn't asked to do anything for the day. He appreciated the break, but wondered how much money would be taken from his pay. He had to save enough to get out of Bree and on the road to Fornost. He was clinging to his dream of getting there, although he didn't know what he would do once he arrived. He had listened -- in his way of watching lips to see a word spoken -- in the Inn for anyone going there or coming from the city, but had seen nothing. No one mentioned the city -- and it was so close! -- that he grew worried after his first year there. It was as though the Fornost didn't exist, or no one lived there.

He felt very disappointed with himself as he slept that night. He had failed some responsibility to himself. When he had awoken after the wagon-ride into the town, he had vowed that this was his second chance to prove himself. He promised himself that he would work hard until he was proud of himself and could return. His thoughts hadn't turned to Rivendell in many weeks. He was forgetting it, forgetting the place and the people. He was forgetting the way his father would hug him, or how Arwen stood over his shoulder and held his hand in hers as she showed him how to write his letters. He was forgetting the joyous times he had shared with his brothers in the archery field, keeping score as they competed with each other. He had nearly forgotten the exquisite meals that he had eaten in great halls. His mother had been erased from his mind, and he could not even remember his real father's name.

He slept heavily that night and returned to his chores with renewed vigor. He finished early that night, but did not sit in on the bar room. Instead, he washed his uniforms, he only had the three, and rubbed his gold coins between his fingers. They were warm from being pressed against his skin, and he took comfort of holding them. They were his own private symbol of victory. They told him that he had beaten the highwaymen that night, whether they knew it or not. He held them tightly in his hand that night as he slept, and his dreams were of caverns full of treasure, and a brunette woman standing on a hillside, arms outstretched. She was speaking to him, and he heard her words although he could not understand them.

The days passed quickly, and soon winter was winding to a close. He was looking forward to the warmth of spring. There would be more work, with more people moving on the roads, but he would be grateful to leave the chill of winter behind him. He was surprised when his workload was lightened. The Innkeeper Butterbur hired more help, and this girl was assigned to clean the stairs and ready rooms upstairs. She was friendly to him, although a bit cold. She told him, in repeated gestures, that she came from the south. Her face was stressed as she spoke, and she looked uncomfortable mentioning the subject. He left her alone after that, and the weeks crawled by slowly. Spring came, then went and summer was hard on the town.

Innkeeper Butterbur died on the summer solstice at the age of sixty-nine, and Estel found himself choked with emotion. His teenage son took over the inn, and Estel found his workload suddenly doubled when the hired girl left town abruptly. His feet were blistered every day, and hard calluses appeared on his fingers. There was never time to sit in the bar room, and he slept heavily each night with no dreams to be remembered in the morning. He celebrated his thirteenth birthday under the light of the stars, cleaning chamber pots. The old Innkeeper had given him extra food and lighter chores for his birthday, but the Prancing Pony was in grave financial distress and his once-friend, now-employer, couldn't afford to spend anything that he didn't have to. For months, he thought of the old Innkeeper's death. In Rivendell, he had been shielded from mortality. In Bree, he had grown fond of the old man, and then he had died. Just out, like a candle that had burned too long. He wished that he had never left Rivendell, that he had never been exposed to the final fate of his kind.

It was late in August, and he slept deeply at night, swatting mosquitoes unconsciously. The flies were terrible in the stable, and seemed intent on crawling on Estel. He ignored them as long as they did not bite, and when they did, he just batted with his hands. He wondered fleetingly if this was how he was going to spend his days, working himself to his death in an inn in the middle of nowhere. He hoped not, but didn't consider himself to have many options. He hugged his arms to his chest and squirmed under his light sheet -- it and the blanket had switched places in an effort to keep himself the coolest -- and dreamed of an Elf-lady with shimmering blond hair standing against a tree of silver. She was smiling at him, asking him questions that he didn't want to answer. She took his hands gently in her own, and led him to a ship. He could remember the sails blowing in the wind for years afterward.

--- next update : Monday, September 6, 2004. (In which we see Elves.)