“What are you doing?”
The young woman with the ink-black hair looked up and over her shoulder. Her hand was partway into her pocket, in the process of dumping a meager pile of stale bread crumbs within. She smiled sheepishly. “It’s for the birds by the fountain.”
A lopsided smirk was returned by the man standing a few steps away. His hair was lighter than hers, his eyes the color of rich soil while his sister’s were like moss on a forest floor; verdant green flecked with gold and brown. “The birds? Truly, Taite? You’re giving what little food we have to the fat pigeons of Bree?”
She laughed lightly, withdrawing her hand, the crumbs safely deposited into her pocket. “It’s hardly anything at all, Emory. Just a tiny bit of crust from dinner last night.”
Her brother watched her for a moment, crossing his lean, muscled arms. She heard the sound of liquid sloshing and glanced over at him again. A frown darkened the smooth plane of her brow as she spotted the flask in his right hand. It had been making appearances earlier and earlier in the day, it seemed. At first, it was only late at night that he would nurse whatever spirits he could afford with the few coppers he’d earned working odd jobs that day. Then it began to show itself just after supper. Now, it seemed almost a constant accessory, an unwelcome appendage to his person that cast a pall over every conversation.
Emory noticed where her eyes were fixed and quickly lowered his arms again, tucking the flask subtly behind his back. “You’ve been out a lot lately,” he remarked quietly.
Taite’s gaze held to his face for a moment and then dropped away. “Aye,” she replied, her voice equally low. “I know.”
“With the same people? The man and the hobbit?” Emory’s body twitched, the toe of his boot tapping the floor once and then going still.
“Sometimes, aye,” she said, moving around the table, adjusting the cracked vase that held a single, purple flower with wilting petals.
Her brother followed her movements with his eyes. “That flower’s dead. Throw it out.”
“It’s not dead yet,” she objected softly, smiling a little as her finger touched the silken petals tenderly. Something seemed to occur to her then, for she stopped and went still, and the smile vanished. “I’ll just... move it.” She took the vase and limped into the adjoining bedroom, not looking at Emory.
“You should be home at night. Not down at the pub with strangers.” His voice, louder now, followed after her. As she set the vase on the old, timeworn dresser, and she could no longer see him in the other room, she heard the flask being moved again. The soft sloshing sound, the suction of lips against its opening, the accompanying, swallowing sigh.
“They’re friends,” she said from where she stood, looking straight ahead at the smudged looking-glass that was leaned against the wall. “Not strangers.”
“Not what I heard,” he called back from the other room. “I heard about a drunk woman causing trouble. Folk trying to stab each other. Someone getting dog-bit.”
The silence that followed these words was thick and uncomfortable. Taite stared at her blurry reflection, waiting.
“And they said you was there,” Emory finished. “Said you was in the back with some high-up fellow.” He let another long pause stretch out.
Taite felt her pulse galloping. Her fingers grew cold. The threat of disapproval hung in the air, waiting for permission to descend.
“That’s Filisk,” she said in a faint voice, quickly clearing her throat, not wishing to sound fearful or cowed. “He’s respectable. He just likes to sit in the quieter places because he’s blind.”
“Can’t be too respectable if he were in the middle of it,” came a grumbling response.
Her hands moved to grip the edge of the dresser. Why did she feel such a terrible, gnawing guilt in her belly?
She heard herself breathing too heavily, trying to calm the thrumming anxiety that was coursing through her limbs. And then, without meaning to, words came out. “You know I won’t be here forever, Emory.”
Silence again. The floor creaked a little from the next room.
“Why do you say that?” he finally asked. His voice was thick, the words soft and mushy. Was it from emotion, or the drink in his hand?
She drew a finger along the edge of the dresser. The wood was stained, chipped, splinters poking dangerously in places. “Because I don’t belong here. Not forever. Right now, maybe...but not always.” Why was it easier to talk to him when she wasn’t looking at him?
“You don’t belong here?” he retorted, his voice rising in offense. “With your own family? Your own brother?” A dreaded sound began then. The slow, creaking rhythm of large feet coming across the floorboards. It only took a few steps before his large shadow blotted out the pale, morning sunlight coming through the doorway. “Sounds like these people are putting ideas in your head that don’t belong there!”
Taite turned her head with a quick jerk. Her pleasant countenance twisted into a defensive glare. “What do you mean?” she snapped.
“Look at you!” he barked back at her, flinging a hand out to indicate her person. In his ire, he began to sway on his feet, and was forced to lean against the doorway.
She felt a sudden swelling in the back of her throat. Her jaw trembled. Her voice, when she spoke again, was icy and eerily quiet. “What about me?”
Emory stared at her with his increasingly bloodshot eyes. Something about her demeanor, perhaps, acted like a tonic against his brewing anger, and he slumped a little. “Taitey, come on,” he murmured, his head drooping towards his chest. “Don’t make me say these things out loud.”
“What about me, Emory?” she pressed, turning to face him, balancing on her left foot. Her eyes were vivid behind the dark locks of hair trailing over her forehead.
Her brother angled his face up just enough so that he could see her. He stood there in silence for a few breaths, before he suddenly exploded. All at once, he straightened, drew his arm back, and hurled the flask at her while bellowing, “I said stop!!”
She flinched sharply, her hands flying up to shield her face as she threw herself over the dresser to avoid falling to the floor. The flask missed its target and smashed into the wall behind her. She remained as she was, bent over, clutching the dresser, quivering like a leaf in the wind. Waiting, listening, praying for the storm to pass without hurting her.
Emory said nothing more, but she heard his feet shuffling back into the adjoining room.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she whispered to the air, and a tightness began to ache behind her breast. Were the words meant for her brother, or herself? She thought of the kind souls who had befriended her, and a torrent of shame washed over her. Yet beneath it was a tiny spark, a flame sputtering to life. Like a pinprick, barely felt, yet very real, a bitter indignation began to flicker. She thought of the sweet, sunlit joy of standing in the middle of the Shire, a pair of tree-trunk-like arms around her shoulders, and a pair of tiny yet strongly affectionate arms around her waist. And she felt guilty for having felt such joy. And she felt angry for feeling the guilt.
As the sound of deep, drunken snoring began to rise from the next room, she straightened herself up. Her hands tugged her dress back into place, and rose up to smooth her tousled hair. She walked through the bedroom doorway and looked down at her brother as he sat in his favored rocking chair, asleep. Fierce love and familial affection mingled with bittersweet sadness.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she said again, to his deafened ears.
