The Green Dragon Inn - Part 4

[Envinyatar]

Derufin leaned back in his chair, his legs propped on the hearth. The stew had been excellent, the biscuits passable. ‘Not bad for a first try, though,’ he thought to himself. Ruby had come to collect his dishes, bringing the pitcher of ale with her. She topped his off when he held his tankard to her, then retreated to the kitchen to tidy up the dishes.

The heat of the little fire in the grate had warmed the soles of his boots, and he could feel the pleasant warmth of it on the bottoms of his feet. The single log glowed a deep orange-red at the heart of it. It popped and hissed, a single, small ember flying from it to land on the stonework near his feet. He leaned forward, flicking it back to the center of the flames.

The man from Rohan had sat down a pace from him, a jar of ale in hand. The sound of his voice pulled Derufin from a fleeting reverie as he stared at the wavering lines of heat thrown off at the fire’s core – lines of men marching, and on their faces the smiles of those who had not yet come to battle.

He pulled his eyes away, catching the words addressed to him.

‘Yes, Eodwine, you have the right of it. It’s from Gondor I hail. Near Ethring, in the Ringló Vale. His gaze shifted to the man, noting the lines etched at the corners of his eyes, the faint lines that creased his brow. ‘And yes, I do believe we are of similar age – I’m thirty-eight this year.’

‘You were in the War, no?’

Derufin frowned at this question, his eyes traveling back to the fire. Best give a short answer, and shift to something else, he thought.

"Aye, that I was. A sorry business that turned out good, thanks to these merry folk," he said, forcing a smile. ‘The War’s my study.’ He heard Eodwine say. Derufin’s brows raised at this statement. ‘A grim study of dark times,’ he thought to himself, wondering if such pursuits told of a man unscathed by shadow or belied a warrior seeking to make some sense of the horrors he had seen, the darkness that had touched him. His thoughts ran on. ‘Each to his own way,’ he murmured, thinking how he had dealt with his own memories by running from them.

‘What was your part in it?’

An innocent enough question, but one he was not ready to answer to someone he had barely met. He turned it aside, saying only that it had been a small enough part he had played. ‘Just some battles near the end, he said in a casual manner, ‘and then we went home, our duty done.’ His voice caught at the end, and he covered it with a deep breath and a drink of ale.

He put his feet on the floor, leaning forward in his seat. His tankard gripped tightly in his hands, Derufin stared intently at the bed of coals. He had wanted to shift the conversation away from this, but found he could not. He willed himself to relax as he asked his own question, speaking in a low, even voice.

‘And you, Eodwine, what part was yours?’