[piosenniel]

Berilac

‘I'm in the Inn because I was hoping to show you that there are indeed reasonable men among us, even though you've just met two who were not.’

Soran sat calmly in the chair, his hands resting lightly on his knees. His eyes were set on the Ranger, the light from the small fire in the hearth glinting off the flecks of green that lay hidden in the dark brown of them. Berilac, for his part, studied the man closely. A little older than he was, he thought, noting the dark brown hair gone grey at the temples. Soran’s face, unsmiling, was seamed with worry lines, though about his eyes and at the corner of his lips were the ghosts of lines carved out at one time by smiles. ‘Here once was a cheerful man,’ thought Berilac, ‘one who delighted in life.’ The Hobbit wondered what or who had prompted the frequent smiles that had now lay buried beneath such sadness and grim despair. The man had said he was a father; Berilac’s thoughts turned to his own little family. They were the core of his delight and happiness. He looked at the oft mended grey and brown tunic and trews the man wore. Some of the seams were more finely sewn, and he wondered what fair hand had once mended them and now could do no longer.

Shaking these ponderings from his head, Berilac pulled up a chair near to Soran. He motioned for the archers to stand down, sending one of them to fetch the mayor, and for Will to take the man’s sword in hand and step away with it for the moment. ‘No need to be completely trusting,’ he told himself as he sat down. ‘Soran, is it? My name is Berilac,’ he began in introduction, then introduced the others who stood about the room. ‘You’ll recognize some of the children, I think,’ he continued, ‘and their mothers.’

Many of the women nodded to Soran, and he noted how the cares that etched their faces was beginning to fade; their hollowed cheeks now filling out with good food. And the children . . . there were smiles on their faces, even on those who were still abed with their injuries. And in their eyes shown a flicker of hope now.

Berilac drew the man’s attention, once again, and began to speak. ‘The folk of Bree are also reasonable, Soran. They have no desire to fight your band of refugees.’ Berilac shook his head to emphasize his point. That would be nothing short of brutal on both sides, and would accomplish very little other than more death and suffering.’ The Ranger leaned forward toward the man. ‘But the actions of some of your fellows – Guthwine,especially, who has organized the raids against the outlying farms – puts them on the defensive. As you already know, Guthwine is secured, and no, we are not that cruel as to deprive him of his son. The lad is here and recovering nicely, and will be allowed to see his father if that is your concern.’ Berilac leaned back against the chair. ‘But to be quite honest with you both he and his would be rescuer and the women and children will all remain our guests until the problem between Bree and the men from the north is resolved.’

Andreth stepped forward just as Berilac finished speaking, bearing a mug of ale in each hand. ‘Something for you gentlemen to keep your throats from parching while you talk,’ she said setting the foaming pints down carefully on the table. She was glad to see sensible words starting to be exchanged instead of threats and the rattling of weapons. Harald, by this time had arrived at the Inn. Slightly out of breath, he nodded to Berilac as he sat down at the table and listened carefully as the Ranger introduced Soran. Andreth, knowing the mayor’s fondness for the Pony’s ale, brought him a mug.

The three men sat speaking in earnest for a long time. Lilac and Andreth had moved the children and mothers to the far end of the large room, and had begun to distract them once again with stories and games. Will lent them a hand, as did Rosie and several of the other women from the town, though they kept a wary eye on the door and on the ragged man who sat at the table with the Ranger and the Mayor.

After a while, it was time for lunch, and all in the room gathered at the tables while the women brought out the simple offering. Soran was surrounded by children, all vying for his attention. Had he seen their fathers, or their brothers, or uncles, or cousins? Could he bring them with him next time? ‘The food is awfully good here,’ piped up one beaming little urchin, a half chewed cookie in his hand. ‘And all of us get our bowls filled to the top! And there’s juice . . . and bread !’ ‘And don’t forget the gooseberry jam,’ said another, his faced wreathed in smiles at the thought of the thick, sweet topping. One of the little girls, her face solemn, plucked at Soran’s sleeve. ‘You need to wash your hands, sir . . . before you eat. Miz Lilac says so.’ For a few brief moments, a smile shown out on the man’s face as he followed her to the basin of water set out for washing.

At long last, after cleaned hands, another mug of ale and two bowls of hearty lamb stew with fresh baked bread for Soran, the three men concluded their conversation. Soran, the Mayor had requested, would travel back to the encampment and ask that Lotar come for a meeting on the situation. ‘The sooner the better,’ the mayor stated. ‘Let him know what’s happening here with the two men, and tell him the women and children are well cared for.’ Harald leaned toward Berilac, a questioning look on his face. ‘Tomorrow, noon, sounds good to me. You?’

Berilac agreed, and said he would walk Soran to the gate and see him off. Will followed, bringing the man’s sword with him, handing it over when Soran had exited. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow, then, Soran. Come to the West Gate, and tell the gatekeeper there to send for the Mayor and me. We will come out to meet you just beyond the hedge.’

Will and the Hobbit watched as Soran sheathed his sword and quickly made his way north from the gate, toward the encampment . . .