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Snippets of songs and the laughter of children drifted up and down the streets of Rohan, carried onwards by the soft breath of the returning spring. Townsfolk and merchants smiled and paused for a moment to listen. Over the years, the White Horse Inn had gained quite a reputation for the number of bards that graced its threshold as well as its excellent service. Another figure heard the joyful noise as he rounded a corner onto the lane that ran in front of the establishment. It didn’t take very long for the local residents to dismiss him as just another Gondorian soldier who was seeking something do in his free time. Unusual, especially this quickly after the spring thaw, but not completely unheard of. His physical appearance did little to dissuade such thoughts. Despite slightly over a decade and a half of service, Azaziel Danwedh still did not feel the need to travel in anything more extravagant than a normal field uniform.
Time had not treated the Gondorian kindly. He suspected that the stress and constant pressure while serving at Osgiliath and subsequently at the Siege of Gondor had caused his premature loss of hair. However, he was only two years shy of fifty years of age, and his family had a history of premature baldness. Rather than display a bare patch of skin on his head, Azaziel had elected to shave his himself bald. Neither his thin frame nor his gaunt face betrayed any excess of fat or muscle—indeed, he had caught a fever in the siege works of Osgiliath that occasionally returned to sap his strength. The siege engineer’s left hand was noticeably larger than his right, and cloaked in a large black glove. It, in turn, rested heavily on the hilt of a well-crafted long sword that hung from Azaziel’s belt.
He opened the door with his right hand before pausing for a moment to survey the sturdy stonewalls of the stables. While he had been recalled shortly after the inn’s owner had left town, the engineer had had ample time to poke around the construction site and suggest a few changes. It had been a curious task, but Azaziel understood the strange dealings that often went on away from the prying eyes and ears of the public. With a short sight, he crossed the threshold and paused long enough to allow his eyes to adjust to the darker lighting. What had Bethberry thought when she had returned and found her unexpected thorn had disappeared? There would be ample time to find out—he was not needed at the embassy for another three days. The soldier crossed the room quickly, singling out the innkeeper while he walked. She looked remotely familiar, even though he had never spoken to her. “Ms. Innkeeper, is Bethberry still in the area?”
Aylwen glanced curiously at the interloper. “She’s working upstairs. Can I help you?”
Azaziel stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment. It was a bad habit he had picked up during long night hours spent pouring over drafts and documents. “Well, could I have a tankard of ale? Fine stuff, if I may say so. Could you, or perhaps one of the servants, run upstairs and tell her that Azaziel Danwedh would like to see her? She’ll remember me.”
The required number of coins changed hands and the Gondorian soldier accepted the still-foaming mug with his right hand. He found an empty table near the stairwell and sat, placing his left hand on the tabletop with a dull, metallic thump. While he waited, Azaziel savored his drink and delved into the memories of the past.
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