I have found work at last. It is nothing consequential, really. But it should allow me to remain in Bree for now, as I have somewhat settled here, and found the place to be charming and quaint, despite its occasional ignorance and narrow-mindedness towards outsiders. I will remain at the inn, or perhaps find a rented room, as that may be a little cheaper. The urge to leave is still present, and I make no promises that I will not give in to it at some point.
The work I speak of came about in a rather providential manner. The candles in my room at the Prancing Pony leave much to be desired, to say the least. They have burned down to sad little blobs of wax, and when I inquired after Mister Butterbur to have them replaced, he grumped at me that he was too busy, told me to visit the candle maker’s shop myself, and declared that he would pay me back. All of this was barked at me in one breath as he pushed past me and puffed his way down the corridor without so much as a glance backward.
When I arrived at the candle shop, the place was locked up tight. I stood outside for a time, wondering why it would be closed at midday, when an old woman dressed in black came round the corner of the building and nearly bowled me over. After much apologizing, I asked if she might know why the place was not open.
She then relayed to me a most tragic story. She runs - or ran - the shop with her daughter, who had only just slipped away after a long battle with a fever, and thus was her reason for being clothed all in black. I offered my condolences, scant and useless as they were, and asked if she knew of any other place in town to buy candles. She didn't seem to hear me, but kept on about her daughter, and their candle shop, and how she had no one to help her keep the place going, and she would be destitute and on the streets before long.
I was most uncomfortable with this sudden outpouring of emotion towards me, though it was nothing personal, the woman didn't know me from anyone else, I was simply a convenient target for it. Still, my heart ached for the woman, and I stood and nodded my head quietly until she'd gotten it all out.
And then I asked for a job.
Another odd interaction occurred yesterday. I had spent my last few pennies on a bit of bread and jam in the tavern, and was minding my own business, when a girl approached me and asked to sit with me. I told her quite plainly that I would not be good company. That answer usually succeeds in moving folk off, but it did not, in this particular occasion. She sat and prattled at me about men and romantic troubles. She asked questions, which I avoided. And then she mentioned that a man by the door was staring at our table.
I hate to admit it, but I felt my stomach do something strange. A sort of nervous clenching. As if I might be ill. But for whatever, mad reason, it made me want to smile. Because I knew who it would be, standing by the door.
Sadly - or thankfully, depending on how I look at it - he vanished by the time I returned my plate to the counter at the bar. I confess, part of me hoped to see him standing there when I exited the inn. I'm afraid that his weathered, shadowed face has become familiar, in a way. And familiarity is comforting. Though I still feel safer when I sit alone in the fields and study the colors of the sunset, somehow, I don't think I would mind if he were sitting there, too.
I remind myself still, that I am no one. Nothing, and nobody. I made a promise to myself, not to drag another person into the bottomless emptiness within me. And I must keep that promise. I do not wish for anyone to weep for my death, as the candle maker does for her daughter.
