A cell, though one they willingly entered and one of many, iron gates lay open, thick walls of stone graced with moss and sprawling vines, the glittering trickles of water from ceiling to floor, making their way to pool in small damp puddles here and there. A home that at this time was as fine as any fabled palace. The cold, hard floor as good as a bed made of countless goose feathers, for here, she could find rest or at least that was her hope.
Their host, she knew, valued beauty and comfort. His home in Bree, that they were unfortunate enough to explore, had these things and here, like there, the beauty was strange. The large chamber at their arrival to the ruined fortress filled with reflective surfaces far too numerous to count, gilt clad, silver dripping, hung, leant, stood, each shiny item reflecting a dozen more, but more importantly what little light from the moon or sun that would creep through the open ceiling would be reflected tenfold, no, a hundred times more, causing shafts of light that any man..or troll..might be fooled into thinking the sun resided permanently in such a chamber. It hurt her eyes, eyes opened in wonder and a queer respect for the intelligence behind such an act. The carpet, a dense covering of fragrant meadow flowers in springtime hues, trees that towered beyond the ceiling that was not there. Had they stumbled into a dream? A nightmare would be more apt given the days prior.
The bard, not her bard, but the shadow of what he was, became tired in more ways than one. Her impatience, her lack of tact when conversing with their host, burdening an already heavily burdened man. His hair did not appear as golden, his eyes duller, a far weaker man who had become dour. Her demand that he rest was met with veiled promises that he would, that he does, though his words did not appease her. She was well aware sleep eluded him, that their road offered little to no opportunity to claim it, and should such a chance arrive to finally indulge in rest that it would be foolish to do so, for their blood was a highly sought prize by another. Though how alike they both were, needing to feel the threat of death before speaking their truths. Within the queer chamber where night never comes she spoke of what she wished, words she never imagined uttering came with ease, perhaps because she believed them never to come to fruition, perhaps because exhaustion allowed her to. Her heart spoke, not her mind, a rare thing for this particular woman, and he agreed to her words.
