Taraborn had never been happier, for he was home.
Not Minas Tirith, where he had spent his childhood with his father, or the Southern reaches of Rohan where he had spent the next few years of his life, learning the way of the soldier. Not even Bree, the town where he had settled down for a few years now. It was the longest he’d stayed in one place since childhood, but no, it wasn’t home.
He was lying in a creaky old bed in the Forsaken Inn, with the small form of Narys beside him.
He smiled as he looked down at her, the dying firelight casting dancing shadows over her slender features as she gazed back at him with a soft, loving smile. Her messy locks of red hair, like a fire of her own, formed from the wild heat of her personality. He pale face, like the moon, beautiful and enigmatic. Her large, round eyes a pale blue-green like the sea trapped in two small, beguiling orbs.
He took a long, deep breath, taking in the familiar scent of the forest that seemed to cling to her and smiled again.
They had met on the Great East Road. He had been riding along, happily singing the song he had written about her, content that he could resume his journey when she screamed his name. There she was, up on a nearby hill running towards him. He hadn’t stopped to think, and soon she was in his arms and they were laughing ecstatically together, unwilling to let go. After a time though, they had to head to shelter, and chose the old, decrepit Forsaken Inn, for Narys already had a room there.
He had been waiting for this moment for months. He had arrived in Dale to find the wander lust gone. The force that had driven him to leave Bree-Land and Narys behind had abandoned him on his arrival. Regret sunk in within days. He didn’t care for the city or the jobs, his mind remained in the West with his heart. It hadn’t been long before he took the journey back over the mountains to find her. He had intended to travel to Trestlebridge via Bree in the hopes of finding his love, but had struck gold even before passing the marshes.
They had spent the night in the small musty room, talking of their exploits while they were apart and confessing how they had missed one another and how much they each loved the other. Taraborn could sense something off with Narys, something upsetting and traumatic that she couldn’t bring herself to speak of. He didn’t bring it up. He didn’t want to ruin the perfect moment. A moment he suspected he would be thinking of in his final moments.
For his home was not a place. It wasn’t a country, a city, or a house.
It was Narys.
