[Imladris]

I clutched my wooden staff convulsively as I tripped over a stone that sent me tumbling to the ground. My whole body jarred as it hit the dusty earth, and I sneezed as dust entered my nostrils. I glowered and imagined that the stone was chuckling malignantly to itself and had purposely tripped me.

Crawling to a sitting position, I really wondered if following this path that supposedly led to a reputable Green Dragon Inn was worth the trouble. It was slightly up hill and the groud was rocky. At the mention of stones, I suddenly realized that a warm red liquid was trickling down my feet; leaning over, I gently drifted my fingers against my bare foot, wincing as the finger-tips brushed against tender new skin that were slowly forming into callouses. Then I found it: a broken blister with liquid flowing freely from the rupture. Soaking my finger, I brought it up to my nose and sneezed again at the revolting smell of blood. I glared at my bare feet: long before I had tossed aside the ragged pieces of leather that had once been durable sandals of a lay man of Gondor.

Easing myself to my tender feet using the wooden staff, I could feel my lyre thump comfortably on my back, and smiled sadly and bitterly as the strings jangled pleasantly. Never again could I play the stringed instrument: I had known so twelve years before, but I could not bring myself to part with it.

My staff clumped upon a wooden step and drawing myself upon it, I stood still and listened: hearty laughs came from within, the scrape of knife against fork, the giggles of flirtatious lasses. I sniffed deeply and smelled the homely smell of pipes being smoken, the waft of lingering dinner fragrances. Surprised, I lifted my head and sniffed again: a slight scent of former rain perfumed the air.

Suddenly, a body brushed past me and I grasped it by a sleeve: thoughts raced frantically in my head: it was finally woven, and by the feel of the cloth it was spun from the wool of sheep. "Please, sir, is this the Green Dragon Inn?"

A decidedly female voice answered me and I could feel myself blushing scarlet in chagrin: "Yes, but why do you call me 'sir'? I am but a hobbit lass."

"And I am but a blind girl of Gondor," I retorted, letting go of her sleeve, or skirt, or apron. I couldn't tell which I had grabbed.

"There is an empty table to the right of the doorway," the hobbit said, volunteering what she gathered would be useful information.

"Thank you," I said, cautiously feeling the way with my staff. I somehow managed to find the empty table and sank down with a sigh, my poor feet crying their thanks to me.

There was a window beside me: the glass was smooth and delightfully warm. My fingers trailed until I found the wooden sill: I could tell that it was dusty, but I smiled. Long before when I was little I had had much fun with dusty sills and leaving impudent messages traced in the dirt, a subtle hint to my sister that the house needed to be cleaned. I laughed and was happy that I had grown a bit more mature (at least I fancied that I was). Still giggling, I began to trace my name: Finduilas.

[ October 13, 2003: Message edited by: Imladris ]