I'm sorry this is a bit short, but a little writing is better than no writing, eh? I hope there's less space between updates next time. Hope you enjoy!
The sun was only a couple of hours from rising by the time that Rowan finally closed and barred the front door of the tavern, and began washing the piles of mugs and dishes that had formed in the kitchen. Sighing, she uncovered the massive tub of clean water that she had filled earlier in the night and picked up the first cup.
She had only finished five or so when she heard something behind her in the doorway. A footstep. A customer, surely, drunk and unsure of how to find his way to his rooms upstairs. It was not so uncommon an occurrence, and Rowan did not even turn around or stop scrubbing.
"Sir, do you need help finding your room?" she called over the sounds of splashing water and her stiff brush.
"No, thank you," was the quiet reply. Not drunk at all.
Finally whirling around and expecting to find one of Alden's men leaning in the doorway looking for a romantic send-off, or something similar, Rowan saw instead the Ranger from earlier in the night, the one who had stared at her so strangely.
"Oh, you're still here," she said somewhat stupidly. After serving him a couple of pints of ale and some bread she had forgotten about him, but he had apparently been there for hours after she last saw him. A little twinge of guilt rose in her consciousness, since she did take a small amount of pride in being a decent and attentive server. The man did not answer, and only continued to look at Rowan in that way that made her feel discovered, like any secret kept from this man would never have been a secret in the first place. His silence prompted her to take a better look of her own, and she saw that he was taller than most men in Bree, and held himself differently. Although his clothing seemed no more costly than that of a typical Ranger, and his face was dirty and unshaven, his posture suggested that he would have felt as at home in a lord's manor as he did here. His clothing was black from shoulder to heel, and was made of the tough leather stuff designed for long journeys in the wild. A sword hung from his belt.
"Sir, I'm sorry, but we've closed for the night. You'll have to leave. Unless you have a room?"
"I need to speak to you. Rowan, is it?" Rowan suppressed the little shock she got at the sound of her name by remembering that he had been in the tavern all night, and people would surely have been mentioning her name after she had sung.
"Yes, it is, but you could have spoken to me tonight, when we were open." She disliked speaking firmly to this man, but the dishes and the late hour weighed on her mind, and it made her uneasy that somehow she had failed to even glimpse him when she had closed up the tavern.
"I knew you would rather be alone, when we spoke."
"And why is that?" She feared some kind of awkward romantic advance. Or worse, something not-so-awkward that would tempt her to do something dangerous. She looked square in the Ranger's brown eyes, while he gave her the slightest of smiles that almost calmed her fears. There was a hint of sadness in it. He still hadn't moved from the doorway, just as Rowan hadn't moved from where she stood surrounded by tubs and pails and dishes, the piles appearing slightly protective of her. The Ranger paused for a few seconds, waiting for the right way, or the right moment, to begin.
"I enjoyed hearing you sing tonight."
Rowan almost laughed, but only managed a wry, weary grin. "Yes, well, sir, so does everyone."
The Ranger actually laughed. "Yes, I know. But I actually heard you. I could listen. I was raised in Rivendell, so elvensong does not affect me like it does these northern men. And you can call me Strider."