[littlemanpoet]

Her voice had been low, edged with despair as she alluded to something she could not speak of -- "...I wandered into darker places... terrible... foul..." Uien shuddered and did not speak - could not speak, Falowik guessed -- then she spoke, in that low voice that could not hold music in it -- of wanderings amid emptiness and loss. "Now, I wander..." So they were alike, she and he. It was not surprising, for this Inn seemed crowded with folk from outside the Shire, wanderers all. And she had lost much, things that he had never owned; and he wondered whether her grief was not harder to bear than his poverty from birth.

Uien spoke of being foolish, of being lost, and her smile did not reach her eyes, which held her grief, and more -- a darkness in the mountains. He did not realize that he had spoken his thought until she shook her head.

"Not here." It was a promise to tell of it later, in some place where they could succor each other out of the way of prying eyes. It seemed well. She had given so much of herself, and now she had revealed to him the place inside her that was most tender and fragile! He hung his head, knowing himself to be unworthy of such trust. He would have to beg forgiveness and leave her before he caused her greater woe! He felt her fingers brush his hand. Her touch was like the finger that plucks the string of a harp, and he sang within, the note sweet. It was she who made him worthy of her trust. Now she asked for him to pay her back in kind. Her eyes pleaded with him for it, and she pleaded in word.

"I - I will gladly take my turn." He picked up his tankard of ale, which had gone untouched till now, and swallowed some of the brew. These tankards were too big, and held more than was right for a Man or Hobbit to drink at a sitting. To drink it all would surely addle his wits! He set the tankard down and turned to Uien.

"I was born into this world alone and raised by the town of Bree. My mother died of my birth, and I know not who fathered me. I was told that he was an evil man not of Bree, who used my mother wrongly. Some say - some said to me - maybe to be cruel but maybe to speak the cruel truth, that he was only half Man, and half Goblin."

Of a sudden, Uien shuddered and hid her hands below the table. It was as Falowik feared; his story told, she'd no longer have aught to do with him. His soup was only half eaten, and getting cold. He had no more stomach for it.

"Maybe I should return to work on the roof and let you get what rest you need."

She looked up suddenly, smiled briefly, and shook her head. "No! Please stay, Laurëatan." Her hand came up and rested on the table near his. "Your words stirred memories, that is all."

"Forgive me for bringing such ill memories to mind."

She made little of his offense and urged him to speak his tale. Falowik told her of a boyhood of begging, of doing chores of all sorts for all manner of town folk, all for the sake of having clothes on his back, food in his stomach, and a place to sleep at night. His favorite had been old Barliman Butterbur, who had not been so old then, the Innkeeper at the Prancing Pony, who made much use of him and always treated him well. But most folk in the town remembered the cause of his birth and held it against him; those that did not look askance and stay away, came near enough to hurl abuse and stones.

No craftsman or artesan would have him for apprentice, so he could not learn a trade. Only Butterbur had mercy, and let him help to fix what needed fixing around the Inn. Falowik had hoped to become one of Barliman's boys around the Inn, when horses started to go missing, and coin, and hammers and hoes. Word got around that Falowik was to blame. Word spread like fire and soon Barliman found it needful to warn Falowik that the Law would come looking for him, and folk thinking of him as they did, it might be best for him to high-tail it. Barliman gave Falowik all he could spare that Falowik could carry, and bid him go.

So he went.

For twelve years he had wandered, ever away from Bree, from the blue mountains in the west, to the misty mountains in the east, ever north of the Great Road. Wandering, fleeing the Law of Bree, living off the land, under the sun and stars, plodding the trackless waste - until he had happened across a satchel and blood marking a stone.

"I wager that my story reaches less high, and less low than yours; not tragic, nor joyful. Dreary and pointless have my days been, until now."

Had anyone looked their way, they would have seen a Man and an Elfmaid, mouths closed, their eyes given only to the other, food and drink forgotten. Ruby or Buttercup, busy with table waiting, had time maybe for a moment of envy, wishing for some Hobbit lad to attend to them in like manner. At last, they spoke to each other, nibbled a little more, drank a last draft, rose, and left the Common room.

They returned to the work on the roof, but said little. They found solace in each other, and words were of no moment until later, when more dire things must be spoken of, out of the hearing of all others. Whether Derufin found their silence worth noting, he did not say. The work went apace, and was soon done. Falowik thanked Derufin for allowing them to labor for their bed and board, and stretching tightened muscles, the two walked slowly away from the Inn, toward the setting sun; the first star glimmered faintly above the horizon in the East as they slipped from view of the Inn.