Thank you for all the encouragement, people! I feel so spurred on to keep writing. I want to say a special thank-you to The Great Blond Balrog Slayer (awesome name), Alfirineth, Sparky, and Your Perfect Nightmare for their generous comments. And thanks to all who are following - that's definitely an inspiration to stop watching T.V. and write something. Necessary disclaimer: the lyrics to the song in this part are Tolkien's, as most of you will probably know already.
Delicate strands of red hair tumbled into her eyes as Rowan frantically attempted to shake the dirty hand away while her left hand flew up to cover her ear with hair once more.
"Don't touch me. You don't need to do that, I understand." Her words acquiesced, but her tone still communicated rebellion.
"You don't seem to. Don't forget, dear: if I squeal about what you are, not even a pig farmer would let you feed his hogs slop. You'll be a dangerous freak, a lunatic waiting to take advantage of men's weaknesses. And to the elves, if you should run to them...if you can even find them," he added with a smirk, "you'll be an embarrassment, a reminder of some dead elvish whore they'd rather forget. I think I deserve a little more gratitude. You know, things might be easier for you if you let me see what's under other things..." By now, Morton's hand had moved back to holding her other arm, and his knowing grin was barely an inch from her eyes. In reply, Rowan spit in them. It was not her most refined moment, she knew, but this man seemed to react to little else but the most crude communications, and on this point clarity was essential. She barely had time to enjoy his shocked expression, however, before his hand slapped the left side of her mouth, hard. In two years, he had only hit her once before. He must be either quite drunk, or more desperate for company than she had imagined. She kept her face toward the kitchen end of the hallway, where the slap had left it, her jaw set in defiance but silenced.
"Pick this up," the innkeeper growled quietly, "and go bloody sing." With a final squeeze on her arm, he released her and stomped down the hall toward the bar. Only a few seconds after their violent encounter, the sound of his jolly greeting to the bartenders reached Rowan's ears as she remained by the wall, eyes closed as she caught her breath and tried to suppress her anger. Finally, she sighed and began collecting the mugs and plates, many of which had fresh chips, and replacing them on the tray. Glancing unthinkingly up at the grey curtain that separated the hallway from the tavern, something caught Rowan's eye, a hint of a person who had been watching but who had vanished at the moment that she had looked up from her task. The Ranger flitted across her mind, and was gone almost as quickly.
The dishes collected and put away, her hair pinned carefully over her ears again, and her hands and face washed and dried, the young woman solemnly walked back down the hallway toward the tavern hall. As the sounds of merriment grew louder, her expression shifted to match them. The head bartender knew how to read the way she entered the room, and after she briefly caught his eye, he slammed his palm on the table for attention and announced: "Everyone, a little music for you tonight! Our own Rowan is going to serenade us!"
Most of the visitors had come to The Prancing Pony before, usually countless times in the past two years, and they clearly recognized what was coming. Cheers erupted, a few people shouted Rowan's name, and hands and feet pounded the tables and floor. Rowan stepped onto a chair at the front of the room, inhaled, and sang something her grandmother had sung to her before she died.
The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering.
Tinuviel was dancing there
To music of a pipe unseen,
And light of stars was in her hair
And in her raiment glimmering.
There Beren came from mountains cold,
And lost he wandered under leaves,
And where the Elven-river rolled,
He walked alone and sorrowing.
He peered between the hemlock-leaves
And saw in wonder flowers of gold
Upon her mantle and her sleeves,
And her hair like shadow following.
Rowan thought of her grandmother as she sang, and how she told her this tale of a human man and an elven lady falling in love thousands of years ago. She expected that the song was meant to give her a beautiful picture to put in the place of her father and mother, whom Rowan had never known. As she sang verse after verse and her thoughts became more complicated, those of the men became more cloudy. Rowan's eyes watched theirs glaze over, staring at nothing in the distance. They'll be here for hours now, she knew. Drinking until the sunrise and putting more money into the Pony's saddlebags. Otherwise known as Morton.