[Eorl of Rohan]

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Ferethor had not meant to make a spectacle of himself like this. He hastily covered his mouth with his palm, a flush that might be half shame and half fever creeping up his hot cheeks, the crimson blood running down the length of his wrist to the bent elbow where it pooled onto the floor. 'It’s not… Not serious…' He managed to gasp out, half-strangled, as he let the elven woman support him to the nearby armchair where he promptly collapsed.

Exactly what wasn’t serious? He wondered feverishly in a lightheaded daze caused by the loss of blood. The broken piece of steel lodged between his ribs, the betrayal, or his own life? He was the typical rank-and-file, one that will do to swell a progress, perhaps, or start a scene or two; no doubt, an easy tool. When the war ended, the nameless soldiers who risked their all on the battlefield were discharged with a few silver pennies and a word of thanks. Ever since, he had tried to scratch and claw his way through life as best as he could, asking nothing else of his country. Now he was dying in a backwater inn because the new laws set down by King Elessar has decreed that all outlaws and their associates be hunted down and killed. Did Gondorian patrol even know that the brigands around here were former Gondorian soldiers who had nowhere to return to? Did they even care? The accursed officer with his 'Halt, and go no further!'...

'Besides, without me to smooth matters out, my former colleagues would have had no scruples about slaying the merchants instead of striking a deal. I probably *saved* their lives, not… not…' Ferethor muttered thickly, then stopped, chagrined that the elf woman might have heard.

It was unfortunate that he encountered the Gondorian patrol officer in such a backwater place as the Shire. If it was a city, he could lose himself among the crowd and the numerous buildings, but this… they’d come for him here, sooner or later. He had to leave. Now. But his sinews were paralyzed with pain and wouldn’t move. Perhaps it was better this way, to die in a place where no one knew his countenance or name, a quiet and nameless end that befit a nameless former soldier of Gondor. With luck, if he left his wounds untreated, then he'd be dead before the guards rushed into the inn to arrest him.

Ferethor wiped his bloody chin with his sleeves, took a deep breath, managed a weak smile, and tried his best to maintain a clear and steady voice as he lied,

'I thank you for your courtesy, fair miss, but it's nothing serious. If I sleep it off, I'd be fine.'

He nervously fumbled in his pocket, wondering whether he had the currency to repay the inn for the trouble that he would incur should he die here. A handful of bronze coins, not enough, and... Ah, the silver. He had not spent the pouch of silver pennies that he received as he was discharged from the military services, bought as it was with his blood. It would be only fitting to pay for the blood that he was spilling now with the Gondorian silver. He took out the black leather pouch with the silver tree of Gondor stitched onto it, and quietly slid it onto the table. There. At least he would be beholden to no one in death or life.
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