Pedhir stepped out of the Comb and Wattle Inn, wrapping his green cloak around his shoulders. He had come to the conclusion that, while he would continue to explore and traipse about the Northwestern region of Middle Earth, Bree seemed to be a social hub and he would, therefore, make his own hub of sorts; a modest cottage just North of Bree-town. However, if he was going to build a home for himself, he would need to acquire supplies. Thankfully, he now had the necessary lumber out of the way after his meeting with the head of the Combe lumber mill.
He wanted to stay here in Combe for the night, but alas, most of the personal belongings he had brought with him were in his room at the Prancing Pony and he did not wish to risk them remaining abandoned for too long. So it was that he mounted his bloodbay mare and galloped on back to the inn in question, though with a small obstacle to get around. Quite literally.
A pair of guards stood in the way of the shortest route to The Pony, blocking citizens from coming too near to a pair of wrecked wagons, the owners of which were arguing quite loudly. "Sorry, sir. You'll have to go around," one of the guards said irritably. Clearly, she and her compatriot had been standing there for quite some time as they waited for other guards to come and help clear the wreckage.
It was there in the winding, cobblestone alleys that Pedhir would have nearly been arrested for assault. He had wandered into an alley that was clearly reserved for the poorest of the poor to be pushed into, so that the wealthier townsfolk would not have to look at them. It reminded him all too well of the lower rings of Minas Tirith, where the less fortunate both physically and socially had been shoved to the very bottom. And what was worse?
"Alright, boys," came the clear, greed-stricken voice of a man around the corner. Pedhir quickly darted to the closest wall, pressing himself as close to the stone as possible. "Let's head on back. We've picked these little piggies clean I think."
Emerging from where he heard the voice came a group of town guards pushing two carts full of vegetables and fruit along with them. The protector's gloved hand gripped tightly around the handle of his sword as the group passed him, thankfully not having spotted him. His mind grew dark, as it often did when he was obligated to return to the White City and see just exactly how the nature of Man had failed those who could no longer help themselves. How, as good as some lords of Gondor were, they were still entirely separated from this issue. They could not see the pain.
Before he even knew what he was doing, those thoughts had almost fully drawn his blade. Without an oath to keep this righteous rage in check, Pedhir, son of Gladhedir and Ranger of Ithilien, was about to kill a group of men.
It was only small hands that stayed his own. Pedhir, somewhat startled, looked down to a sickening sight; a young boy, gangly with wild hair making him look more akin to a willow tree. "Please, sir," he pleaded in hushed tones, "my father needs help."
Pedhir took a steadying breath as he sheathed his blade, shaken by his own mind. Violence was not the answer. Not to this. The Gondorian followed the little Bree boy deeper into the filth-covered alley. Lying on the ground with his head in the lap of what appeared to be his daughter, was the boy's father. He lay there like a broken doll, his eyes glossy and distant, as if staring up at an alluring spirit, dragging his soul to whatever fate awaited him.
The healer finally took over as Ped knelt down beside the man, checking if he was still breathing.
Just.
He began to work, ordering the boy and his sister to bring him the things that he needed. It was two hours worth of stitching up wounds and the cracking of joints being put back into place that rang throughout the alley, comforting words and alcohol for the pain, and tears from not only the family but from Pedhir as well. Finally, he was satisfied that the man would survive. It was rushed but sufficient work. Pedhir assured the children that their father would live, but he would need to be taken to a proper doctor in the morning.
It was only when he finally shambled up to his room and the healer had receded did the shaking begin. Pedhir gripped at his stomach with one hand, hastily taking off the now suffocating leather armor, and shedding the padded surcoat as though the weight were going to drag him through the floorboards and into the depths the earth. He could feel his fingernails trying to scratch at his leg, his already worn trousers only saved by the leather around his hands.
As he slid down the door, the whole feeling left as quickly as it came. This kind of wood should not grow here. All at once, he was grounded again. He raked his hand over his face and he closed his eyes and imagined the sound of a harp playing in his childhood bedroom. Voices of velvet, paired in perfect harmony. They sang to him of earth, sea, and sky, and our place in it all as Men. To protect it at all costs, and to not grieve when we failed, but to heal the wound that was left.
Pedhir opened his eyes and was met with blue ocean. He had to write to his brother.
