The Silver Chain

The next day, at dusk, Aerin returned again from the compost heap. She saw the stranger again, walking up the road that led to the forest. His hair was black, though lightly dusted with silver; despite his face, which spoke of no more than twenty winters. His eyes, she saw, when he was close enough, were two-toned. His right was a hazel color, with flecks of green. His left was a soft blue, an odd mixture, to be sure.
“Good evening,” he greeted cordially, when he had reached a distance from which it would not be necessary to raise his voice. She blinked in surprise, unused to being greeted by the villagers; for there was no need to, it was only Aerin, that foundling child.
“I-indeed, sir.” She muttered, all she could really summon, upon finding her voice, which, as always, had fled at being addressed by anyone but the innkeeper or his wife. The stranger looked mildly surprised at being referred to as ‘sir’, especially by someone so close to him in age.
“’Sir’? That’s what they call my father, not I…I haven’t got the beard for it.” He ended on a speculative note; he was clean shaven. He held out a hand in greeting.
“My name is Fenrir. Most call me Fen, though; barring my great-aunt, who is even more ancient and wise than my father, and a good bit more terrifying. She also has more of a beard than I.” Aerin looked at him critically for a moment. The forest had been receiving quite a lot of attention from bandits these days, and any stranger was to be treated warily. But Fenrir looked harmless enough. She allowed a smile to grace her face.
Aerin accepted his hand, and gave her name. He stiffened a very little when he clasped his hand back, but she didn’t notice, for it had been only a very little. There was nothing on her right hand but a small ring she had from her mother, her only heirloom. It was merely a small band, made entirely from the finest silver her father could afford.