The walk to Frogmorton was peaceful, as much of their wanderings within the Shire had been. The traveler almost admired the idyllic life that the halflings had created for themselves. He saw a well fed and kept people who did not flinch at the approach of those of their kind who might yet be unknown – they treated their wider neighbours warmly. There was no fear of strife, no worry for the future of their children. He sensed the underlying tranquility of the land creeping between the cracks of his stony walls.
At times he glanced at the girl who brought him here and watched the shadows of gently swaying leaves flutter across her ever-hopeful face; in those moments he had the barest cognition of the optimism and vibrancy that she held. And he knew that a tiny bit of him wished to let go the shackles of the dark past finally, and simply be free to live again. To dream again.
Could that be a possibility? Was he not too far gone to come back to good graces, and live commonly with friends and lovers and a livelihood to make? To greet the morning sun with happiness shaping his face instead of a scowl, and once again belong to his own minuscule yet secure place within the world?
It was disarming that he allowed those thoughts to take shape within his waking mind, and he knew he must dismiss them forthwith. His time was done and he chose to drift his remaining days as a ghost. Apathetic and unseen. As it should be.
He would believe that the girl next to him was only a cruel illusion of resurrection.
He had to.
