Eddies began to swirl in the pit of her stomach as Feorhwen sped through the market gate towards the one place she had vowed never to return. More than two years ago, when she had first found herself adrift in this land, the sight of the inn with the rearing horse painted on its signboard was like sunlight after a storm. Now it only filled her with a sickening sense of dread.
Everything within her screamed to run away and she very well would have if not for the fact, there was a little girl waiting for her. Feorhwen had tried everything to cajole her mistress into making this trip in her place. She knew nothing about this girl. How would she even be able to recognize her if she saw her on the street but Vespasia Nettleford was hardly moved.
"Her name is Aslea Oakley. She is twelve years old. How many children do you think you will find loitering around Barliman's establishment? Just don't bring any more brigands home with you and you won't have any trouble," she snidely quipped before sending her on her way.
Red, hot indignation and hurt burned inside Feorhwen but there was little she could say. The Widow had tried to warn her as did Ynna, a fellow Eorling and the one and only friend she had allowed herself to make in Bree. She heard neither of them and instead chose to defy all common sense and put her full trust in a stranger and his false promises of love and Rohan. Many an unkind thing had been said then and some bridges burned. Nettleford could have easily left her to rot on the street where she found her rather than give her a second chance. She still could if the fancy struck her.
The rational part of Feorhwen's mind knew there was nothing to fear. Having swindled her of her entire savings, the man who ripped her heart in two skipped town the very morning they were supposed to set off for home and hadn't been seen since. Even Ynna, her one time friend, had vanished to parts unknown. A customer of the tailor shop had purchased her house a month ago. Feorhwen never had the chance to say goodbye. She had been too afraid to face her again after what happened and the things that had been said between them. Now she was gone.
It was unlikely that even the owner of the inn, Barliman Butterbur, would remember her now. Quite some time had past since they last saw each other and for as much as she had performed at his establishment, he was terribly forgetful. Widow Nettleford was convinced he'd forget his own name if it wasn't spelled out in white letters above the door of his business. Feorhwen's feet dragged all the same. By the time she entered the square adjacent to the inn, the sun had already set in the west. She was late.
Even in the dim light of the streetlamps, she could see little had changed at The Prancing Pony apart a fresh coat of paint on its facade. Candlelight still illuminated the ground floor windows but no one was around outside. Everything was quiet. Feorhwen's heart sank. She rushed up the stairs and through the door, the brass bell above the entrance practically flying off its perch as she barged in.
A quick scan of the common room confirmed her worst fears. The girl was not there. Unmindful of the tall man who had just stepped up to order, she sprinted over to the front of the bar where Butterbur stood behind the counter. It was rude, she knew but this was more urgent than his need for beer.
"Mr. Butterbur!," she cried, in between catching her breath "I was supposed to meet someone here and I'm late."
The innkeeper opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the patron she had so unabashedly ignored, "Who were you meeting, if I may ask? I know lots of people round here."
Feorhwen turned to face him for the first time. The man was not just tall, he towered over her, Butterbur and really any local who might have walked into the room at the time. It was clear he was not from around here. His long golden hair was not only exotic for a man of Bree, his dialect seemed to suggest a man born of the Sutcrofts back home. Still, Feorhwen hesitated to tell him her purpose there. She had not forgotten the last time a stranger had offered to help but if he truly was a man of the Mark, he could be trusted. Unlike in this land, oaths mattered to the Eorlingas.
"Her name is Aslea," she said after a long, drawn out pause,"Aslea Oakley. At least that's what I think it was. Do you know her?"
The man lifted his brows, "Been a while since I've seen her around. Aye, I know her, just haven't a clue where she could be."
Feorhwen continued, "She was contracted to my mistress for an apprenticeship after the other two we had moved on."
The man seemed visibly surprised at that, which she found rather odd. It made her wonder just what sort of girl they were dealing with.
"What can you tell me about her?"
The man looked heavenward, clearly searching for the most apt and perhaps the most tactful terms to ascribe to the girl.
"She's blunt even by the standards of the Rohirrim but she always means well," he said, "A free spirit. The sort of woman who goes wherever the wind takes her."
"Woman? I fear you are mistaken. I am looking for a girl of twelve."
The man furrowed his eyebrows in disbelief, "Truly? I did not think there would be two in town with such a name. It's rather strange."
"All the names here are strange. This land is foreign to me."
"It is the same here."
"I knew it!," Feorhwen exclaimed,"You hail from the Mark!"
He chuckled at her enthusiasm, "Aye, from Snowbourn. Where are you from?"
Her answer of the Stonedeans only broadened his already present grin,"I have cousins there. I take it you are of half blood?"
He gestured towards her dark hair, an uncommon feature for most of their people. Feorhwen nodded and lifted her chin with pride.
"Aye, but not of the wild men. My mother's side comes from Gondor. A testament of the alliance between our two peoples."
The man nodded and tapped his own chest,"Half Dunlending myself. Ah! My manners! I am Egfor!"
Her nose crinkled in undisguised disgust for a moment but she quickly composed her face into a polite mask. She couldn't imagine how one could be so proud to be related to such beastly men. Sometimes at night, when the wind howled and shook the rafters of the tailor shop, Feorhwen could almost hear the shrieks of those monsters as they emerged from the tall grass. She was not about to tell him that though. This was neither the place nor the time and Béma only knew who his cousins might be.
"Feorhwen," she replied, careful to leave out the name of her father.
The man, Egfor as he was called, seemed to take notice of her displeasure and let out a wordless grunt but of it, he said nothing . He instead turned the conversation to the topic of his husband, a tall Gondorian man with long black hair and beard and whether she had seen him. Feorhwen confessed she had not.
Egfor smiled all the same, never once breaking from the pleasant demeanor he had since the start of their encounter, "Not a worry. Man will turn up eventually. I gather then, that you are a tailor?"
How did he guess?
"An apprentice to one at least for the time being," she conceded.
Egfor nodded and patted the robe he wore,"I keep sheep and spin and weave, if you ever need fabric or yarn. Who are you apprenticed under?"
"Mrs. Vespasia Nettleford. She keeps a shop in Knotwood."
"Knotwood! Ah, good to know. Perhaps I should go there sometimes-- bit caught up trying to keep clothes mended and made for a family of five."
"My mistress would certainly appreciate the business."
That brought a smile to his face, "I'll mention my weaving to her too perhaps. I've spent quite some time in Knotwood, and did not know there was a tailor there!"
"Don't let her hear you say that," Feorhwen said,"It would grieve her to know her shop is so little known."
Egfor shrugged, "Often my trips there were to see the doctor there. I have not needed to go for some time; which I take as a good thing."
"Do you live in town here?" she asked.
"No, I live north of town in Millshaw. I run an inn and a farm there."
She had never been there and admitted as much. She could not even begin to place it on the map if someone were to ask her.
"It is a small community of farmers and sheep herders," he explained further, "But it is growing."
Feorhwen nodded for no other reason other than that she did not have much else to say. She really had no interest in visiting Millshaw or anywhere else in this land but courtesy demanded she appear interested and give him her undivided attention. The heavy creak of a floorboard to her right alone broke her gaze. Feorhwen instantly spun around only to be greeted by the vision of a giant of a man. Taller than even Egfor, the man positively loomed over her. He made her feel small. Exposed. Feorhwen took a step back only to realize the man behind her was waving him closer. This was the aforementioned husband Egfor had been looking for, she realized.
"I am sorry. I will let you enjoy your evening," Feorhwen said, attempting a hasty exit.
She no longer wanted to be there and was a third wheel at any rate. Egfor and his spouse tried to reassure her she was no trouble but she was hardly mollified.
"You are very kind but it is late and I am certain you have better things you would rather do than while away your time with me."
Egfor conceded that it was indeed late and wished her luck in finding Aslea soon.
"Perhaps you might try the Alley,"suggested the Gondorian, "A lot of children play there and often draw others into their games."
"Beggar's Alley?!" she stammered, incredulously.
Her mistress had told her all about that place. Located along the southwest rampart of Bree, the worst sort made their home in the squalor of dilapidated buildings and tents along the side of the road. Murders were not unheard of there as more and more people poured in from the south and taxed the locals' patience with foreigners like herself if they ever had any. The Watch thus far had been able to keep a lid on it but how much longer before the kettle boiled over? Not long after she had arrived in town, a brigand named Wulfthrud had kidnapped several people including the very magistrate who sentenced him to be branded and pilloried for theft and vagrancy. Although the authorities had managed to raid his hideout and disperse his followers, neither he nor they were ever brought to justice. She would have be mad to walk those streets alone and unarmed particularly at this late hour.
"I think..I will...just wait here a bit longer."
The Gondorian nodded, "It is not bad there but here is a good place to wait."
Feorhwen gave him a quizzical look. It is not bad there. Was that some sort of jest?
"I've not heard much good about that place, " she asserted.
"I suppose not," he replied, "I imagine your ward will show up soon."
"I hope so. It was nice meeting the two of you."
"You as well, Feorhwen!" echoed Egfor.
She smiled weakly and quickly fumbled through a curtsey that would have made her grandmother blanch as his large partner offered a bow.
"I'll just... go wait outside for her."
