Xenia stared ruefully into the larder that towered nearly two feet above her head. The chestnut shelves told her brunch would be impossible unless she left the house and went to one of the markets in the area. The contents amounted to barely two slices of bread, a jar of tea leaves, ale and a tiny serving of dried blueberries but otherwise it was empty space.

 It had been positively dismal the past few March days, with thunderstorms scattered amid drizzle, fog and torrential downpours- exactly the type of weather no hobbit would want to be out in. It had kept her confined to the room she rented for the better part of a week, not leaving for anything but the privy, barring one occasion. Xenia had made a failed attempt to procure food two days ago that had ended with her sloshing as fast as she could through the mud back to the doorstep to escape an abrupt downpour. Xenia had encountered her seldom-seen roommate and the owner of the house when reentering, but the elf had not talked to her. He never did unless absolutely necessary.

 That was the best thing about the elf. In Xenia’s opinion, the tenant-landlord relation far surpassed her wildest hopes. Not only was he perfectly willing to permit her to rent a room without a lease or any idea of when she might leave but he did not even demand a name!  Back when the hobbit answered his resplendent “Room for Rent” sign, she’d been prepared to introduce herself as Daria Goodlett. The taciturn elf had shaken his head. “I didn’t ask yours,” he’d reproached. That reply had piqued Xenia’s suspicions, but then the hobbit had remembered her own circumstances. Considering she herself wished to conceal her identity, it would be outrageously hypocritical of her to pressure others to divulge their name. That in mind, she’d decided the reticent elf could keep his secrets. Keep his secrets the proprietor did. They were well-guarded under lock and key like her life before leaving Drémeadow never to return.

Xenia raked her hand through her loosely curled dark hair, mulling her quandary over. She might be in brown hose and a grey tunic instead of her nightgown, the halfling thought, but she was in no mood to get wet. The hobbit moved to the single window in the room and ran her hand along the dusty pane, blackening her palm. Wrinkling her nose, Xenia rubbed her hands with the rust-colored rag on the windowsill, contemplating the sky. No longer did it have an ominous black color. She could not see lightning in the distance, although her sight was partially obscured by other buildings in the city rising up as high as three and, incredibly, four stories. In one brightened area weak beams of sunlight permeated the clouds enough to illuminate the sky.  It was the most hopeful the sky had looked in days even if the sun’s rays had yet to reach the ground.

            “Groceries, then.”  Xenia moved towards the mirror to check her hair and clothing. Instead, she noticed her face. Frowning, she ran a finger along the faint lines in her forehead. Were they deeper than yesterday? And was it her imagination, or were her cheeks beginning to sag?

            Leave it, a voice in her mind chastised. You’re merely worried about looking old because you’ll be thirty next year. So old you have to stop having fun like when you’re twenty-something, get married and have children. Xenia shuddered at the thought. Childbearing disturbingly resembled torture. She’d never forget the anguished cries of her mother first at six with Odo’s birth, then nearly ten with Folco. Thank goodness it seemed, given the way her life had gone, she would never have to worry about it. As a wanted criminal it was impossible to make friends let alone court a potential husband. Subjecting theoretical children to the constant fear of capture would be nothing short of cruel. Children deserved better than the exile lifestyle.

            She was nearly out the door when she remembered it was Wednesday. Xenia seized a nondescript badge from her dresser, affixing it to her dark gray cloak for the Traitor’s Festival. That badge guaranteed a discount from all vendors who bore the same badge. Even though the hobbit, unbeknownst to others, had far more money on her person and in this room than all but the richest echelon of the Simillioran city of Dolingdarrow, she had to account for decades of life ahead.  Prudence demanded the discount.

Besides, appearing ordinary was of paramount importance. She had even taken various odd jobs despite never working a day of her life until settling in Simillior. The beauty of Dolingdarrow, one of five districts in a city largely occupied by elves and refugees from various lands, was that people kept out of each other’s business. Furthermore, obscuring her face with her hood and occasionally wearing masks was not out of the ordinary. In fact, it was something of a fashion, a trend the hobbit gladly embraced. Dolingdarrow was where she lived the longest other than Drémeadow and that atrocious university in Rheeding she’d attended until her expulsion six years ago.

~*~*~
            Along her usual route to the town square, Xenia noticed to her discomfiture that there seemed to be even more hobbits than a few days ago. Fellow members of her race were the last people she felt safe seeing. Though none paid her heed, their mere presence terrified her. What were they doing so far from Drémeadow? Most of her race abhorred travel. Were they after her? Or perhaps somebody else? It was not as though she were the only fugitive her homeland sought, at least in recent weeks.

           

            She paused at the signposts bearing Wanted posters from various places. Her eyes went first to a Drémeadow poster depicting a glum hobbit-woman with darkened bags shadowing melancholy golden-brown eyes, a wan complexion, frizzy chestnut curls, and untidy clothing. The words in biggest lettering read “Wanted for Conspiracy: Xenia Foxtrot.”

 

Her height and general description had not changed.  The Xenia depicted in the sketch was the same despondent version of herself she’d been half a decade ago. However, the reward for her capture had. A few weeks prior, the runaway had been dismayed to notice the amount of gold on her head had dropped from 15,000 gold pieces to merely 10,000. Today, it remained stagnant at 10,000.

            The number of wanted Cancalian murderers had declined.  There was Patricia Twomey, a glowering flaxen-haired woman from Bolingbarke, Cancalia, but the others had been removed.

 Xenia’s attention shifted to a faded Dremeadow flier that had appeared shortly after New Years’. This particular one had been an utter shock to Xenia’s system. She had read it only because it bore the Drémeadow crest.  “Wanted for the Assassination of Her Majesty the Queen Arabella: Kiran Mani.”  Twenty thousand gold was the prize for his capture.

To this day, Xenia remained astounded she had not done something like vomit learning of the death of her mother in such a manner. The assassin perplexed her. Kiran Mani, an olive skinned man with wavy shoulder-length brown hair, was smiling. Xenia wanted nothing more than to rip the smiling fugitive limb for limb when she first saw that. She and her parents undeniably had their differences. She’d been outraged by their response to her flight but she had never wanted either of them dead.  Mani’s kind-eyed face was  as far from resembling how she envisioned a murderer as possible. Then again, appearances could be deceiving.

Xenia had never questioned whether Kiran Mani had been the culprit until the appearance of another Drémeadow Wanted poster. She had almost overlooked it because of the colors but recognized the shape and image. The abrupt change puzzled her. If the royal family had decided to change the national crest, why alter the colors and not the image? Why the eerie combination of sinister shades of green, silver and purple?

The contents of the poster troubled her even more than the unseemly colors. A lad in his late teens stared from the sketch. One dark-brown eye was swollen halfway shut; the other glowered defiantly at the unseen artist. Mottled bruises marred his jaw, cheeks and right temple, starkly contrasting pallid uninjured flesh. A line of crimson split distended lower lip asunder. What suspiciously resembled dry blood had congealed in matted golden-brown hair. “Wanted for Conspiracy in the Murder of Her Majesty the Queen: Folco Foxtrot.”

Xenia gave the image of her battered little brother the usual anxious look, winding the string of her satchel between her fingers.  She did not believe Folco had anything to do with her mother’s death any more than she had when it first appeared. When Xenia first saw this poster just over a month, she’d literally dropped a basket of apples in shock, necessitating an awkward explanation her reaction as a recent hand injury to people nearby. No… it cannot be. He would not have done this. She remembered Folco as sweet-natured, playful and sensitive. The age isn’t even right. He can’t be nineteen. Nineteen-year-olds graduate upper school come September. Folco was just a U2 when I left.  He was only fourteen.  He can’t be a U7. Then Xenia did the math. She had been just twenty-four when she fled. Five years had passed. Fourteen and five was… nineteen! Seeing her youngest brother near the end of adolescence on a Wanted poster careworn, haggard and bruised, Xenia had felt very old indeed.

            After a final brooding gaze between the colored sketches of her brother, the enigmatic Kiran Mani and herself, Xenia sighed and continued toward the marketplace.

~*~*~

            When Xenia got to the town square, the first she noticed bearing the telltale badge announcing refugee-friendliness was an elf with a gold bar through the sharp point of his left ear and a single auburn braid ending at his waist with a fastening precisely matching the earring. Shuddering at the idea of voluntarily ramming a sharp object through her own ear, the hobbit approached to rifle through the various options. The elf beamed down upon her. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said to her. “Please let me know if I can be of any assistance to you.” He added under his breath, “I do not mean just my merchandise.”

            Xenia mumbled indistinctly under her breath, shifting aside an alarmingly blue block of cheese. She hoped this overly inquisitive elf would leave her alone and allow her to get on with her business. She filled a shopping basket with a block of cheese and several small bottles of coconut milk, the only kind Simillior offered. The elves, dwarves, gnomes and humans down this far south had never heard of cows or goats, it seemed.

            After paying for her selection, Xenia proceeded to her favorite baker. The corpulent man was helping a fidgety badgeless gnome. The baker beamed at her. Xenia moved to the left side of the booth. Even though this human was here every week and she knew perfectly well the options he had, Xenia did not wish to conduct her own transaction until the gnome was at a safe distance.

            Once the jittery customer had gone, the baker cast a look around the area, then swiveled his green eyes to her with a nod. She moved to the counter, resting her chin and left hand against its edge while fishing for her purse with her right. “Thank you for waiting,” he said. “I am not particularly fond of awkward questions I get when people like the gnome notice people like you paying less.”

            She gave a terse chuckle. “Yes, well, I can wait if it means no unwanted attention over price differences.”

            Chuckling, the baker queried “the usual?” Xenia nodded, smiling. Not only was this baker among those who sought to make life easier for fugitives and refugees seeking asylum in Simillior, but he gave bigger loaves at the reduced price just so that those with badges marking them as outcasts would not have to emerge in public as often. Because of this, she was willing to forgive minor faults like his disregard of her race’s preference for the term hobbits.

            “You know, I’ve noticed a lot of halflings lately. You used to be the only one,” commented the baker, laying loaves of barley, wheat and oat upon the counter and reaching underneath to extricate a sack of loose oats for porridge. “I wonder what brings them so far from Drémeadow… and what was that other place they sometimes live?”

“Rheeding,” replied Xenia, rifling through her leather and silk purse. She withdrew a silver piece. “Here. Keep the change.”

“Thank you.” The man brushed a scraggly wisp of salt-and-pepper hair from his face. “You know, I have a long memory. You used to think it required gold just to buy a few loaves of bread! Are all halflings like that?”

“No, I just didn’t know much about what stuff is supposed to cost.” Recognizing dangerous territory, the fugitive awkwardly added, “I was a child whose parents sent… ah, paid for everything.” She’d remembered, just in time, that most did not have servants shopping in their stead.

“Say no more, say no more,” the baker chastised her. “I’ve asked too much, I think, and I seem to have another customer coming… good day, now, and see you next week.”

Xenia walked past a badge-less dwarf to look for a butcher. She then passed a pair of hobbits. They looked ready to greet her. Xenia arranged her face into a scowl and averted her gaze. One made a disbelieving face to his friend, who shrugged dismissively. Neither, fortunately, said anything. A breath of relief escaped the former princess’ lips.

As usual, there was not much meat Xenia considered acceptable fare. The elves, who were vegetarian themselves, offered meat only as a courtesy to other races. The trouble was, they knew little about the meat preferences of dwarves, gnomes, humans and hobbits. Coney was fine, but she for one would never touch dogs, lizards, snakes, frogs or rats unless she was choosing between those or death by starvation.

~*~*~!

After an hour, Xenia was ready to head home. Suddenly, a small figure sprinted right past her so closely that he nearly knocked her sack out of her hands. Startled, she jumped back a pace. The green-cloaked fellow, about her height or perhaps slightly taller, threw himself sideways between two buildings. Golden-brown curls protruded from his hood for a split-second before he disappeared from sight. At the same time, a human in a golden cloak bearing what she recognized as the symbols of Cancalia and Heironeous shot past her after the hobbit down the same alley.

Xenia stared indignantly. What was the human doing chasing someone half his size? Had the hobbit stolen something? Was he one of those bullying louts who derived pleasure from terrorizing smaller races? She felt tempted to investigate but ignored the impulse. It would have been her duty to intervene back home but it would do more harm than good now.

Two orcs appeared on the same trajectory as the fleeing hobbit and human. They wore the new green, silver and purple of Drémeadow. Her heart seized in terror as their yellow eyes fell upon her. One pointed; they both made to approach her. Xenia froze, blanching.  Had they recognized her? It would do no good to flee now. It would only arouse more suspicion. What were orcs doing wearing Drémeadow uniforms anyway? How could orcs be working for them? Was her father out of his mind?

“Where did they go?” snarled one of the orcs, stopping slightly within arm’s length. “The man and… child. Where are they?”

She did not dare let down her guard. Even though it seemed neither orc had recognized Xenia, she was afraid. “I’m sorry,” she squeaked. She considered claiming to not know what they were talking about but their quarry’s presence had been too obvious. “I saw them, but someone taller blocked me from seeing where they went.” Even to her own ears her words sounded unconvincing

The other orc narrowed its cruel eyes. “Who blocked you?”

Heart sinking, she cast a quick glance around for a likely culprit. “Them.” She pointed at the gnomes, praying silently that she had not just gotten them into trouble.

A third orc appeared. “I think they went that way.” He pointed down an alley in the opposite direction. The other guards lunged toward where their comrade indicated.

When they’d gone from sight, Xenia’s shoulders sagged in respite. Curiosity, however, overwhelmed her. It would be more prudent to go home but she needed to know what those orcs wanted with the human and slender hobbit. She inched toward the alley where the running pair had gone, ducking behind an empty barrel, setting the encumbering sack upon the ground, and listening hard.

Tense words broke the eerie silence. “I think they’ve gone.”

“Thank goodness we got away!” replied a deep voice that could only belong to the human. No hobbit voice reached that low a pitch

The hobbit’s voice snapped “no thanks to you! Calling all that attention to us! We’re lucky we weren’t caught!”

The man rejoindered apologetically, “well, we paladins aren’t exactly known for our stealth.

“You idiot!” the hobbit snapped impatiently. “Well, we’d best be getting back before our good fortune runs out!” A broad human and tall, lanky hobbit materialized and passed by the barrel; she tensed her muscles. Once they were at a far enough distance that her presence would seem insignificant, she emerged to trail them.

Their path led the hobbit-woman to a pastry shop called the Bolingbarke Bakery that she had never visited before now. Xenia took an instant to wonder why this place was named after a major city of Cancalia before crossing the threshold. Her gold and green-cloaked objects of marvel were at the back of the shop conversing with the elf behind the counter. Head high, Xenia boldly traversed the large room to a display of elaborately adorned wooden cakes modeling the talent of the decorators near the counter in time to hear the man say “the Waste of Dré shall fade away.” Xenia’s jaw dropped. This human was familiar with the colloquial term Drémeadow hobbits used for the marred southeastern region that had been devastated in a baffling and cataclysmic attack fourteen years ago?

Her confusion intensified when the elf unlocked first the door blocking customer access to the area behind the counter, then the door leading to the back room, gesturing both into the employees-only area. While the elf reclosed the two entrances within the restricted area, Xenia noticed a door indicating that this shop was equipped with an indoor privy, a rare luxury. Enthralled at her luck, she slipped into the facility, locked the door and pressed her ear against the back wall.

There was a raspy voice clearly unaccustomed to whispering saying he’d made an important discovery, a chorus of excited murmurs and a few grumbles. After a span of time where Xenia’s valiant efforts to gain more specific information than “new recruits,” “orcs” and “we are still safe”, footsteps faded into a direction that sounded as though it were beneath her feet. Did this stop have a cellar not immediately noticeable to those outside?

Presently, there were several knocks on the door, then a loud complaint. Xenia moved to the bowl of water, taking care to splash loudly so people waiting outside would assume she was washing her hands after doing lengthy business with the hollowed box over a hole in the ground. Half an hour after she’d disappeared into the privy, Xenia reemerged. Embarrassed to see a line of five awaiting the room she’d just vacated, the hobbit cast the teenage girl at front a contrite look before going to peruse the items for sale. She opted for half a dozen fruit tarts and held out a silver piece. The elf merchant shook his head. “It’s on the house.”

Xenia blinked. “Are you certain? I have no money troubles…”

“Indeed,” said the elf, “so you can put that thing away and take these.” He handed over a white box with a pink bow.

Without warning, the back door opened with a crash to reveal the human and hobbit from earlier. She could see a gleam of dark brown through the shadows of the hobbit’s hood and a mask covering his face but the human’s visage was fully obscured.  “Thank you…” Xenia said to the elf as the pair came back to her side of the counter, struggling to not appear overly attentive to them. “Have a nice day…” She turned to leave only to find herself blocked by the human.

“You were following us!” the man accused.

Xenia cocked her eyebrows in her best impression of surprise. “What are you talking about?” The man glared suspiciously. She frowned back. “Actually, I’ve been grocery shopping, if it isn’t obvious enough…” She brandished the box of fruit tarts and her sack of bread, meat, dairy, nuts, fruits and vegetables.

“Indeed,” scoffed the human. Next to him, the hobbit watched her pensively. “Well, then. Have a good afternoon.” He beckoned to the lad beside him to follow departed the store.

Xenia considered pursuit but felt she’d be trying her luck now she’d been noticed. When she left and turned towards home, however, there was a delightful surprise.  They were going the very direction in which she lived. Smiling triumphantly, the rogue casually followed.

Half a mile later, the human looked over his shoulder to see Xenia still there. He held up a hand and turned fully around. The hobbit youth followed suit. The hobbit-woman gulped but continued valiantly toward them. Let that man accuse her of following them! She would be telling the truth when she said she lived this way!

When she tried to pass them, however, the man impeded her. “You’re still following us,” he said succinctly.

“No. I live this way,” snapped Xenia, unfastening her sack while trying to go around him.

“Do you, now?” He stepped sideways to block her again.

“Yes,” Xenia said, adding the fruit tarts to her bag, “and I would like to get home, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well,” said the human. “We shall accompany you.” Xenia opened her mouth to protest but then closed it again. Voicing her thoughts would only confirm his suspicions. “Here, let me help you with that.” The man indicated the sack slung over her back.

“It’s okay… I’ve got it…” She tried to straighten but nearly dislodged the bag from her shoulder

“Are you sure?” he said skeptically.

“Well, if you insist…”

She resignedly held out the sack. The man took it with one hand. The hobbit beside him was still staring. She wanted to ask what had him so transfixed but did not dare. All Xenia wanted was for these two to disregard her so she could learn more about what they had to do with Drémeadow without fear of vengeance or capture.

Xenia was able to shake off her sudden unwanted companions only by telling them she lived in a dilapidated shack two doors from her actual location of residence. She watched them enter another building on her road just four doors from her, but decided to follow would be pushing her good fortune too far. Xenia doubled back toward her own dwelling, wracking her brain for ways to find out more about the enigmatic pair.