When Ford returned home to his room in Bree, it was close to midnight and he was exhausted. He shut the door behind him and slumped into the hard wood, feeling the weight of the day leaving his shoulders. It had been a long day indeed, and the smith had spent most of the afternoon at Owena's bakery, out on an errand to buy Hilda some cookies. Over the course of the entire visit, he had been bombarded with a string of good and bad emotions, which included anger, hope, sadness, frustration, happiness, and last but not least: love.
He looked down at his palm and closed it into a fist, head leaned back into the door with a heavy sigh. He knew the comment had been made as an innocent snipe at his boorishness, oblivious of the sting that it would bring, but still he had to resist the urge to punch the man, instead slumping back and stubbornly folding his arms. The tone of dismissal after his firm refusal was the salt in the wound that made him stand up and leave the room.
Outside, he had been comforted. They had talked, reasonably and rationally. Discussed. He had been given absolute trust, the weight of which he still felt keenly on his shoulders - but he bore it gladly, and a warm feeling arose in his chest as he thought back to the exchange, sweet and pleasant.
The sleeping, cream-coloured dog on the bed stirred. The smith had slid down to the floor and had begun to shed tears, clutching at his forehead with a trail of wetness sliding down both cheeks. He curled up his knees as the dog roused and padded up to place a paw on his lap, leaned up to lick the salty tears away.
The man reached to hug the dog close to him, gripped by a sense of relief, and strangely enough, fear.
"I did it, Thimble." He whispered, "I said it."
OOC: Experimenting with a shorter, crisper writing style. Comments and critique welcome.
