The Elf sat, unmoved by all that went on around him. Harenthiel had retired to her room at his suggestion, and now Barodir had staggered back to the inn, wounded and bleeding, and suddenly the inn was in an uproar. He did not stir to aid Pio or the others who clustered around the fallen guard, but sat and observed from the corner. He felt no sympathy for the man who had had him at blade-point only a short time ago, but said quietly, speaking only to himself and those who troubled to hear him,
“He will not die.”
Erdaminéon knew that Pio would be able to care for a wound of such. It looked to be quite deep, but from his experience it would take only a short time to clean and dress it. He was correct, and soon Barodir was escorted to a room.
It was only then, with a certain air of amusement he noticed the many cups, tankards and trays that littered the table where he sat, evidence of the many occupants who had shared his company briefly before leaving on their various paths of business. He looked about the inn. The fire was burning low, and many of the common room’s occupants were going to rooms they had rented. What a night, he thought to himself. Many strangers, a guard, false accusations, a thief and an injury. Well, peace is hard to come by, and is obviously fading fast if one can no longer find it in a small inn in the Shire. He settled back to watch the last embers of the fire burning peacefully in the grate.
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