Chapter Three - Strider Said Nothing

Strider seemed somewhat better, come morning, but even though Bowen was far from familiar with the man, he still seemed pale and lethargic. Strong and vital he may be when healthy, but right now it was obvious to anyone with eyes in his head that he did not feel at all well. Upon waking, he had got up and run his hands through his hair and splashed water on his face, but all very slowly, as though his joints pained him or his head ached, or both. And, now, as he sat on the edge of the bed, holding a bowl of congealing oatmeal of which he had eaten only a few spoonfuls, he stared dully at the floor in much the same way as he had while sitting on the hearth the afternoon before. Bowen scratched at this jaw. Granted, no man ate like a hobbit, and oatmeal wasn’t exactly a meal to get overly excited about, but it hardly seemed natural, a man his size eating only a bite or two of breakfast. And he didn’t like the look of Strider’s eyes, so dull and weary when Bowen was sure they should be sharp enough to cut a man in two. "Are you certain you’re feeling better?"

Strider blinked, then glanced up at Bowen. He nodded, then put the bowl on the table and picked up the mug of tea. He took a sip and went back to staring at the floor. He had yet to utter a word.

"Your chest doesn’t feel tight?"

A shake of the head.

"Stomach all right?"

A nod.

"Fever?"

Another shake of the head, plus a shrug, as if to say he didn’t think so but couldn’t say for certain. Bowen scowled and reached toward Strider, who immediately stiffened. Not glaring exactly, but there was a warning flash in the grey eyes.

"Here now, I only want to check for fever. I’ve no mustard poultices hid anywhere, if that’s what you’re worried about." When Strider relaxed, Bowen laid his hand on the Ranger’s forehead. "A bit warm, but still better than last night."

Strider said nothing. He took another sip of tea.

"Are you still sore about the poultice, or is it just your way to not speak in the mornings?" Polite he always tried to be, but Strider’s obstinate silence was more irritating than being around his wife’s mother, who never stopped talking.

Strider’s lips moved but Bowen couldn’t hear any words.

"What’s that you say?"

"Hurts to talk," he said in a raspy whisper. He winced, shutting his eyes. His face took on a terrible drawn look, and Bowen instantly felt ten times the churlish fool.

"By wind and by sun, I’m a sorry excuse of a heartless, addlepated twit... of course that’s why you’re not talking. No, no... hush! Don’t say anything! Rest your voice and keep drinking that tea. There’s honey in it. Should help a little."

Strider’s lips twitched in a faint smile as he nodded.

Bowen thought he should give Strider a reassuring pat or squeeze of the shoulder, but he figured a man as feral as Strider might not take it kindly. Feral. Yes, that was the word for him. Wild and fierce and a bit scary and as likely to respond to ordinary kindness with a slash of claws as not. But no... that was too harsh. Strider had his moments of crotchetiness but he wasn’t cruel, nor ungrateful, Bowen knew that. But still... he had a distinct touch-me-not air about him. In fact, Bowen had a feeling if he tried to hug Strider – not that he would, of course – he’d end up flung against the wall.  At a loss, Bowen paced to the window. Watery sunshine struggled through the thinning clouds. "Good to finally see the sun."

Strider glanced out. Nodded. Took another small sip and painfully swallowed.

Bowen rubbed his hands back and forth on his thighs as he sat down in the room’s only chair. "Strider," he started, then stopped. He finally gathered his courage. "You need to come home with me."

Strider stared at him. He may not have said a word, but Bowen could read his surprise and growing protest plain as day.

"Now, before you argue with me, hear me out. You’re still sick. I saw what little money you had, and I mean no insult, of course, because money doesn’t make a man after all, but I bring it up just to make the point that staying here isn’t something I wager you can afford. And staying out in the wilds where it’s still wet and dank and chilly will be the death of you. So as I see it, coming home with me is the only sensible thing, unless of course you have some other friends or family nearby what could take you in?"

Strider looked at him for a long moment, then whispered, "No. None near."

Somehow that didn’t surprise Bowen. He had no idea where Rangers came from, but Strider left him feeling that he had blown into the Prancing Pony like a dazed bird stranded by a storm. Not just any bird, mind you, but a wounded eagle, fierce and independent and a little bit frightening. Even in need of care, he had a wild and wandering air about him that couldn’t be ignored... feral, there was that word again! Bowen shook his head. Eagles might fly free and alone, but no man should be rootless, even one called Strider. No, a man needs deep roots somewhere, so why not try to coax him into putting down one or two small ones right here in Bree? It may not be as grand as Minas Tirith or the Elven cities of old, but it was a homey place, quiet and filled with good folk. A man could do worse than to plant himself in Breeland’s good soil. "There you go, then. You don’t know me from the cobbler, o’ course, but consider me the next best thing to family. You’ll come with me and no arguing."

Strider looked a little nonplused, but he didn’t offer any protest, so Bowen got busy gathering up all their belongings. "Now, I’m sure I’m not packing away your things as neatly as you had... my, but you have a knack for packing... but I’ll be sure not to leave anything behind." He snatched up Strider’s shirt and pants from yesterday, where they had hung on the back of the chair to dry overnight by the room’s small fireplace. "These aren’t clean from the laundry, exactly, but at least they’re good and dry now. I’ll run down to the kitchen again and get your cloak. Nob was good enough to let me hang it down there to dry, by his big cooking fire... it was so soaked through that it would have taken a week for this little bit of a fire to dry it out." He laid Strider’s clothes on the bed beside him. "Now, don’t take me the wrong way, but that tunic you’re wearing, while it’s just about the nicest shirt I’ve ever seen, isn’t really fit for traveling in, if you get my meaning. But my, what a shirt! Never seen anything like that white fabric... I don’t know how anyone made it with that ferny pattern that only shows up when you look close. Looks like something a king might wear, if you’ll forgive me for getting too fanciful."

Strider smiled a bit and bowed his head and waved his hand as though he were a king granting pardon to a misbehaving commoner. When he raised his head, he winked.

Bowen chuckled. Maybe he was wrong about Strider being such a wild and grim sort. "I know, I know... you’re no king, that’s for certain. I’ve just got an imagination that gets away from me. But it’s not often I see anything that fine. That stitchery is fancier than anything my wife can do, and she’s the best seamstress in these parts, or at least I think so, but don’t you be telling that to Daisy Fernhill. She fancies herself as the best seamstress in all of Breeland, but my Flora showed me her stitch work on a quilt she gave us for our wedding and even I could see her stitches wandered all over the place. Anyway, back to your shirt – did your woman make you that, maybe to wear for special times?"

Strider blushed a little as he nodded. He didn’t seem aware of it, but his whole face softened as he seemed to lose himself in thoughts of his lady love.

"Ah, that’s wonderful, it is," Bowen sighed. "It does my heart good to know you’re not completely alone in the world. I’m betting she’d be welcome about now, were she to walk in that door."

Strider nodded. His gaze dropped to his lap, where he ran his fingers over the designs woven into the fabric.

"But here you are, stuck with me, more’s the pity."

Strider looked up immediately and gave him a protesting look, holding out a hand.

Bowen shook it, not sure if that’s what Strider really meant for him to do, but it seemed to satisfy him. "Just don’t try to kiss me."

Strider’s eyes crinkled in the corners and danced a little as he shook his head vigorously and crossed his heart.

Bowen chuckled again. "You’ve no idea what a relief that promise is to me, Strider. But back to your outfit... as I said, don’t take me wrong but that shirt looks a little delicate for even a short journey. Best you get back into the clothes you wore yesterday. They’re a bit travel-stained but far more serviceable."

Strider nodded.

"Thought you might agree. You get yourself changed while I’m downstairs. Don’t worry, I’ll knock before I come back in so I don’t catch you with anything showing as shouldn’t be." He started for the door, but Strider held up a hand.

"There was a pin," Strider started, pointing at his shoulder.

"Oh yes, your star-shaped pin. Pretty thing, that. I’ve got it right here, in your pack. It looked valuable so I didn’t leave it on the cloak while it was downstairs with no one to watch over it. Didn’t figure you’d think it any favor had I gone and let it get stolen!" He stuck his hand into the pack and felt around. He yelped when his finger found one of the pointed rays. He gingerly pulled it out and handed it to him, then examined his finger. "No blood, there’s good news at least."

Strider clutched the pin in his left hand as he looked toward his pack. He seemed worried.

"I say, is it broken?" Bowen slapped his hand to his forehead. "By wind and by sun, surely I didn’t break it, but I can be a clumsy oaf sometimes–"

Strider shook his head, then cleared his throat, or tried to. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but grimaced and massaged his throat. After a frustrated sigh, he flapped his hand toward his pack, gesturing for it. Bowen put it beside him on the bed and he thrust his arm in, digging around in the very bottom. Bowen heard something make a muffled thunk, almost a metallic sound but he couldn’t be sure. At any rate, upon hearing it, Strider let out a soft sigh and the worry left his eyes.

"Is whatever it is that you’re concerned about still there, then? I didn’t paw through your things, exactly, but I had to find you a clean shirt. And then I found the willow bark, so I took it out. But I didn’t look any more after that. I didn’t figure it was any business of mine what else you were carrying."

"Sorry. Had to..." A fruitless clearing of his throat. "...check something..." Another cough. "...that is dear to me."

"Hush, hush. Please, don’t try to talk; it hurts me to listen to your voice, to be honest. And I understand completely – even a man with no money has treasures he can’t bear parting with. I bet you’d never part with that pin, even if you were down to your last ha’penny. And of course there’s plenty of other things that are treasures to one man that’d be worthless to anyone else. I’ve an old pot of my mother’s that has a hole in the bottom and rust on the sides that make it useless to anyone else, but I can’t bear to toss it out. Memories and all, you know."

Strider nodded, smiling. He tapped his heart, then made a gesture as though holding a pot and nodded again.

"Aye, exactly. So you’ve got one, too. Sentimental foolishness, men like us clinging to old bits of nothing, but there you go. We understand each other, don’t we. Now, get yourself dressed. I’ll be back in two shakes. Maybe three, to give you plenty of time to dress. I may even go to the stable and saddle my horse. I don’t suppose you have a horse?"

To his surprise Strider nodded. "Bay mare, named Bronadui." He held up three fingers.

"Third stall?" At Strider’s nod, he said, "Good, good. That’ll make the trip easier, then, so long as you don’t faint and fall off halfway along the way. I might be a dab enough hand with fevers, but naught I can do about a broken neck."

Strider shook his head and flexed his right arm, as it to show how strong he felt.

"Hmm, I don’t know that you’re as strong as all that, at least not at the moment, though I don’t doubt you’re sommat to see at full strength. Still, I’ll take your word for it. I’ll ready them both." As he shut the door behind him, he paused in the hall, smiling. "Funny, a grim old fellow like him, sentimental enough to carry around his mother’s old soup pot. Probably uses it every night and remembers her." He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat at the thought of his own departed mother and hurried downstairs.