This chapter contains a scene toward the end that may be sensitive for some readers. If certain difficult themes affect you, please proceed with caution. Take care of yourself, and feel free to skip certain passages if needed.

Happy reading.

CHAPTER 8 : EMMA

Alfred Butterbur was a jovial man, whose mere presence seemed to fill the inn with a particular warmth, almost tangible. His imposing stature was a testament to an undeniable passion for food, and his round, full cheeks, always slightly flushed, seemed to constantly lift beneath the weight of a smile. Emma watched him, fascinated by the man's joviality, the aura of kindness that emanated from him almost like a fragrance. His piercing gray eyes scanned faces with an intensity that was slightly unsettling, as if he were trying to read the thoughts of each person through their gaze. The deep crease marking the corner of his eyes only highlighted this tendency he had to smile almost constantly, to laugh more often than he breathed. Yet, despite his apparent cheerfulness, it was clear to everyone that the man was also a talented observer. A keen eye, able to pierce through masks, to distinguish the faces of strangers in search of trouble. It was through this same ability to analyze new faces that he had managed to maintain a respected, yet never forced, order in his tavern. An atmosphere that was both warm and orderly, where bursts of laughter, hearty chuckles, and songs mingled with lively discussions, never descending into chaos.

Emma looked at him, still intrigued by this face that seemed so open yet so deeply attentive. At first, she had observed him with some bewilderment, not understanding why, in this world she was still struggling to comprehend, a simple tavern could seem so alive, so full of simple happiness. However, it wasn't so much the conviviality that had struck her at first, but rather the eclectic creatures who gathered there. After all, she had not yet fully processed the sight of the Hobbits bustling around the tables, their small round figures and their disproportionately large and hairy feet sticking out from the edges of their trousers. This strange race of humanoids, resembling little elves, had left her speechless upon her arrival. Even more surprising were the Dwarves. Emma, her eyes wide, had watched them with astonishment. Bearded, stocky, and sturdy men, their faces bearing a silent gravity. Arathorn, having noticed her surprise, had calmly explained, as he always did, with endless patience, that they were Dwarves, an ancient race, as common as men in this region. This mixture of creatures had unsettled her a little, but she made an effort to keep her expression as neutral as possible, not wanting to expose her confusion any further.

Though disconcerted by this strange world, Emma gradually began to find her footing under the watchful and discreet eye of Arathorn. He seemed to know exactly when she needed his help, without her having to ask. When he bought her lady's clothing to help her fit in better, he did so with an unexpected tenderness, as though he understood, without words, the fragility of her emotions. The next day, he showed her, with remarkable precision, how to dress properly, how to take care of Marie, and even how to comfort the little girl when she began to cry for no apparent reason. Emma realized, with a mix of gratitude and embarrassment, that he was teaching her much more than just the language and local customs; he was teaching her how to survive here. His English, with its harsh accent and difficult-to-grasp nuances, was becoming less and less of an obstacle, thanks to him. Yet, a wave of shame washed over her with each lesson. She felt like a child at his side, a child still learning the simple things of life.

But this help, as precious as it was, came with a dull feeling that gnawed at her. A sort of inner conflict she couldn't shake, like invisible dust creeping into her mind. Emma had always seen herself as an independent woman, proud of her ability to manage on her own. It was a facet of her personality forged in the fires of a tumultuous childhood, where her mother lived off the charity of others. She had sworn she wouldn't end up like that. Yet today, she found herself depending on Arathorn for everything. Every meal, every night, every garment, every smile seemed to be the result of his generosity. And that bothered her deeply. She felt small, diminished by this dependency. He had become her pillar, the one who carried her burdens, but also the one who made her feel intense discomfort.

She remembered how, one night, she had timidly expressed what she was feeling. She spoke to him about her burden, the weight of her gratitude, this feeling of being indebted to a point that almost seemed ridiculous. But he, with his calm smile and relaxed gaze, had simply brushed it off with a wave of his hand, as if it were all natural. What he did for her, for Marie, was simply self-evident to him. And it had left her deeply unsettled. Emma didn't know how to react. A part of her was touched by this incredible kindness, but another, prouder part, felt trapped. How could she still present herself as a strong and independent woman when she depended entirely on someone else for her survival, for the survival of her daughter? She felt as though she were losing herself in this world, becoming a shadow of herself.

And yet, despite this inner turmoil, another thought lingered. Arathorn was not eternal. This world, which seemed so welcoming, so mysteriously protective, was not the one in which she had grown up. The rules were different, and the place of women, though she didn't yet know all its contours, was clearly not the same. She would have to face this reality one day, to stand on her own without him. That world required something else from her. But for now, she couldn't see beyond the present, couldn't imagine a future where she could walk alone.

Thus, in this inn, among the laughter and voices, amidst the smells of stew and beer, Emma felt like a stranger in a strange land. Sometimes, the weight of uncertainty overwhelmed her, but the warmth of the welcome, the silent presence of Arathorn, kept her from losing herself too long in her troubles.

Perhaps that was why, one morning, at dawn, after a night of insomnia that had only intensified her inner turmoil, the young woman, dressed simply and without embellishment, rose from her bed. The silence of the inn, still steeped in the calm of the morning, gave her a strange feeling of emptiness. She moved down the dark corridor, her feet softly landing on the creaking floorboards. She had to act. She had to find a way to contribute, to no longer remain there observing, depending. The weight of her gratitude toward Arathorn, kind as he was, still pressed on her. The thought of being at the mercy of others, of being a mere spectator in this foreign world, seemed unbearable. She was no longer that independent and strong young woman she had been. That had to change.

So, with a new resolution, she made her way to the basement of the tavern. It was decided: she was going to ask for a job. If she could do something, even the smallest thing, to lighten the load for others, then she would feel a little less lost and a little less useless too.

Alfred Butterbur, who was busy replenishing the tavern's supplies, looked at her in surprise when she entered. The astonishment on his face was brief, but enough for her to read it. A guest, and a woman at that, asking to work in his establishment? It was rare, truly rare. Normally, customers came to drink, eat, and then leave, never meddling in the affairs of the house. But something in the intensity of her gaze, in her determined posture, made Butterbur fall silent for a moment. He stared at her, as if weighing the pros and cons, his gaze fixed on her, scrutinizing her eyes with a certain perplexity. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he nodded slowly, as though the decision was maturing in his mind.

"I'll need some time to think about it, Emma," he finally said, his voice deep and friendly, filled with the kindness he seemed to naturally extend to everyone. "Give me a little time."

She nodded silently and stepped back, her heart beating with a slight apprehension. She had expected him to refuse or push her away, but her request hung there, suspended in the air of the tavern. When she returned to her room, her mind kept spinning, repeatedly telling herself that she had made the right choice, but a part of her remained anxious, dreading rejection, still fearing she might be useless.

That very afternoon, as Emma stood by the window, watching the clouds dance with the Sun, a knock on the door startled her. She turned, and upon opening the door, found Alfred Butterbur standing there, smiling as though he hadn't really thought about it for long after all.

"Well, I've thought it over," he said in a jovial voice, his eyes sparkling with the approval he seemed to reserve only for decisions that suited him. "Molly could really use a hand in the kitchen. If you're ready, join me this evening."

A wave of relief washed over Emma, as sudden as it was powerful. It was more than she had hoped for. Finally, a chance to contribute, to feel that she had a place here. A role to play. A purpose. She smiled, a joy that was almost shy, but real.

Molly, Butterbur's wife, was everything Emma hadn't anticipated. A woman of obvious kindness, with a round and welcoming figure, cheeks flushed from the heat of the ovens, hands full of flour and sauce. She was a ray of sunshine in the kitchen, and her gentleness seemed to pour over everything she touched. Her voice, deep but soft, whispered comforting words to Emma as she showed her how to tie a scarf in such a way that she could carry Marie against her body without it becoming a burden. The movement was simple but precise, like a secret passed between women, a kind of tacit bond of solidarity.

"There you go, my dear," Molly said, adjusting little Marie's position on her back. "Much more comfortable this way. Don't worry if she moves around a bit."

Emma, touched by the warmth and attention of the cook, did as instructed without hesitation, following her directions with a gratitude she couldn't always express. Then, with her mind a little lighter, she set to work.

The kitchen soon filled with the sounds of peeled vegetables, the sound of knives striking the cutting board, the warm sounds of cooking in the pot. Carrots, turnips, potatoes—everything passed through her now familiar hands. She felt alive, fully present in the moment, and for the first time in a long while, a sense of calm washed over her. It wasn't anything grand, nothing spectacular. But she was doing something, and that was enough for her. The meat simmered slowly, the aromas blending, filling the room with a comforting warmth. The bursts of laughter from the patrons below in the tavern seemed to meld into the work atmosphere. She felt like she belonged, finally. She wasn't just an observer, but a part of this world, a part of this place.

Occasionally, breaks were needed, and Emma would quietly slip away into a corner to give Marie a little attention, letting her stretch her legs. She would straighten up, watch the little girl with tenderness, feeling her heart swell with a protective love, an endless love. Then, after a few moments, she would return to her task with cheerful eagerness. She hadn't noticed the day passing by. As the hours went on, she felt more and more in tune with this place, with the people surrounding her.

The days that followed stretched out into a routine that, little by little, became the quiet pillar of Emma's life. In the mornings, as the soft light of day slipped through the window of her room, she would rise carefully so as not to wake Marie, who was peacefully sleeping in her little crib. It was a special moment, almost sacred, one that Emma cherished. She would slowly approach the basin of warm water that Molly had kindly left for them, and bathe Marie with infinite tenderness. The droplets of water spread over the delicate skin of the little girl, and Emma smiled as she saw Marie shiver softly, her eyes half-closed, a gleam of trust in her gaze. She lost herself in this simplicity, each gesture a caress, each smile a silent promise of protection.

After the bath, she would spend a little time washing Marie's soiled cloths, soaking them in soapy water. The sound of water hitting the fabric and the gentle scent of soap filled the air, soothing her mind as much as her body despite the unfamiliarity of the task. Then, she would take the time to tidy up the room a little. A flick of the wrist to fold the blankets, a sweep of the broom to chase away the dust that inevitably settled in the corner. These small domestic tasks, insignificant in the eyes of many, gave her a strange sense of stability. She had found a semblance of normalcy in these simple actions, these small routines, and it was a victory, albeit a modest one.

Before noon, she would head down to the tavern's large kitchen. There, Molly, the cook, was already waiting for her, always full of the same inexhaustible cheerful energy. Molly's skilled hands hurried around the pots and pans, preparing a simple vegetable purée for Marie, which Emma carefully made. After that, she slipped into the role of cook for the customers. She wasn't an expert yet, but every day she learned a little more of the kitchen's secrets. The crackling of the embers, the smells of roasted meat and simmering vegetables—all of it became familiar. And Molly, with her unchanging smile, never failed to offer her encouragement, bringing new, shy yet sincere smiles to Emma's face. The cook seemed to have a gentle touch, capable of melting away all fears, and her kindness was a soft breeze in the bustling life of Emma.

Marie, for her part, thrived in the warmth of this new life. The little girl adored Molly, seeming to view her as a motherly figure, a sweet aunt who offered smiles, hugs, and even little songs sung into her ear. Emma, watching the growing bond between the two women, felt a mixture of gratitude and relief. It was a relief to know that her daughter was surrounded by so much kindness, and a sincere gratitude toward Molly, who had proven to be more than just a kitchen colleague.

In the afternoon, Arathorn returned from his patrols, exhausted, but always with that unyielding determination to remain present. He had dirty skin, his features drawn from fatigue, but he made the effort to give her a few minutes, sometimes even hours, to teach her the basics of the local language. The softness of his voice, even when tired, helped her overcome her frustrations with the subtleties of the local English. Sometimes, she felt like a clumsy student, but Arathorn had infinite patience, never making her feel like she was behind in her learning. The regional accent, once incomprehensible, was now less enigmatic. She was beginning to understand the conversations, to guess the intentions behind the words. But sometimes, it still took her a moment to untangle the rough sounds of the accent.

One day, during a lively discussion about how to care for Marie in this world from another time, she discovered that Arathorn was married and had a young son, Aragorn, whom she had never heard of. The information shocked her deeply, and worry began to rise within her. She couldn't understand why a man so apparently devoted to his mission would spend so much time away from his family. She had tried, with palpable hesitation, to suggest that he return to his loved ones, to reconnect with his family ties, but he had done nothing. Arathorn, in almost solemn silence, explained to her that his lineage went back to a long tradition of kings, and that his duty was to protect these lands, to drive away the shadow to ensure the safety of the people. This role, he had accepted, like a burden he carried every day with the nobility and rigor that defined him. Emma understood that she could never fully grasp this world, this heritage.

In the evening, Emma would find Molly in the kitchen to prepare for another service. Marie, still swaddled in the sling Molly had taught her to use, would invariably fall asleep against her, lulled by the familiar sounds of the kitchen, exhausted from a day of discoveries and tender care. The little girl seemed to have found a peaceful rhythm in life, and for Emma, it brought deep relief. But this tranquility, slowly weaving itself, didn't prevent her thoughts from wandering, sometimes getting tangled. The Elves, those immortal and mysterious beings, remained a source of questioning. One evening, as they were preparing dinner, Molly confided in Emma that she had never expected to become friends with an Elven lady. Elves, she said, often kept to themselves, preferring their own company and rarely appearing in town. Emma sought to understand, to probe the reasons. And it was then that Molly, in a grave and steady voice, revealed a chilling truth, one that sent a shiver down Emma's spine. Elves, she explained, were immortal. They didn't age, they didn't know the cycles of human life, and that was why they often kept to themselves, away from other peoples. Loss, she said, was a pain few could understand. How, after all, could one bear to lose a loved one, over and over again, through the ages and centuries? It was a burden that even immortality could not soothe.

Molly's words echoed in Emma's mind for a long time, and for several nights, she tossed and turned in her bed, troubled, disturbed by the enormity of this truth. Then, during one of her long conversations with Arathorn, she brought it up. Arathorn's surprise was evident, but it was especially when he learned her real age that he seemed most astonished. She was only 26. Among the Elves, adulthood began at 100. She would never age as humans did, and the thought plunged her into a kind of panic. But as the conversation went on, she managed to calm herself. There were other Elves. Lord Elrond, Arathorn's distant uncle, was an Elf. A wise man, known for his kindness, and he would not turn them away. Emma closed her eyes, silently praying that this was true, that this promise was not an illusion.

The days stretched on in a peaceful routine, a gentle illusion of normalcy that Emma strove to maintain. Each morning, the soft light caressed the beams of the tavern, and she found some comfort in the repeated actions: preparing the bread, pouring the steaming tea, listening to Arathorn's lessons, whispering stories to Marie before tucking her in. Little by little, her world seemed to stabilize, like a sea that, after the storm, found its deceptive calm.

Then, that evening, she let her guard down.

She softly closed the door to Marie's room, her gaze lingering on the tiny fist clenched around a corner of the blanket. In the peaceful darkness, every sound took on a new dimension: the creak of the wood beneath her feet, the rustling of the wind against the shutters, the distant murmur of muffled conversations. Since her transformation, her senses had been heightened, and sounds, usually insignificant, now struck her like shards of glass. That was why she had made a habit of wrapping a soft cloth band around Marie's ears, an invention that, to her surprise, had become a fashion among the village children.

Tonight, however, the silence felt unusual. Heavier. More threatening.

As she descended the stairs, her thoughts wandered in the fragile stillness of the night, this respite where, for a moment, she was simply Emma. Not a stranger, not a prey being hunted by shadowy creatures. Just a young woman in a quiet inn. Her heart beat peacefully.

Until a hand shot out from the darkness and ripped her from this illusion.

Cold, rough, relentless, it closed around her arm with a brutality that froze her in place. Pain exploded under the pressure, radiating down her shoulder, and before she could draw the breath for a scream, another hand, sticky with alcohol and sweat, slammed against her mouth.

The acrid smell of rancid wine and filth assaulted her, suffocating. A harsh breath escaped from lips far too close to her skin, burning with the scent of intoxication and unspoken desires. She tried to pull back, but her back hit the cold wall, a brutal shock that tore a muffled groan from her. The iron grip on her arm tightened, and a wave of pure panic surged through her veins.

A low, viscous laugh echoed in her ear.

"You think I don't know your tricks, my dear?" the man hissed in a thick voice. "You've lured me into your net, haven't you? Now it's my turn to collect what's due..."

Emma opened her eyes, and the world flipped into a nightmare. The face before her was that of a young man, barely out of adolescence, but consumed by drunkenness and depravity. His waxen features were marked by excess, his cloudy eyes shone with a sickly greed. He examined her with a slow gaze, lingering on the bare skin of her neck, on the line of her exposed shoulder revealed by her too-thin nightgown.

A shiver of horror ran through her, visceral, unrelenting. She tried to struggle, but the man tightened his hold, and a twisted smile stretched across his lips. His dirty fingers slid over the fabric of her gown, leaving a searing line against her skin.

No.

A sharp burn spread across her neck. Her necklace. The silver pendant, adorned with three blue stones, vibrated against her skin, not as a mere piece of jewelry, but like a living, conscious entity. A cold wave, followed by an oppressive warmth, coursed through her body in a powerful pulse, like a distant presence awakening. Her breath caught, not in fear, but in a strange echo she couldn't understand.

A raw, wild emotion surged within her. A rage, but one that was not her own.

Her heart began to race violently, and she didn't understand why. It wasn't simply fear. It was something older, more instinctive. A feeling of urgency, of possession, a silent cry ringing in her mind.

Léo.

His name sprang into her thoughts, though she didn't know why. She saw him, just for a fraction of a second. His burning gaze, his clenched fists, seeing him focus on the shadow of a distant danger he could sense but couldn't reach.

And in that fraction of a second, Emma understood that she couldn't let this happen.

She bit down violently on the filthy hand over her mouth, her bite sinking into the flesh like a blade. The man howled, stepping back, and she seized the opportunity to deliver a sharp kick to his shin with the heel of her foot.

A deafening crash broke the night. A door slammed open violently, striking the wall with a resounding crash.

"Let her go immediately, you scoundrel!"

The voice, clear and furious, belonged to a Hobbit. Small, stocky, but with a presence that far exceeded his size, he stepped forward, his staff striking the ground with authority. His bare feet seemed rooted in the wood, as though he had belonged to this place forever.

Emma had never really paid attention to him before. He was a regular at the tavern, a traveler among many, often in the background, too small to catch the eye in the bustle of daily life. But now, he was an indomitable force. A savior Emma never would have thought she could hope for.

"By all the ancestors of the Shire, you're nothing but a cockroach!" he roared, his eyes flashing with a fury that seemed disproportionate for someone of his size. "You think we're peaceful people, don't you? You think we, Hobbits, don't know how to fight?"

He spun his staff in a controlled motion, and the tension in the room escalated.

"I've seen goblins fall who were more worthy than you!" he growled.

The attacker swallowed, taking another step back.

Other doors slammed open with sudden force.

Men and dwarves emerged from their rooms, some still groggy from sleep, others already armed with makeshift weapons—a candelabra, a bottle, an old rusty sword. The air was charged with an almost palpable tension, as if the walls themselves had held their breath.

Then a deeper, heavier sound drowned out all others. Quick, furious footsteps, a pounding march that split the atmosphere like a blade drawn from its sheath.

Arathorn.

He appeared at the entrance of the hallway, a shadow larger, more menacing than all the others. His long cloak still billowed behind him from the force of his run, his massive figure standing in stark contrast to the hesitant figures of the other men. He was still marked by the hours spent on the road: his face streaked with fine traces of dust and soot, his clothes bearing the evidence of his regular patrols, wrinkled, stained with mud and effort. The smell of damp earth and rain-soaked leather clung to him, a testament to the bad weather he had braved that day.

But his gaze... His gaze was that of a predator.

He scanned the scene in an instant, taking in every detail—the attacker still staggering, the lightning fear in Emma's face, the red mark on her wrist where the man's grip had bruised her.

A low growl rose from deep in his throat. With swift steps, he positioned himself in front of Emma, placing himself as a shield between her and the man, his body taut like a rope ready to snap. The smell of blood and sweat still rose from his skin, but he didn't care. All that mattered was her. His new friend, whom he had failed to protect at the right moment.

In one sharp motion, he unhooked his cloak, still heavy with the dust of the road, and wrapped it around Emma's shoulders. Not just to warm her, but to hide her.

Dozens of eyes had settled on her, scrutinizing, inquisitive. Some filled with curiosity, others with pity. But none of them pleased him. He didn't want her to be a victim put on display.

"That's enough."

His voice was deep, cutting.

The man staggered backward, more shaken by Arathorn's presence than by his words.

Emma, pressed against the rough leather of his cloak, felt the steady thrum of her heartbeat against her temple. Strong. Reassuring.

A silence fell. Slowly, deliberately, Arathorn placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Leave now, before I decide that you don't deserve to see the sun rise."

The attacker, still dazed, felt the weight of the warning pierce through the drunken haze that clouded his mind. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but a single step closer from Arathorn silenced him. The man hesitated for a moment longer, then stumbled backward, almost tripping in his haste to flee.

The silence became suffocating.

Emma felt Arathorn's hand, warm and firm, press lightly against her back, urging her to move. To not remain frozen under the eyes upon them. She obeyed, allowing herself to be guided through the crowd to her room, away from the whispers, away from the scene she no longer wished to witness.

Once inside, sheltered, breathless, she could only cling tighter to the rough fabric of the cloak that enveloped her, still trembling from the nightmare she had just endured. Arathorn, silent, remained by her side. Close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body, close enough for her to know she was not alone.

Her necklace, however, had grown cold again. As if, somewhere, someone had stopped crying out.