Found:
I decided to shake things up a bit.
We have spent these last weeks in a boring routine. I make the breakfast, he comes out to eat, then goes back to his room. I make lunch, he comes out to eat, then goes back to his room. I make dinner, he comes out to eat, then goes back to his room. I have no idea what he's doing in there, but it can't be fun. Staring at the wall perhaps? Watching the world through the window and wishing he were out there too? Regardless, the drudgery of it all can be doing him no good.
We talk a little here and there, each maintaining our distance in our own way. Perhaps it is for the best, but still I worry...
So, today, I altered the routine.
Instead of calling him out for breakfast, I called him out for a bath. He seemed mildly confused by this, much to my amusement and although he insisted that I bathe before him, still he made some effort to clean himself. It's good. It's progress. It's a small step perhaps, but something at least. I've never before known the man to be so unkempt, so bedraggled. Is it some form of melancholia that affects him? More or less than the last vestiges of his chest fever? I'm no healer. I can't know for certain what really ails him. All I know is that he needs to be coaxed out of his rut somehow.
With that in mind, I took him on a walk down to the riverside. The sun was warm, the sight and sound of the waterfall quite soothing, and the tankard of ale I brought from the tavern for him was nice and cold. He relaxed a little, even managed to eat half a sandwich which was nice to see, and we spoke for hours. But still he seems withdrawn and shut in. Granted, he was always a stiff bastard, but this is more than that.
I left him there to enjoy the evening air, content in the knowledge that he'd be alright. I made dinner, left it to keep warm, and then went over to see Haritha.
She's nervous. She and her lover. I assume it's not just the red-cloaks she worries about now, but Puppy Pants as well. I did my best to set her mind at ease about the former issue at least, and decided against telling her of her late husbands real fate. She's been through enough; she doesn't need the extra guilt of hearing that she left him behind to die in agony when she could have tried to save him instead.
She has opted to keep the masks, despite my offering to buy them from her. It saves me a great deal of coin for which I am grateful. The final three, presumably in the possession of Emmett, are to stay that way; his cut of the loot, as she put it. Despite my reservations - I am not entirely unconvinced that she won't just trade them back to the Angmarim should they turn up and pull faces at her - there's naught I can do about it. My job is complete, my word kept; the rest is out of my hands.
I returned to the house after seeing Rahvic as well. He's going to go ahead with his foolishness regardless. I can't help him further. This Brinee's nethers must be pure paradise to inspire such blind and slavish devotion. I don't know the woman. I can't say I care one way or the other for her fate. But Owena... It bothers me that with all the talk of rescue, not once has her name been mentioned. Why are people so focused upon the liberation of the maid, but not the baker? Has the sweet, kind, caring and welcoming woman been forgotten by all and sundry now that her heart has been gifted to someone? Is she worth less in their eyes, despite her generosity and unbiased friendship, simply because she can no longer be viewed as fair game?
At least the pleasant evening back at the house banished such unpleasant thoughts for a while. Rowan had returned before me and, to my surprise, had left a gift upon the table for me; my favorite treat from the bakery. It was a kind and thoughtful act, a thank you for letting him stay here, I imagine. I sincerely doubt there was any more to it than that.
It may not have been up to Owena's standards, but somehow it still managed to be the best cake I've ever tasted.
