CHAPTER 10 : EMMA
The days passed, but Emma's fear remained anchored deep within her, like an insidious poison. The tavern, once a place of comfort and conviviality, had become a space of unease and constant vigilance. Every creak of the wooden floorboards, every whisper of wind through the windows, left a bitter taste in her mouth. She no longer dared to walk the dark corridors alone; every movement was tinged with apprehension, every door closed with hurried discretion. Even going to the kitchen had become an ordeal. The flames crackled in the hearth, but their warmth did nothing to dispel the icy grip of fear tightening around her heart.
Marie, her little girl, was her only solace. Barely a year old, she was a ray of sunshine in the darkness of Emma's thoughts. When she looked at her, when she felt the warmth of those tiny hands wrapped around her finger, Emma could almost forget the terror gnawing at her soul. Marie, all smiles and laughter, was nothing but an innocent child—a promise of a future in a world that seemed increasingly menacing.
"You are my light," she would sometimes whisper in her ear, feeling more fragile than ever, as if each passing day added another weight to her shoulders. But even those moments of tenderness could not keep the surrounding noises from pulling her back to reality. The voices in the tavern, the comings and goings of the patrons, the laughter—everything had become heavy, suffocating.
Molly, ever watchful, knew that Emma's silences spoke volumes. She wasn't the type to let herself go, to confide easily. Every day, Molly felt that the young woman was slipping further away, as if something inside her had been put on hold. But Molly wasn't the kind to let people drown in their own thoughts. She knew that sometimes, it wasn't words that brought comfort, but simply being there—offering a listening ear and a reassuring touch.
One afternoon, as Emma leaned against the counter once more, her gaze lost in the sea of people filling the tavern, Molly quietly slipped beside her. She placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, a touch filled with the warmth she knew could be comforting.
"You know," she began, her voice carrying that familiar softness, "I've seen you fight before. Not many people have that kind of resilience, Emma. It's not like you to give up."
Emma slowly turned her head, a fleeting smile appearing on her lips. There were no tears, no obvious signs of distress. She was simply exhausted, as if an invisible weight rested upon her shoulders.
"I know," she replied calmly. "But sometimes, it just feels... heavier. Harder."
She gave a small shrug, as if trying to lighten the meaning of her words.
"I feel a bit... out of myself, sometimes."
Molly didn't take her eyes off her. She knew Emma wasn't the kind to let herself be defeated for long, but it was clear she was battling her own thoughts, facing things she wasn't used to confronting.
"You know," Molly continued with a mischievous smile, "when you first arrived here, you impressed me. Not just with the way you handled things, but with your courage. And even if you don't always show it, I know that courage is still there. It doesn't just disappear."
She patted her shoulder gently, sealing her words with a reassuring touch.
"So don't worry, Emma. You'll find your way. You always do."
Emma nodded, her expression slightly more at ease. She didn't need grand speeches—just a little light in moments of uncertainty. And Molly, with her effortless way of pushing her forward without pressure, was exactly what she needed. No pity, no grand promises—just solid friendship and quiet support.
Alfred, on the other hand, wasn't the type to express his feelings openly, but he knew Emma's heart needed a bit of comfort. He never missed a chance to offer her a reassuring smile or a few encouraging words, even in the midst of the tavern's bustling energy. While serving a customer, he turned toward her and said with a knowing wink:
"You look a little lost in thought today, Emma. Want another beer? Or maybe just some company?"
Emma smiled, this time a bit more sincerely, letting go of the heaviness that sometimes clouded her mind.
"I'll take a tea, thanks, Alfred. But I appreciate the company option."
Alfred chuckled as he set a cup in front of her.
"Good, because I'm in high demand today. But if things get too quiet, you know where to find me."
Then he walked away with a nod, his movements quick but steady, as always.
Emma felt a little lighter. No great miracle—just a bit more warmth, the kind found in small, everyday gestures that, little by little, rebuilt her sense of trust. She let out a quiet sigh. No need to face everything at once. She wasn't alone, and that made all the difference.
Since the incident at the tavern, Arathorn had been even more present—an imposing figure in Emma's life, like a solid anchor in a world growing ever more blurred and menacing. She needed him, even if admitting it meant confronting her own demons. In his quiet but steadfast way, Arathorn worked to restore the strength she believed she had lost. Every lesson was a challenge, a direct confrontation with her deepest fears. He pushed her—gently, but firmly—to rise again, to not let herself be consumed by the shadow of what had happened.
That morning, like all the others, she made her way to a secluded corner of the tavern, a room set apart from the rest, where Arathorn was waiting for her. The atmosphere was calm, far removed from the usual noise of the tavern, yet for Emma, everything still felt muffled by the distant echo of her anxiety. There was a tranquility in the room that stood in stark contrast to the storm inside her. She saw him standing in the corner—his imposing silhouette, majestic beneath his dark cloak. He didn't move, yet his presence filled the space, like a rock standing firm against a raging sea. And in that moment, that was exactly what he was to her—a steady point of anchorage in the tempest of her thoughts.
Arathorn watched her in silence, his piercing blue eyes fixed on her with quiet insistence, as if waiting for her to finally make a decision. He wasn't going to let her be consumed by her fears—not again. He held out a wooden sword, a simple weapon but one heavy with meaning, a symbol of what she needed to become.
"Focus, Emma," he said, his voice firm yet gentle. "Don't think about what frightened you. Forget it, if only for a moment. Focus on your body. Watch where you place your feet. Feel the ground beneath your shoes. That's all that matters here."
Emma stared at the sword, the rough wood beneath her fingers making her heart clench. It pounded harder, each beat resonating in her ears. She wasn't ready—she knew that. But she had no choice. She couldn't let fear control her any longer. She had to reclaim her body, her mind, her future. Swallowing back her hesitation, she took the sword.
Her hands were cold, trembling, her breath unsteady. She turned her gaze to Arathorn, searching for some reassurance in his eyes. But all she found was patient expectation—a quiet, unwavering presence that filled her with both courage and shame. He wasn't rushing her. He was simply there, a silent guide on a journey she had to undertake alone.
"Yes," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "I can do this..."
Arathorn gave her a small smile, but there was no mockery in it. Only understanding. Only support.
"You don't have to do this for me, Emma," he said calmly. "Do it for yourself. Do it for Marie."
His words struck her like a dagger—sharp but purposeful. He was right. She had to fight for herself, for the sake of protecting her daughter, for the chance to rebuild herself. And as she focused on that thought, something new coursed through her—a quiet, growing strength.
Arathorn moved—sudden, swift, like a shadow in motion. His strike came fluidly, an attack she hadn't anticipated. Caught off guard, Emma instinctively stepped back, nearly stumbling over her own feet. Panic surged in her chest, but before it could take hold, Arathorn's firm grip steadied her, anchoring her in place.
"That's not how you should react," he said, his voice calm but resolute. "You don't run. You block."
His words echoed in her mind, and she understood. She had to be stronger than her fear. She had to do more than just retreat—she had to learn to control her body, to direct it against the attack, to use it to protect herself.
He guided her, over and over again, forcing her to focus on every motion, every movement. Again and again, they repeated the same sequences. Sometimes, anxiety crept in, making her arms falter, her stance waver. But Arathorn corrected her each time, his voice steady, his hands adjusting her posture, showing her how to hold her ground, how to tighten her grip, how to control each action.
Time stretched, but gradually, her hesitation began to fade. She felt the strain in her muscles, the burn in her arms from the effort, but also a strange sense of release. She was no longer shrinking away from the movements. Each mistake became a stepping stone, each failure a lesson. And though doubt still lingered, it no longer paralyzed her.
Through repetition, through effort, through failures and small victories, Emma began to sense something shift inside her. She wasn't as hesitant, not as fragile. The fear was still there, lurking in the shadows, but she was learning to hold it at bay—to turn it into something else. She could now imagine facing it, defending herself against it, keeping it at a distance.
And then, for the first time, she blocked Arathorn's attack with a certain fluidity. A surge of pride filled her chest. Her breath was still short, but her stance was steadier. She knew she wasn't at the end of her journey, but she had taken an important step. A great step.
"Good, Emma," Arathorn said, straightening. He gave her a satisfied nod. "That's better. Much better. But this is only the beginning. There is still work to do, but today, you proved what you're capable of."
Emma, her heart still pounding, felt strangely light—like a part of the weight she had been carrying had finally begun to lift. She wasn't as lost as she had thought. There was strength within her, a strength she had forgotten. And thanks to Arathorn, she had begun to find it again.
The days passed quietly at the tavern, marked by the comings and goings of customers, dishes to prepare, and the laughter of regulars. Emma, ever the quiet one, devoted herself carefully to her work alongside Molly in the kitchen, carrying Marie in a sling on her back, like a safety blanket, her little girl close to her. It kept her active, but also grounded in a routine that, though exhausting, reassured her. Her movements were precise, almost automatic, yet there was still a slight tremor in her hands as she poured drinks or adjusted the plates. It wasn't visible, just a trace of the worry that lingered within her.
One morning, as she passed near the fireplace where the flames danced merrily, she spotted Tolman Cotton sitting with Alfred, a broad smile on his face. He was there, out in the open, as warm as ever in his manner, a ray of sunshine in this corner of the tavern. The moment he saw Emma, he sprang to his feet and greeted her with a theatrical wave, a mug of beer in hand.
"Ah, the lady of courage!" Tolman exclaimed, raising his mug, his eyes twinkling with that lively energy Emma so appreciated. "Delighted to see you here, Emma!"
She responded with a shy smile, not daring to reveal the shadow that sometimes crossed her mind.
"I'm doing my best, Tolman, you know... Not much more than that," she murmured, her voice calm, almost measured, as if she had grown used to downplaying her struggles.
Tolman studied her for a moment, a playful expression forming on his lips. Then he burst into laughter, a hearty, pleasant sound that echoed through the room.
"Oh, I understand that," he said, shaking his head. "The road to healing takes time. But like I always say, every little step counts. And you, Emma, you're moving forward—that's something."
He gave her a wink, his voice warm.
"And you see, I'm well-placed to tell you that. I've had my fair share of adventures too."
Emma nodded, touched by his sincerity, though she said nothing about her own battles.
"Thank you, Tolman. It's good to hear that," she sighed.
She glanced toward the kitchen, a faint sigh escaping her lips.
"But the road isn't fully clear yet."
Tolman, as laid-back as ever, set his mug down on the table with a soft thud.
"The road's never fully clear, Emma," he said gently. "That's why we have to keep moving forward anyway."
He watched her for a moment, his smile softening.
"And you know, I've been seeing you here for a while, working tirelessly. But you're not alone. If you ever want a break, I run a tavern in the Shire. It's far from here, but it's a peaceful place, quiet. Hobbits, you know, they're simple folk. Nothing like this happens in our part of the world. I come to Bree regularly to restock. And if you want, you'd be welcome to join me."
Emma looked at him, surprised by the offer, though she didn't let it show. She leaned slightly forward, instinctively holding Marie closer to her chest.
"The Shire?" she repeated, considering the implications.
Her gaze drifted for a moment, wondering if it might be an opportunity to escape all that weighed on her here.
Tolman, having picked up on Emma's hesitation but also the interest in her eyes, smiled more softly.
"The Shire is a refuge, Emma. A place to take your time, not rushing, not always looking over your shoulder."
He paused, then added in a quieter voice:
"And I assure you, you'll find peace there. Marie will too. Hobbits know what it means to take care of others."
Emma looked at Marie, a faint smile forming on her lips. She could almost imagine life there, calm and serene.
"You really want me to come?" she asked, almost shyly.
The idea of leaving Bree seemed bold, but also soothing.
Tolman shrugged casually.
"Of course, I could use someone to help me run the tavern, and I'm sure a little company wouldn't hurt."
He laughed heartily, his face glowing with that simple charm that made him so endearing.
"And then we could talk all about it over a good pint, eh?"
Emma couldn't help but smile at the thought.
"You're quite the character, Tolman," she said, shaking her head, touched by his kindness. "I'll think about it. But I think I might need a little time."
Tolman flashed her a knowing smile, his gaze light yet serious.
"Take your time, Emma. I'm here when you're ready."
Then, in a more playful tone, he added:
"And if you change your mind, you know where to find me."
It was with these warm words that Tolman walked away, leaving Emma to ponder. As he made his way to the tavern door, he threw her one last glance, a conspiratorial wink, and left behind the scent of the outside breeze, light and comforting. Emma turned on her heels and returned to her tasks, but a glimmer of hope lingered within her, a spark she hadn't felt in a long time.
The days stretched slowly, each morning bringing its share of questions for Emma. She kept thinking about Tolman's offer. The idea of leaving Bree and heading to the Shire, a place she had only seen through the enthusiastic eyes of the Hobbit, was slowly taking root in her mind. Every time her thoughts wandered to this plan, the darkness of Bree, its familiar yet threatening streets, seemed to tighten around her. The narrow alleys and the shadows of the buildings haunted her, like a palpable presence pressing on her heart. A persistent urge to flee took hold of her, a suffocating sensation, as if fear itself were an invisible cage she was trapped in.
Perhaps by leaving this place, she could finally breathe, regain a semblance of peace. The idea of escaping her nightmares, leaving behind memories soaked in pain and terror, seemed increasingly irresistible. Far from the cruelty of some faces, far from the too-dark alleys, maybe, at last, she could find some peace.
But a persistent shadow stood by her side, always present in her thoughts. Arathorn. He was there, like a solid rock, rooted at her side. The memory of his help during the attack in the tavern, his reassuring presence, and his advice still lingered in her mind. Arathorn was her protector, her ally, the one who, day by day, helped her rebuild the shattered pieces of her life. His lessons, whether on ancient languages or the art of combat, had slowly restored some confidence in Emma. She had clung to his presence like a lifeline, unable to imagine leaving him, even for a time.
The days blended together, made up of small interactions, knowing smiles with Molly and Alfred, quick laughs in the kitchen where she still wore Marie in a sling, but the idea of leaving, of making that decision that seemed to push her into the unknown, weighed heavily on her mind.
It was the day when Arathorn, after a long morning of work outside, entered the tavern with a serious look that Emma felt her world shift. His eyes, usually so full of calm, were this time filled with a dark determination. He stared at her for a moment before approaching, walking slowly but surely.
"Emma," he said softly, but firmly. "It's time for me to leave."
His words hit Emma like a thunderclap. She looked at him, her heart pounding in her chest, as if each beat were a cry of anxiety. Arathorn, the one who had protected her, the one who had helped her stand tall, was going to leave. A chill spread through her body, and her throat tightened. She forced herself to stay calm, but the fear, the silent fear she had tried so hard to suppress, rose like a wave ready to engulf everything in its path.
"I have to go to Rivendell," he continued, his tone softer now, "to speak with Lord Elrond, tell him about your situation. He will know better than anyone how to protect you."
He paused, observing the lines of her face.
"But I don't want to leave you alone here."
Arathorn's words, though full of compassion, couldn't erase the panic rising in Emma's heart.
"Alone?" she whispered, as if the very idea were a curse.
She bit her lip, her thoughts swirling in a chaotic whirlwind. Without Arathorn, without the solid pillar he represented, how could she hold on? The world around her suddenly seemed so much bigger, so much more frightening. Everything she knew, everything that kept her here, seemed so fragile.
But at that moment, one thought pushed itself forward: the Shire. The image of Tolman returned to her mind, his honest smile, his mischievous glint, and the pride with which he spoke of his tavern. He had said that the Shire was a safe place, sheltered from the darkness creeping through the rest of the world. A place where she might, at last, find some semblance of peace. For weeks, the idea of leaving had seemed insurmountable, but for the first time, she saw an exit door.
She slowly turned her eyes towards Arathorn. He was there, leaning against the tavern wall, arms crossed, his gaze lost in thought. A shadow of fatigue weighed down his features, a testament to the nights spent watching over her and the village. He had always been there, as reassuring as he was discreet, and she knew that without him, she wouldn't be standing today. But he was going to leave. His duty called him elsewhere, to Rivendell, to other missions, and she... she couldn't stay here, exposed to her fears.
"I think... it's time for me to leave too," she finally confessed, her voice calm but resolute.
Arathorn immediately lifted his head, his piercing eyes locking onto her with intensity.
"What do you mean?"
She swallowed, searching for the right words.
"I'm going to the Shire. Tolman offered me to come with him, and I think it's the best solution. For Marie and for me."
A silence settled between them. Arathorn's expression closed slightly, and she saw his jaw tighten.
"The Shire?"
"Yes."
He furrowed his brow, visibly upset.
"It's a peaceful place, sure, but you don't know anything about that land, or the people who live there."
"I know that Tolman lives there. And that he is a good man."
"A Hobbit," he corrected, his tone sharper than he meant. He sighed, clearly trying to keep his calm before adding in a more measured voice, "I'm not saying it's a bad choice, Emma, but... you haven't thought about everything it implies. The Shire is a world apart. A closed place. The Hobbits are not mean, but they are wary of outsiders. They like their peace, their habits. Are you sure you'll be welcome there?"
She held his gaze, refusing to be shaken by his doubts.
"Tolman told me I would be. He's offering me a home, work, and a safer environment than Bree."
"Tolman may be sincere, but he doesn't make all the decisions. There's a council, laws. And most importantly, you'll be alone, there."
His last words carried a contained worry, and Emma felt her heart tighten.
"I know," she murmured.
A long silence hung between them. Arathorn seemed to weigh each of his words, and she, for her part, struggled not to falter. She knew he was right. She knew that nothing guaranteed her integration into the Shire would go smoothly. But here, in Bree, she felt more and more like a stranger to herself.
"Arathorn... here, I can't breathe anymore," she finally admitted. "I try to pretend, I try to be strong, but every evening I feel like something is waiting for me in the shadows. And you... you're leaving."
He flinched slightly, briefly diverting his gaze.
"I'm leaving because I have to, Emma. Not because I want to."
These few words sent a shiver through her. She looked down at Marie, peacefully asleep against her back. He, too, would have preferred to stay. He, too, would have liked things to be different. But they didn't have that luxury.
"That's exactly it," she continued softly. "I have to do what feels right to me. And what feels right is going somewhere I can start living again."
Arathorn clenched his fists, the muscles of his shoulders taut under his cloak. He knew her well by now. He knew she wasn't acting on a whim, that she weighed her choices carefully. But he couldn't help but doubt, to fear for her.
"And what if it goes wrong?" he finally asked, his voice rougher than he wanted it to be.
She lifted her head, her gaze fixed on his.
"Then I'll leave," she promised without hesitation.
The Ranger sighed long and deep, running a weary hand over his face. She saw him struggle with himself, torn between his desire to protect her and the necessity of letting her fly on her own.
His gaze, dark and intense, lingered on her once more before he finally gave in.
"I don't like this," he said gravely.
A fleeting smile passed across Emma's lips.
"I know."
He nodded, resigned but still worried. Slowly, he reached out and placed his fingers on her shoulder with a reassuring pressure.
"Be careful. And remember, you're not alone."
Emma nodded, holding back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. Arathorn was not a man of many words, but in these few, there was a silent promise. I'll come back.
He finally looked away, exhaling heavily. He wasn't happy with this decision. Not at all. But he would respect it. And for Emma, that was enough.
Alfred and Molly didn't seem surprised by her decision. As if they had known, long before she did, that she would eventually choose this path. Perhaps they had sensed the inevitable in her silences, in the way her gaze often wandered towards the horizon, or simply in her Elven blood, that blood that seemed incapable of ever settling down somewhere for long. There was a kind of gentle resignation in their eyes, a mix of affection and melancholy, like watching a bird take flight again after a brief rest.
The innkeeper then handed her a leather purse, heavy with coins that softly jingled under the stretched canvas. Emma stared at it for a moment, bewildered, unable to understand what he expected from her. She had never imagined receiving payment for the weeks she had spent here, for the stolen moments between the tables of the inn, for the evenings spent in the warmth of the kitchen, for the laughs shared with Molly. Yet, Alfred insisted, gently but firmly closing his fingers around the purse. His gaze left no room for protest.
"You've earned it," he said simply, with a tone that was both kind and unyielding.
There was nothing more to add. She had never considered this as work, but she had been helpful, supporting Molly without counting the effort. This money wasn't charity; it was the recognition of labor completed, a tangible sign of the importance she had had here. She held the purse close to her, moved by this gesture, which reminded her how she was no longer just a passing stranger. She belonged, in some way, to this place, to these people, to this daily life she was about to leave.
Molly, tears in her eyes, placed a trembling hand on her cheek and caressed it with the tenderness of a mother. Her voice became pleading, broken with emotion:
"Promise me you'll come back at least once."
She wasn't asking for the impossible, just a hope to hold on to, a promise that would allow her to accept the departure with less pain. Emma opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out. How could she vow to return when she knew nothing of what awaited her? Yet, faced with Molly's distress, she could only gently nod, hoping that this gesture would be enough to soothe her broken heart.
In a final act of affection, the woman entrusted her with a bundle of clothes for Marie, a collection of linen dresses and shirts still far too large for her little frail body. But Molly knew, like all mothers, that children grew too quickly. That one day, perhaps sooner than Emma imagined, these clothes would become necessary. This gift, beyond its usefulness, was a symbol. It said: "You won't be alone. I will always be here, somewhere, watching over you in my own way."
Marie, carefree, didn't understand the silent goodbye that was unfolding around her. In her childish innocence, she waved to the couple with an uncertain little gesture, her radiant smile lighting up her face. This simple movement, learned only recently, was for her just a game, a way to participate in a scene she didn't yet grasp. She didn't know that this would be the last evening here, that tomorrow, when they awoke, everything would have changed.
Dawn came too quickly, chasing away the night and the hesitations with a brutality that only the morning light could bring. Emma had hardly slept. Her mind, too restless, had kept her awake long after the candles had gone out in the inn. She spent the night packing, folding and refolding their meager belongings, making sure not to forget anything. Everything they owned fit into a few canvas bags, yet each object she slipped inside seemed to hold immeasurable value.
Among them were the modest gifts received in Bree, little tokens that, pieced together, told the story of their time there. A bracelet of fine pearls, a hairpin adorned with dried flowers, a green scarf that reminded her of the deep forests, and a few toys for Marie, carefully carved by a village artisan. These items might have seemed insignificant to others, but for Emma, they were much more than mere possessions. They represented memories, tokens of affection, fragments of happiness that she refused to abandon.
Finally, she took out her necklace, the only true treasure she possessed. This silver pendant, adorned with three delicate blue stones, seemed more precious than ever between her fingers. It wasn't just a piece of jewelry; it was her anchor, the only tangible link to what she had left behind. It was the proof that her old world had existed, that Léo wasn't just a fleeting dream lost in the labyrinth of her memory.
Since the incident, the necklace had sometimes pulsed against her chest with a strange warmth, almost comforting. At first, it had terrified her. But gradually, she understood. This warmth, this diffuse presence, was him. It was Léo, in some way. She liked to believe that, inexplicably, their souls continued to search for each other, to call out across this simple object. Each night, she held it between her hands and whispered silent words to it, pouring out her love and thoughts. And every time, the answer was there, discreet but undeniable: a soft warmth, a breath of hope.
Arathorn had assured her that this phenomenon wasn't evil. According to him, some souls, when they were deeply connected, could feel each other's presence, despite the distance. This idea comforted her. So, as every night, she brought the pendant to her lips and whispered a final silent goodbye before hiding it under the fabric of her dress.
In the morning, she found Tolman in the inn's courtyard. The man was already busy around his cart, adjusting the leather straps, checking the crates piled at the back. Beer barrels sat alongside bundles of pipeweed and carefully folded fabrics. A whole shipment destined for his tavern in the Shire.
Emma felt a pang in her heart seeing Arathorn standing a little apart, silent, his face impassive but his eyes darker than usual. Without a word, he approached and unfolded a thick cloak, handing it to her.
"For you and Marie," he whispered.
She immediately recognized the quality of the fabric, the sturdiness of the garment, designed for long journeys. It wasn't just a gift; it was protection, a way for him to watch over her in his absence.
But it was the second gift that left her speechless: a pair of leather shoes, sturdy and comfortable, made for walking. Nothing like the delicate shoes she usually wore. These were made to face the road, built to last. Touched by this gesture, she put them on without hesitation, relishing their perfect fit. When she looked up, she caught a glimpse of genuine affection in Arathorn's eyes, as if he were relieved to know she was better equipped for the journey ahead.
Emma lingered for a moment, trying to engrave every detail of his face in her memory. He stood straight, arms crossed over his chest, planted firmly like an unshakable fortress. But she wasn't fooled. Behind this rigid posture, something in the tension of his jaw, in the fleeting shadow that passed through his eyes, revealed what he was trying to hide: he didn't like seeing her leave.
She hesitated for a moment, then, following her instinct, she closed the distance between them and embraced him.
Arathorn froze in surprise under the embrace, taken aback by this spontaneous gesture, so foreign to the customs of his time. A woman would not embrace a man like that, not even a close friend. Yet, after a brief hesitation, she felt his arms close around her, first cautiously, then with more warmth.
"Take care of yourself," he finally murmured, his voice rougher than usual.
She nodded against his shoulder, unable to speak. He didn't need to say more.
When she pulled away, she saw his gaze had softened slightly.
"And don't be reckless."
She let out a small laugh, despite the emotion choking her throat.
"I can't promise that."
A brief smile flickered across Arathorn's lips, as fleeting as a shadow, but Emma noticed and seized it like a final, precious memory. Then, reluctantly, she stepped back and turned toward Tolman, who was waiting beside the cart, impatiently tapping his pony's neck.
"Well, it's not that I want to rush you, but if we take too long, we'll get to Hobbiton in the middle of the night!" declared the Hobbit in his usual blunt manner.
He looked up at Emma and Marie, then, in a sudden gesture, reached his arms toward the little one.
"Come here, you!"
Marie, clearly delighted, let herself be grabbed without hesitation. Tolman swung her into the air with a cheerful laugh, then gently placed her on the cart.
"She's put on some weight, this little one! You'll have to slow down on the porridge, missy!"
Marie responded with a clear burst of laughter, oblivious to the gravity of the moment.
Then Tolman looked up at Emma, his expression suddenly more serious.
"The last goodbye, huh?" he said, crossing his arms.
Without waiting, he climbed onto the axle of the cart and held out a hand to her. She took it and settled beside him, her heart torn between excitement and apprehension.
He grabbed the reins and clicked his tongue. The pony, a sturdy brown animal, shook itself before beginning to walk.
The cart jolted, raising a light cloud of dust.
Emma turned for one last glance. Alfred and Molly were waving to them from the inn's threshold, their faces illuminated by a mixture of sadness and pride. Arathorn had remained apart, his arms still crossed, motionless like a statue. But she knew he was watching them leave, that he would follow their cart with his eyes until it vanished around the bend.
Emma took a deep breath, trying to imprint this moment on her memory. A page was turning. Behind her, a chapter of her life had just ended. Ahead of her, the unknown stretched out, vast and unfathomable.
As Bree faded behind them, she crossed her fingers and prayed silently.
Had she made the right choice? Only time would tell.
But one thing was certain: there would be no turning back.