He had closed her hand over the charms saying they were meant for Rohan and her keeping. And when she excused herself to see to some urgent business he stood once again as she left the table. One of the servers passed by, and he asked for a plate of bread and cheese and whatever fruits might be gotten in this season.
As neatly and thoroughly as the birds he followed, he ate the offering laid before him. And with a quiet air, he found another to take him to his small room. Sleep would prove a welcome companion to his tired body.
On the morrow, he would leave before the sun rose and make his way north, passing through Fangorn, then Lothlórien, and up the Anduin to the Old Ford. Then east, and home.
He lay down on the cot, drawing his brown cloak over the blankets for extra warmth. His eyes closed, and dreams came readily. And he smiled, walking once again in the fragrant gardens of Lórien, along the shore of Lake Lorellin.
******************************************
Long before the storm had raced down the mountains from the north and west, the traveler had awoken. Perhaps it was the whisper of the cold wind against the shuttered window, or the plink of the first snow star against the eaves. His grey eyes opened wide, knowing he must leave.
He gathered up his few possessions, the pack, his staff, and belted his thick brown cape round him. Out the kitchen’s door he strode quickly, stopping only to secure the latch. He paused on the path, well away from the door, murmuring a few soft words. The wind picked them up and flung them at the Inn and over it.
Down the dark way to the Onodló under a clouded, starless sky he went. Then, north to shelter beneath the trees of Fangorn. He had business there; he was expected.
[ February 13, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
__________________
‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
|