[Orual]

The back-alleys of Gondor were mottled with small puddles from the last rain. The heavy tread of thick boots punctuated the otherwise quiet atmosphere, which could be construed as either tranquil or gloomy, depending on your disposition. Ravion took it as gloomy.

"Ravion!" The man looked in the direction of the call, and saw a young boy running up to him. "Ravion! Where're you headed? You look like you're in a foul temper." The boy paused. "Can I go with you?"

Ravion raised an eyebrow at the boy, who was, like many of the children who followed Ravion, a street urchin, perhaps an orphan. Ravion didn't ask many questions--in fact, it occurred to him just now that he didn't even know the boy's name. "I'm going to an inn to drink, and you may not come with me," he said. The boy's face fell, but Ravion held firm. "I have had a remarkably long day, boy, and I don't need you hanging off of me with a sad face to make it any longer. Here's some money--now leave me be!" The boy's face lit up as he grabbed the money and ran off. Ravion sighed deeply and continued walking.

He didn't have any clear idea where he was going, just that he was planning to go somewhere and have a drink or two before going to bed. He had told the boy the truth: it had been a long day. He had just gotten back to Gondor from a long journey to the north, past Rohan, where he had heard tell of a small band of orcs. It turned out that the rumour was nothing but that, a rumour, and there were no orcs to be seen. So tired, frustrated, and grumpy, he had returned to Gondor, with nothing but a few tales to tide him over. Odd ones, to be sure, but nothing that could relieve him of the disappointment.

As a 'leftover Ranger', as he put it, a Ranger without much meaningful work left to do after the War, he pursued any word he could pick up about bands of orcs, or any other threat to the safety of Middle-earth. Fortunately for the people of Middle-earth, but somewhat less fortunately for Ravion, word was getting harder and harder to find. It used to be that all you had to do was tilt your head a little and the sound of trouble would fall right into it, but that wasn't true anymore. Now you had to go out and actively look for it. It wasn't like that when his father was alive.

His voice still caught when he spoke of his father. His father, who had fought and died alongside King Elessar, his brother Ranger. His father, who had done more in that one, final battle then Ravion could hope to do in a lifetime, now. Angrily he kicked at a building, stubbing his toe violently and quickly wishing he hadn't been so rash. He bit down hard on his lip, limping on down the street.

What place was this for a Ranger? What world? What was left for a young man who knew nothing but war, when only peace remained? Was there anywhere left to go, any cause left to represent? Was there anything left but bitterness and frustration?

Feeling quite wretched and still very much in pain, Ravion stumbled along. Even from a distance he could feel the warmth and comfort emanating from an inn down the road, drawing him towards it. He needed now more than ever to rest. Perhaps he could check his foot, see if he'd broken anything...maybe get a room, just stay away from his home a while. His empty, sullen, quiet home. There was no life in it, only silence, and that was no way to live.

The Seventh Star, the sign proclaimed, was the name of the inn. A good name, Ravion decided. Promising. It was worth a look, not to mention the fact that it was right there, and he was tired, hungry, thirsty, and in pain. The case for the Seventh Star was getting better and better.

Ravion stepped in and let the warmth that had been promised from down the street seep into his body. He looked around for a moment, then, reassured that there was no danger--he had not yet shaken off his Ranger's first instinct to assume somebody was going to kill him--he went to the bar and ordered a drink.

Maybe tomorrow would be a better day.
***

Comments? Criticism? Caffienated drinks? Send it my way.
~Orual