A cold breeze from the opened door guttered the oil-lamps' flame. Looking up, Leena didn't recognize the two figures who stepped into the tavern. She watched them closely, from behind the bar, as they made their way to a bench near the hearth in back, pulling off damp cloaks. The taller, a man, with dark hair brushing his shoulders; the shorter, a woman, whose reddish tresses caught the fire's dancing light. Both faces vaguely familiar, as if seen from time to time, in passing, about town, though she couldn't put a name to either. But Breelanders. Good.
The two settled side by side and fell quickly into quiet conversation, their voices' murmur blending with the muted wind outside and the old tavern's creaking timbers. She would give them a few minutes to warm up, while she finished cleaning this glassware, before she went to take their order.
It had been a slow night at the Boars' Wallow. No doubt the cold, damp weather was keeping many of her regulars home by their own hearths. The evening's last customers, greyhaired Brushwood and his two grown sons, had left a quarter hour earlier, and Leena's aging parents had retired to their rooms upstairs, leaving her to tend the quiet tavern until closing time.
She wondered what chance brought these two newcomers here, rather than to the more popular Prancing Pony up the hill. No doubt Old Butterbur's establishment was still busy, filled with shifty strangers and foreigners with their bizarre attitudes and practices. Well, Barliman could keep that type! Here, she knew all her customers, and they knew her. Patrons minded their manners when they might see you in the marketplace the next day, when tonight's drunken indiscretion would traverse the spiderweb of local gossip before noon tomorrow.
Leena was glad not to have to deal with disrespectful southerners here at the Wallow. Nor, for that matter, deal with dwarves, who were already loud when they walked into a room, and even louder as pint after pint flowed down their gullets and, often as not, down their impressive beards as well. Halflings, now, those little ones she didn't mind so much, always so quiet and polite. But they, too, seemed drawn to the Pony, perhaps because of the comfortable small rooms in back. What scandalous tales of Bree those diminutive visitors must take home with them, despite the fact that much of what they saw likely had nothing to do with Breefolk at all.
Leena glanced back toward the unfamiliar couple, as she stacked the last mugs and picked up a rag to wipe down the tables. For they did seem to be a couple, bodies close, heads bent, falling hair a play of sunset and midnight. Though there was something in the set of their shoulders, especially the young woman's. A rigidity that spoke of pain more than companionship. She could hear it in the redhead's tone, too: the ache, if not the words, distinct within the quiet walls.
Damn. Leena sighed to herself, and rubbed harder at the scored, time-polished wood beneath her rag. Heartbreak. Sure enough. She knew the signs. She'd seen it too many times before, more than once by that self-same hearth. Lived it too many times before, too. Though even once was a time too many.
She wondered which version was playing out across the room. Had the girl's mother forbidden the match, a more suitable one arranged? No, more likely -- if she had to guess from posture and tone -- it was the boy giving an all too familiar speech. "It was just a bit of fun," or "I made you no promises." Men were such selfish, heartless animals. They'd play with your emotions, then saunter off, as if intimacy were of no more import than a handshake. Or string you along, like a hook-snagged fish, letting you run a time, then reeling you back in, struggling and helpless, just to show they could. Bastards, all.
She set down the rag and strode toward the hearth, wiping wet hands on her apron. Well, not in her tavern. Not tonight. If they wanted to order something, fine. But she was too tired for some anguished confrontation, for shouts of anger, for one or both of them to go storming out, knocking over chairs and shattering crockery on the way. Wouldn't be the first time that'd happened here, either.
The two heads were still bowed together as she drew close, oblivious to the rest of the world. Shoulders still hunched, low voices still strained. Leena cleared her throat censoriously. Two pairs of startled eyes flew up towards her, the couple shifting marginally apart, guiltily. The girl looked near to tears.
"I'll be taking your orders, now," Leena said, scorn creeping into her tone. "This is a tavern, mind you, not a room for private canoodling." She tried to catch the redhead's gaze, offering this escape from the uncomfortable conversation, but the other woman's morose gaze already had shifted back to the worn floor.
"Two mulled ciders," the dark-haired young man replied, after a moment of visibly pulling his thoughts back to the present. "And a shot of brandy in each." His tone was dismissive, almost rude, his attention swinging back to his companion before he'd even finished speaking.
Leena had half a mind to refuse, to scold him for whatever soul-pain he was about to inflict on the poor lass, to send him out into the winter chill, where he belonged. But it had been a slow night, and the Wallow needed the coin. Besides, she reminded herself, returning to the kitchen, it wasn't her place to solve everybody's problems. Each generation recapitulated the same foolish dances, never learning from the past, and there was nothing you could do to make them listen.
She'd been like that herself, she reflected, as she poured spiced cider into the warming pan. Her parents had warned her that Goeffery was no good: a rogue, not to be trusted. But she'd loved that wildness in him, that freedom. Loved, too, those intimate words he'd spoken to her. Been sure she would be the one to tame him. Even when she'd heard the rumors of other assignations; even when, after each tearful confession and apology and promise, it happened again. She'd been sure she could win him over. That her patient love for him - what she thought was love - would lift him up, make a proper husband of him. That he'd cleave to her in contrite gratitude and steadfast devotion.
And when she'd missed her monthly blood, she was sure that would be the turning point. That he'd be delighted with the news, and they'd move forward together, a new family. Instead, he'd looked at her in shock, in horror. In revulsion. The memory of that heartless rejection could still send enfeebling chills through gut and limbs. And, within a month of that confrontation, he'd vanished northward with a pack of his wild companions. "Off to Trestlebridge," some said. "Joined with bandits," another rumor ran. She never tried to find out. For by then she'd learned that she wasn't the only Bree lass swelling from his broken promises and wayward seed.
Later, her mother always claimed that Leena lost the baby to her broken heart. Maybe so. But now here she was, pushing forty, no child, no husband, working at her parents' tavern, and all because of a faithless man. Watching the same refrain play out agian. She filled the tankards, tossed in the brandy, and started to the back.
Tension were running hotter by the time she approached the bench. Leena could feel them lap against her senses, palpable as the fire's warmth. The young woman looked ready to flee. Her companion was struggling to speak. Good; let him struggle. It shouldn't be so easy to break hearts. He even looked a bit like Goeffery, with his blue eyes and full mouth and dark hair, though Goeffery had always kept his short.
Leena thrust the drinks onto the sidetable, one nearly sloshing over at the impact. "Ten coppers," she demanded, ice in her tone. The young man struggled with his beltpouch, then drew and thrust fifteen at her. His gaze implored her to go away. The redhead stared down at her hands, twisted together, agonized, in her lap. With a sniff, Leena snatched the coins and spun on her heel, no word of thanks for the generous tip. Fine. Let the little drama play out. But if any mugs got smashed, she'd have the worth of it, down to the last hapenny, before letting that young man out her door. At least there were no other customers to be disrupted by whatever simmering disaster was about to boil over. Nearly closing time, after all.
She leaned against the front of the bar, watching from the corner of her eye. Though probably she could stare openly and the couple wouldn't notice, so lost were they in their private world. Could ride one of those great southern warhorses across the walls and they might not even look up.
The girl's head was bowed, shoulders shaking, not looking at her friend. The murmered tones of her urgent question barely audible. The boy's face, in profile, backlit by fire, fixed on her, trying to shape an answer. He took a long swallow of his cider, breathed deep, voiced a reply.
Here it come, Leena thought. The weeping. The anger. The storming out and shattering mugs.
And then, in a convulsive motion, the redhead was on him. But not to strike him. She flung her arms about his neck; her body pressed to his; lips seeking lips; a cry of soul-deep relief; two voices twined in frantic reassurance; black and copper tresses tangled, flames kindling wet wood. Leena could only stare.
The couple rose after only a minute or two - though time stretched for seeming hours. Hand in hand, warm cider forgotten, they hastened together towards the door. Didn't spare Leena so much as a glance as they hurried by. She marvelled that they avoided tripping over chairs and tables, so intent were they, one on the other.
So ... no tears or shattered crockery after all.
Traitorous moistness pricked the corners of Leena's eyes as she straightened to her feet. She wiped her cheeks with a fold of her apron and moved to gather up the abandoned drinks.
Well then. Maybe, just maybe, there were still a few stories in this world that had a happy ending, after all.
