[Lasbelinion]

One’s own thoughts seemed to flee in the presence of Cook. It’s as if she wove magics with her words. Though not the sort as his kindred could, but of a simpler, more mundane variety. It was an earthy sort of discernment that took one out of consideration as a central point, a solitary point and instead placed one firmly within the fabric of the Shire. And here he was. In the Shire.

We’ve all got our problems don’t we? And luckily most can find a way to the other side of them.

Where would that leave me, he wondered to himself.

He watched her as she smoothed out the tablecloth and brought out the sweets and the tea. With a few light words she directed his help. He rolled her requests about in his mind. He did not find that they rankled. Not orders from master to slave. An underlying assumption of being on the same footing, of camaraderie smoothed the edges.

Does she chide me with her talk of the woman and the man? Should I have been more forthcoming, less given to judgment without all the facts?

Lithmîrë covered his quandaries with sips of the refreshing tea. The warmth of it and the closeness of the bower as the trees blocked the breezes made him raise his hand, unthinking to push back his hood.

‘Tell me about the places you gardened. What sorts of plants did you grow there? And how did you find the soil?’ he heard her say. Before answering he looked closely at her, gauging her reaction to his scars.