The road home was a long one, and not without its travails: between Glad Ereg, on the edge of Hollin, and the villages of southern Bree-land lay something like a hundred leagues, as the crow flies, by Evonne’s own estimate - based on her battered bundle of maps, gathered in Bree and Rivendell. Much of that route, over the southern Trollshaws and the South Downs, was all but impassable by land: instead, one must either return back up the valley of the Loudwater, the way they had come, and then turn due west via the Last Bridge and the Great East Road; or, one could follow the Hoarwell southwest towards the marshes of Swanfleet, somehow cross it, and thence go west to find the Greenway and there turn north again, returning to Bree via Herne and the Andrath. Both paths added many leagues, and several days, to the route.
By the time the company finally made it back to Bree, it had been upwards of two months since they had left - for most of which, their families and friends had received few to no tidings of their whereabouts. For Evonne - who had never before travelled further from Bree than Trestlebridge - small wonder that some people had begun to worry.
Night had fallen by the time the weary company finally dragged themselves up the last road to Hamglen; and all Evonne could think about was her bed. Save for a few stolen nights in Rivendell, she had not slept in a real bed for over two months - indeed, she had spent many of them with little or nothing between herself and the bare earth. She thought she had begun to get used to it, at least a little - but for the last few nights she had actually dreamed of her own bed.
When they had all finally bidden each other good night, each went their separate way home. As her house by the marketplace at long last came into view, for a moment Evonne actually felt tears of relief prick her eyes.
Then she paused. Something felt off… in her exhausted state she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.
She shook her head, rubbed her eyes. What was it?
… lights. That was it. Why was there a light coming from within?
Suddenly she was alert again. Swiftly and quietly, she slipped behind a large tree - hiding out like a thief in her own front garden - and quietly eased off her pack, dropping it in the shadows. Trying to ignore the ache in her shoulders, she swiftly strung her bow and notched an arrow. Then, keeping to the shadows, she crept towards the window - and cautiously peered inside.
Yes - the fire was lit; and someone was sat in her armchair, facing her hearth, with their back to the window.
Nothing more could she make out.
Annoyance and irritation, borne of exhaustion, overcame her initial fear. She went to her own front door, and banged on it, hard. In the heat of the movement, even her usual trademark politeness was briefly forgotten.
“Hey! Open up!”
When the door did not open at once, she banged again.
“I know there’s someone in-”
The door opened, and she broke off uncertainly. Colour rushed to her cheeks when she saw who it was.
“Hello to you too,” remarked her father drily. “Why don’t you stop making that awful noise and come inside?”
Evonne Elmwater sat nervously on one of the smaller chairs, close to the fire, nursing a hot mug of tea her father had made for her, with a blanket thrown over her shoulders at his insistence. Lowe Elmwater sat back in the big armchair with a sigh and regarded her. He was not quite frowning, or sneering; but she was attuned to his facial expressions, and knew when he was struggling to bite his tongue.
She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to hear his inevitable criticism, so in a vain bid to stave off the inevitable, she attempted to begin to ramble.
“You must forgive me for hammering on the door like that - I didn’t expect to see you here at all! Such a lovely surprise… I thought you were spending most of your time in Trestlebridge these days - I remember that was always your favourite inn - but such a long ride! I hope you didn’t come here just to see me, only to find me away… I fear I may not be wonderful company this evening either! But it is wonderful of you to have stopped by…”
“Evonne,” he interrupted. She found herself compelled to meet his gaze. He narrowed his eyes at her, leaning forward. “How are you?”
“I… I’m fine.” She was slightly taken aback by the question. “Well… rather tired, but. Otherwise completely fine.” She smiled brightly, wondering how much he knew, or could divine.
“You have been travelling,” he remarked listlessly.
“I… well, yes.”
“Where have you been?”
Immediately, she didn’t like this. Wanted to get away - wanted to shrink into the blanket. He hadn’t changed a bit. This was most of why she had moved down here in the first place.
“I- sorry.”
She blinked twice in surprise - because that was him speaking. Had she heard correctly?
“Oh- please don’t apologise! … it’s just that I’ve been to a few places lately. It would make quite a long tale.”
She hesitated when he didn’t immediately respond.
“... I didn’t go alone, if that was what you were worried about.”
Lowe sat back in the armchair. For a moment he looked almost as tired as she felt.
“No… that was not what was worrying me.”
He looked at her, sorrowfully.
“Well. At least you are safe.”
… except it wasn’t sorrow in his eyes, of course. It was disapproval, and disappointment; tinged with regret and self-recrimination.
It made her want to disappear completely. When she forced herself to respond brightly, her voice rang hollow in her own ears.
“It’s very sweet of you to check in on me.”
Lowe stood up and went to the window; his back to her, and to the fire. Never a good sign.
“Well. I think of you often. And worry about you nearly as much.”
It was dark outside; by the flickering firelight she could, from time to time, see his face reflected in the glass of the window. It looked hard and cold, and faintly inhuman. It was difficult to remind herself that this was a man who had used to adore the pub trade: one of the wealthiest men in Bree, who had delighted in passing the time drinking beer in his front rooms with the common folk. That was how he had met her mother - a peasantwoman from Herne, a solitary village far away down the Greenway: a nobody from nowhere. When she thought of the two of them together, she remembered them both laughing.
She wasn’t certain she had seen him smile even once, since her mother had passed.
She shifted nervously. He remained facing the dark window - and she realised he too must be looking at his own reflection, surveying him grimly from out of the darkness.
“I wish you would come home,” he murmured.
“This is my home,” she replied, a little too quickly. For a moment she was worried she had offended him, but his reply came quickly too.
“You know what I mean,” he growled. “These people… they are not the right sort for you.”
“These people have done more for Bree-land in a few years than our family have done for a century,” she snapped. She was exhausted; and they were re-treading old ground.
He turned back to face her. “You have grown fond of them,” he observed.
“We risk our lives for each other. Sometimes twice a day. It does have a certain way of creating a connection between people.”
Now he was really scowling. His voice came thick and dark.
“You shouldn’t be risking your life for anyone. Certainly not an uncouth band of vagabonds and ruffians from the South - who have somehow made themselves masters of most of a whole village. And all of whose ill-begotten loot, I gather, now passes through your hands.”
He glowered at her. She had rarely seen him so angry.
“What were you thinking?!”
She stood up, dropping the blanket. She hadn’t touched the tea he had made.
“All they do is help people - people like you! Peaceful folk who have no idea what is out there - in the Wildwood, in the Lone-lands, barely a league from their own borders - have never had to draw a sword, or, or - shoot a goblin -”
“Shoot a goblin! What on Middle-earth have you been doing these last two months!”
She paused for a long moment before she replied - very quietly. She could feel herself quivering.
“Do not shout at me. Not in my own house.”
He opened his mouth, and she was sure he was going to deny it - or worse, carry on. But he closed it again; and just turned to face the window again. That was… better, somehow.
But when he continued, in a calmer tone, it wasn’t actually better.
“You are not thinking straight; you are not yourself. This is not the behaviour of civilised folk. You need to come home with me. Remind yourself of who you are. Let go of this whole… whatever this is.”
Anger and exhaustion battled for control within Evonne, threatening to boil into rage. She had to close her eyes to keep her head.
“This is me. And I will not come back with you. I can’t - you know I can’t. … I don’t know what you are trying to achieve by this. I was this close to forgiving you. Maybe you want me to hate you.”
Lowe eyed his daughter narrowly.
“... I don’t need you to like me. My job is to look after you - at least until you find a husband. You are making both of those things incredibly difficult.”
She barked with cold laughter; so he pressed his case.
“You are not thinking. This is Bree-land. People talk. Would you like to know what they say about you?”
Evonne hesitated. For all her self-righteousness… she couldn’t convincingly pretend that she didn’t care. Lowe pressed on again.
“I do not think you would like to hear it. Perhaps you should… or perhaps you can imagine. The rumours swirling about that nice, well-to-do girl - who ran off to live with a band of swords-for-hire? Who knows where they’re from but they’re certainly a strange lot; always coming and going, and armed to the teeth. She was from a respected family, too - or at least they used to be: the Elmwaters, you know - one of the oldest families in Bree-land, so they say. But she was the last of the line, I heard. Father still alive, just about; but ever since her mother died-”
“Stop it,” Evonne muttered. She said it very quietly - but he knew he had gotten through. He paused before continuing.
“This is my fault,” he said after a moment. “It was just selfishness. I should have re-married. Look at you - look at your hair, your clothes. You are a mess. You needed a - a woman in your life to guide you… a living woman; not just a memory. I let you down - and for that I am sorry.”
His voice was gruff with emotion; and he actually took her hand. She had bowed her head, and did not look up, hoping he wouldn’t see her tears. She was so tired. She just wanted to sleep. He went on.
“But… you have not helped yourself. This latest business - these mercenaries. It is one thing for you to have a job - that I understand: you wanted to branch out on your own, learn to stand on your own two feet.”
She scoffed, so he insisted.
“No, I do understand, of course I do! But these people… I am not sure how to say it. All the beauty, all the respectable family, all the inheritance in the world will not find you a husband if you continue to destroy your reputation in this way. And all this… at twenty-six years old and unwed!
“I have put it about that you have been in Herne, looking after our business there - not raiding caravans on the Great East Road. Alright, I know that’s not what your friends do! It does not matter. That is what people are saying.”
Evonne withdrew her hand. In a very small voice, she just said:
“I hope you set them straight.”
Lowe scoffed.
“As yet, they do not say it to my face. I hear it by the by. But this is what you need to know - the things you have not wanted to think about. The society you have been hiding from.”
He drew nearer, sensing victory.
“But here is the truth, Evonne. Those petty gossip-merchants of Bree… they will still be here - long after your new friends are gone, and all their tiny acts of heroism have been long forgotten. Dead, or merely returned to where they came from, I do not know. But our name - the Elmwater name - has been renowned in Bree for two hundred years. Have you really understood what it is you are throwing away?”
She felt so tired. The fight had gone out of her. Her body ached from the road. About at least one thing he was right: she must have looked pretty shocking. Her travel clothes were stained in a dozen places - with grass, mud, and a fair amount of blood; and she had no idea when she had last washed her hair. He hadn’t won her over - she knew there were things he was saying that were wrong; many of them she had heard before, and rejected long ago. Yet she could not help the nagging sense that, somewhere, among all his snobbery and twisted bitterness… there was a kind of small-minded, nasty logic that she actually understood. Maybe even believed in.
Either way, she didn’t have the energy to deal with it right now.
“Father, I… am exhausted. It has been a long road.”
He waited a moment. Then he released her hand. To her relief, he went over to the cloak-rack.
“Of course. You must forgive me - I heard you were coming back, and… well. Perhaps it could have waited till morning.”
She still couldn’t tell - had never been able to tell with him - how much of what he said and did was genuine consideration… and how much was manipulation.
“I do like what you have done with this place, by the way. I took the liberty of having a girl from the village give it a quick sweep earlier - I hope you don’t mind. I know you can be quite particular.”
It didn’t matter; either way he was leaving. She thanked him formulaically, and showed him to the door.
“I’ll stay the night at the inn here - I’ve heard its quite good. Perhaps… perhaps you might join me for breakfast? Or shall we say luncheon - you look all in. Give you a chance to get some proper rest. And perhaps a bath…”
There was no gainsaying him; she had to agree. She waved him off from the door and, once he was at a polite distance, closed it gratefully.
She barely had the willpower left to peel off her filthy travel clothes before dragging herself into bed. It was colder than she had remembered in her dreams.
