[Ealasaide]

At the hitching post outside the stables, Rochadan bent down over the foreleg of a horse that had just come into his care by way of a newly arrived guest at the Vineyard Tavern. He could tell at a glance that the horse favored the leg and was not surprised to discover some swelling above the fetlock. It was probably just a slight sprain, he decided, but he would have a word with the horse's owner as soon as possible. Both forelegs would benefit from being wrapped at least for a few days. He straightened and patted the animal's neck. Looking across the inn yard, he could see the new innkeeper, Finian, standing with a bow in his hand and a look of cold determination in his eyes as he prepared to put to death a nearby hay bale. Rochadan smiled and walked in the young man's direction.

"I would think the innkeeper of the Vineyard Tavern would be behind the bar instead of staring at a bale of hay as if it meant to kill you," he said pleasantly.

Jolted out of his daydream, Finian turned quickly and blinked at the stablemaster. Then he grinned. "Then the guests are indeed foolish to stir this early about."

Rochadan laughed. It was indeed early, but the Vineyard's guests had a tendency not only to be up and about at all hours, but to expect food, drink, and service as well. It would do the young innkeeper well to bear that in mind, thought Rochadan, but he did not press the subject. Finian had proven himself quite dedicated over the past year, so a little grumbling from the young fellow was not only acceptable, but understandable. On the other hand, there was something Rochadan had been meaning to tell Finian. He paused to think what it was. He had been so absorbed in finding the cause of the lameness in the guest's horse that he had nearly forgotten the conversation he had had with Ædhral, one of the serving girls, just a short while earlier. She had been looking for Ærosylle, Finian's sister, and been unable to find her. The girl had a way of turning up missing from time to time. Usually she could be found again fairly quickly, but, with her odd ways, her wandering off was always troubling.

"Ædhral was looking for your sister, Ærosylle," he told Finian. "She is not in the Tavern."

"I will find her soon," answered Finian and, taking his bow, walked off in the direction of the door to the common room. Rochadan watched him go thinking how much the boy had matured in the year since his father, Aeron, had died. Before the coming of the dragon a year ago, Rochadan would never have believed a happy-go-lucky scamp like Finian capable of running the Vineyard, much less rebuilding it from the ground up. Having seen the innkeeper killed and the inn go up in flames, Rochadan had been certain that he would be out of a job and be forced to take his daughter and move on. To his surprise, when he had returned with the rest of the men from fighting at Bard's side in the Battle of the Five Armies, he found Finian hard at work with plans to rebuild the place. He took heart from Finian's faith and threw himself into the work of rebuilding the inn with a sort of energy that he didn't think he could muster anymore. Between the two of them, they had done an admirable job of it, too. Rochadan was as proud of - and as attached to - the inn as if it were his own.

After all, the Vineyard Tavern had been his home for three years now, ever since the death of his wife, Tristana, in childbirth. Prior to her passing, Rochadan had been a long distance messenger, carrying mail and dispatches from Esgaroth to wherever they needed to go throughout Middle Earth. When she had died, leaving him a widower at twenty-six with despair in his heart and a tiny infant on his hands, he had given up his life as a messenger and taken the job as stablemaster at the inn. Looking back, he saw Aeron's offer of the job at such a crucial moment in his life as the one thing that had saved him. Without it, he hated to think what might have become of him or his daughter. After Aeron's death, Rochadan had mourned him as if the innkeeper had been Rochadan's own father, rather than his employer. Now, as the oldest member of the staff aside from the cook, he felt a sense of responsibility toward the young people who now ran the Vineyard. He would do whatever he could to help them make a success of the place. He owed it to Aeron.

Returning to the hitching post where he had left the injured horse, he glanced toward the patch of grass just outside the stable door where his three year old daughter sat making mud pies out of a bucket. He had set her down there nearly an hour earlier and was pleased to see that she was still there, singing softly to herself as she carefully garnished each mud pat with grass and bits of loose straw. Keeping one eye on her as he worked, he groomed the injured horse and led him inside to a clean box stall. Coming back out of the stable, Rochadan leaned on the fence just over the little girl, watching her dark head as it bent over her work.

"Well, precious Sallie," he said at last. "It's nigh on breakfast time."

The little girl sighed without looking up. "It's not pre-shus Sallie," she corrected him patiently. "It's Princess Sallie. Princess Sallie Spitfire...Trouble."

Rochadan suppressed a chuckle. "Apologies, my lady." He knelt down in the grass beside her. "But I don't think folks around here will hold with much fire spitting just now, especially not in light of our recent past. What other trouble have you got?"

She looked up at her daddy and smiled radiantly. "I made mud pies. For the kitties. They're very hungry."

Rochadan smiled in return, but there was a sadness in his eyes. Since Tristana's death, Salaidhwyn, or Sallie as he had called her almost since birth, had been the light of his life. Nonetheless, it pained him sometimes to look at her as the little girl's smile carried within it the image of her mother. And then there was that dragging leg. A breech birth, her left leg had been broken by the midwife during the delivery that Tristana had not survived, and the break had not healed correctly. As a result, Sallie had been left with a severe limp. The healers all said that it would grow less noticeable as the child grew older, but Rochadan worried for her anyway. His smiled fading, he reached out and touched his daughter's cheek. In response, she stood and placed one small, muddy hand on either side of his face. Leaning forward, she gave him a kiss on the mouth.

"Don't be sad, Papa," she said softly, her lower lip beginning to tremble. "Don't be sad."

Remembering himself, Rochadan let his smile broaden again. He winked at his daughter and let one hand stray very close to the largest mud pie. "Did you save one for me? I'm very hungry, too."

The little girl shrieked and caught her father's hand. "No, Papa! Stop!" she giggled as the two of them struggled playfully over the mud pies. Finally, he swept her up into his arms and, settling her on one hip, walked toward the door to the inn's kitchen. While he needed to get some breakfast for Sallie, he also wondered if anyone had managed to find Ærosylle yet. If not, he would have a look around for her himself. He opened the door to the kitchen, completely forgetting about the muddy handprints that graced both of his cheeks.