[Kransha]

The interruptions were more than enough to sever Sigurd’s train of thought, as this conversation was losing interest in him, or vice versa, he wasn’t entirely sure. At the moment, he was perfectly content to chuckle smugly at the wildly moving old fellow who darted up to Bethberry, yelled something so rushed and so garbled that Sigurd caught none of the escaping words that had pried his mouth open, and rushed away in a fiery motion, though it looked very awkward from afar. Osric, though, was unimpressed and focused, while the sudden arrival of Eorcyn only caused him to shudder involuntarily. That day, in a brisker, colder season, under these very hanging banners that rippled, swaying gently in the breeze that wafted in through open windows, he’d made his manner of amends with the man, but never got over their verbal fallout. The sight of him, though, was just enough to snap him into readiness and, as one of the serving maids, or holder of some position Sigurd didn’t want, named Aerdre, arrived, he spoke abruptly.

“Will you excuse us, Bethberry?” He questioned, managing a polite smile. Bethberry was looking now at Aerdre, listening to what she had to say, but still nodded back at the two. “Yes, of course.” She murmured, obviously more engrossed in whatever Miss Aerdre was telling her. Ignoring that fact, and the perturbed air that now permeated the inn, Osric took a firm hold of Sigurd’s shoulder and spun him foolishly about until both men were hunched over with their backs to the rest of the discoursing folk. “Many thanks.” The old man shot over his shoulder before pulling Sigurd close and beginning to speak, in a voice whose volume was barely an octave above a whisper.

“Sigurd, it is a good offer,” he muttered quietly, reservedly, “and you would be hard-pressed to find another like it.” His eyes were aflame and his usually whitened pallor incendiary by either the excitement of the situation or massive frustration at it. He looked into Sigurd’s eyes as an uncle should, with vague concern for him, but Sigurd shot back with the gaze of a battle-weary serpent, too tired to do any harm, but willing to lash out if anything got too close. “Uncle, I know it is a good offer.” He snapped suddenly.

Osric stared at him, mouth agape again. Where did the willingness spring from? What was Sigurd, the lad who’d been so uncontrollable, so untamable, doing just letting this happen? Did he want truly to work at the Horse? Osric’s face, which was now colorless with a jaw flailing up and down as noiseless words ushered from above it, found a voice. “You…you do?”

“Yes, yes I do,” Sigurd shot back, with equal venom in him, “and I’m going to take it as soon as you let go of my shoulder.” Osric involuntarily yanked his complacent hand from where it had sat on Sigurd’s shoulder, unfurling around the boy’s back and coming to rest limply at his side. “Are you sure? There are other options, other paths that cannot be taken.” His voice, this whole time, was riddled with disbelief, his throat groping for more air as he felt he might choke on his own words, or have to swallow them too soon.

“You were the one most keenly set upon me being here, so do not try and discourage me now.” The boy replied harshly, again causing Osric to shrink away. He was getting older, descending into old age, and Sigurd was getting older, but ascending into an age where, in maturity and prowess, he could challenge his uncle. It was hard enough to act like a father figure, but in this circumstance, it seemed harder still. Reluctantly, Osric nodded, as if he was defeated somehow. “No…you’re right.”

And so, he turned again, looking brighter and happier, ready to reach out and grab this new quarry where it stood and waited. Osric turned with him, and the two of them looked upon those who had apparently congregated just behind them as the spoke so softly, whispering in their own conspiratorial way. Not paying attention to the finale of the currently escalating conversation, he intoned loudly, “Alright, Bethberry, my decision is made.” There was no response, for all those in the vicinity looked more befuddled, and paled by some ill happenstance which Sigurd and Osric knew not of. They looked, each individually, from Betberry, to Aerdre, to any and all others who had materialized rather unceremoniously in a counseling circle around them, which they’d both been assimilated into, unbeknownst to them. Osric, trying not to be rude, spoke up on the subject. “What? What is it?”

Aerdre responded first. “Hearpwine must depart for Ithilien this day…I think.” She added the final words as something of an afterthought, as if she knew, but wanted no one else to know that she knew. In truth, she seemed half-uncertain, but that uncertainty might be no more than hopefulness that she was uncertain. No matter what the case, the words she said caused Osric and Sigurd to lapse into the same uncomfortable silence that had enveloped everyone else.