∴ A Waiting Fate∴
With your back to a gnarled blackthorn, you wait. You’ve got good at it over the years. Waiting for a rabbit to trip a well-laid trap. Waiting for darker quarry as well. Waiting for news. For her. For history to be made.
While you wait, you slide a weather-worn hand into your pack and retrieve a sliver of lembas bread and a roughspun rag. Setting the former aside, you turn your attention to your sword, tutting at its tarnish, running the rag over stern, swooping lines. Waiting you may be, but idle you are not.
The sword had a name once, you muse. In fact, it had many – the names of great deeds and glories. Out here, alone, you prefer to think of it simply as your sword. A trusted tool. Just as you would shrug off your own weighty appellations.
Your thoughts are interrupted by the unmistakable sound of footsteps beyond the birdsong and bracken-rush. Five pairs of feet and the clamour of conversation.
“Please remember,” an urgent voice breaks through the rest,” that the name Baggins must not be mentioned.”
Another traveller trying to outrun a name. You grin and gather your pack. Continue reading