I've sat here and stared at this blank page for nigh an hour now. I had to recork my inkwell for fear it would run dry while I lingered, tortured and indecisive, the pale ivory expanse of parchment mocking me... encouraging me?...ah, who knows.
Now, if only my hands would stop shaking, I might be able to record something.
I've sat another twenty minutes at least. I can't write about him. Not yet. Coward that I am.
It's been over a month since Lainric disappeared. Closer to two months, in fact. I've locked these thoughts out of my heart so firmly, with an iron, unbreakable seal... I'm terrified to let them in. I'm not ready to grieve. I don't know if I can survive the loss... Can't I just cling to hope and continue pretending that everything is all right, and he's simply gone away on an extended scouting mission, and due home to my arms at any moment?
It is all I can do not to break down and weep.
But, if I am anything, it is resilient. There is no room for self pity in a Rohirrim heart. We weep, we mourn, we pick ourselves up and carry on. I'm just afraid to face the grief...why am I so afraid of everything? Why must I feel so much? I remember Barliman saying it to me after the disappearance of Tothrandir... "you're a good lass, Brynleigh, but a bit too much feelin' at times". Truer words were never spoken. Why can't I be hard and cool and calm like other folk? Perhaps it is this recurrent theme of someone I love vanishing and never returning that frightens me so. Part of me thinks I'd do better to simply flee this town altogether, and isolate myself in some lonely, vagabond existence.
How my whole body aches now! Wretched heart, it never seems content until it's taken my breath, sapped my strength, and left me feeling as if a gaping hole has been carved out of my guts.
I had to step away from the house just now. I don't know how long I was gone, but the sun is now low in the sky.
Let me try and turn my thoughts to happier moments in recent days. I've had the fortune of making the acquaintance of not one, but two, utterly delightful dwarves recently. The first was Master Belodin, who approached me in the Pony, and claimed to recognize me, though I had no recollection of him. White-haired and full of endearing dwarvish pride in his lineage and homeland, he regaled me with a tale of our brief meeting many months ago, near the Gap of Rohan, as I was traveling north, and he south. Apparently, he had gotten stuck in some mud, and Jack had pulled him free. The story rings a faint bell in my memory, though I seem to have done my best to forget much of that period of my life, for I couldn't recall it in detail.
Later that same evening, I came across Aallan in the Pony hallway, and he asked to introduce me to his dwarf friend, Master Dufr...and I believe his surname was Stonebeard? What a charming pair of friends! The affection between them was quite like a father and son, and it warmed my heart to see such a thing. Aallan labels himself a thief, but he is the oddest thief, I must say. Friendly, charming, selfless and chivalrous. The two of them escorted me home, for which I am ever thankful, given the continued rumors of the "Reaver" in town. Dufr let slip that Aallan seemed to have a bit of fondness towards me, which made our goodbyes rather awkward! Let us hope that there will not be continued awkwardness in that arena, please! I like Aallan very much, and admire him, but my heart is... unavailable, at the moment.
It never ceases to amaze and bemuse me, how a heart can be so grieved, worried, and wounded, and yet still able to beat with joy, hope, and laughter. Life seems to be one, long, exhausting argument with my thoughts and sentiments, both the good and the bad.
Even as I sat with Master Belodin, while my brain was crammed full of memories and feelings listening to his stories, I noticed the sandy-haired man that I've seen about in the inn in recent days. Often sitting alone, though I've noticed a young woman with him at times. His face is often somewhat downcast, and I get the impression that a vast burden weighs on his shoulders. Though what it might be, who could guess? He is not an old man by any stretch of the imagination, and certainly not hard to look at. What could have befallen someone so young and handsome, to make him sit like a withered tree, bent and still as stone? He has the look of home about him, which is perhaps what draws my eyes back to him whenever he's about. My heart is, of course, quite biased towards my kin, and I somewhat foolishly assume they're all my brothers and sisters deep down inside. But he looked so wretchedly... "sad" is not the word...no, it was just "burdened" that I felt when I looked at him. You know me, I had to try and cheer him up, so I ordered a little treat to be sent over to him. My only hope was that he would smile, that the burden might be lightened, if only for a moment. But by the time the waitress delivered it, he was across the room, near the back hallway, and I couldn't clearly see his reaction. He did, however, send back a scribbled note on the napkin, thanking me. That is all the payment I could ask for. Poor soul.
And now, the sun is down, the room is dark and cold. I must light the fire and get myself to bed. And brave another day of... what may come... tomorrow.
