The picnic basket is settled gently in the grass, sturdy and stocked full of treats. As the sun begins to set, Arlodrir unpacks the carefully wrapped contents, though he often pauses to debate with himself.
You should be working.
Why? I never accomplish anything.
You should be busy.
Why? I shouldn’t let this food go to waste.
It is only once everything is spread that he discovers the hidden blanket, tan and soft. That is drawn out as well, with a grumble and the thought that This should have been foremost so the food wouldn’t have to sit on the ground and attract ants. He hoists himself up so he can lie the damned thing beneath the tree. After a rustle, a shake, a meticulous tugging on a corner so it is straight, he again sits, old bones giving a dull protest. A careful relocation begins, the items moving from their home on the grass to one warmer and threaded.
'I did not hope to make too little.'
Kithri had said that of the food. Hobbits; such odd little creatures. Arlodrir nearly chuckles to himself as he continues his painstaking task. It’s as the blackberry bag is being built beside the bureau of bread that a glint from within the basket catches the Dwarf's eye. Reaching in, he discovers a flask.
Ooh. Nice.
Resting beside that is a pretty note painted of autumn leaves and acorns, which is brought close to his face to be read, since his eyes—no—his eye is not as sharp as it once was.
---
He doesn’t realize what’s happening until a shaky hand rises to wipe a tear off his own weathered cheek. This surprises him, greatly so, but he can’t seem to manage to stop. Tossing the note aside, he tries, he tries, but the fat tears roll defiantly down nonetheless, for a reason he isn't quite sure of.
Perhaps it is because such earnest goodness is being wasted on him. That a gesture so genuine would be directed his way, that a labor of love be crafted, that a true desire to cause him happiness has been bestowed upon himself.
'I simply enjoy being a friend, Master Tumunir. There is so much darkness in this world, and this is my little attempt to thwart it.'
Perhaps it is because he knows he isn’t accustomed to loving singing stone, friends, home and hearth. Now, suddenly inundated with warm emotions and acts, he is overwhelmed. This infuriates him too, that he would allow anything to overwhelm him like this.
'Since I cannot convince you to come to my table, I shall bring it to you.'
Lacking pennies and politeness, scowling and glaring when he can, being intolerant and rude; none of this seems to be able to deter folk from bringing kindness to him. Such a thing is incomprehensible. What he hates most is that those stubborn ones garner exactly what they wish from him: a softer demeanor, less foulness and more laughter. Yet, while he detests himself for giving that to them, he cannot bring himself to quit.
Maurr has rekindled his enjoyment of a jest and ale, Taite has fueled his longing for comfort and trust. Dimheim has kept him healthy despite his previous bad conduct, Endla has shown him the world still holds innocence and generosity. Kithri has done nearly all of that and more.
The tears have now subsided, but they still sting. With a sniffle and wipe of his nose on his cloak, Arlodrir grimaces at himself. Taite had asked him earlier (after momentarily touching his hand, which also overwhelmed him, for it was so soft and kind):
'Where feels like home to you?'
The first thought that came to his mind was the Boarding House, which only further proves how ridiculous he’s become.
He knows he should not grow attached. He knows he’ll have to soon start avoiding town; first for a few days, then later much longer than that. An unpleasant ache resonates in his chest at all these things he knows and can’t help but detest.
For now, he will try not to think of it.
For now, it may be easier to take each day as it comes.
For now, he has a picnic to eat.
