I return! The day is worn down now, the sun lowering in the sky, and the air taking on a nasty, chilly bite. But I want to write a bit more before I head into town for my evening drink at the Pony. Though, I wonder if I should even bother...seems every time I step through the south-gate, new trouble is brewing somewhere.
Work is such a welcome distraction for me. I can't say I enjoyed trudging through the newly-fallen snow, which was knee-deep in some places, but it does make the village look absolutely magical. Of course, there was no training or breaking done today, not with the weather as it is, but even the mundane routine of forking hay, cracking the ice on the water troughs, scratching forelocks, and listening to the warm, gentle huffs and nickers of my hoofed friends was a balm on my heart.
I keep meaning to mention my new...friend... in my writings, and I keep avoiding it. My mind is a strange thing. There are certain thoughts it wants to selfishly hoard, and not divulge, not even to a harmless bit of parchment such as this. All I will say is... I am so, so utterly thankful for him being in my life.
I've not heard any further word from the mysterious elf woman who arrived here some weeks ago, seeking aid from our order in Rohan. My first instinct, of course, was to leap at the chance to go home, assuming Lainric would be at my side, and we might visit my family, and see the house his father had left him as an inheritance. But... such dreams are now nothing but ashes in my heart. If the order still plans to send an envoy to the Mark, I don't know what I will do. Could I possibly return there and find some sort of life for myself? And that reminds me... I will have to write to my father and tell him that his blessing for Lainric to ask for my hand in marriage, is no longer required.
Once again, I've sat here for some unknown number of minutes, and lost myself in my own, bitter thoughts. I wonder, sometimes, how a person can have so many friends, and still feel like an orphan of the universe. I have people I care for, and people who care for me, but no one I belong to. Where is my home, truly? Perhaps Béma has seen fit to send me wandering through the world until I die.
Speaking of wandering, before things fell into chaos last night at the Pony, I saw the sandy-haired man (or so I shall call him unless I ever learn his name) more than once within the space of a few minutes. Is he staying at the inn, perhaps? He doesn't look impoverished. He simply sits or stands, staring into space, most often with a drink in his fist or near at hand. Even when he stood with that pair of slave owners, chatting as easily as any local, his eyes were like two unlit lamps; hollow and vacuous. I passed him shortly after in the hallway, where he looked to be somewhat inebriated again, but this time he caught sight of me as I tried to slip past him. Poor soul, I have no wish to disturb his troubled self; what could I offer but a smile and an apology? I'd offer to sit and hear his troubles if it would but ease that terrible emptiness in his countenance. But, who am I, to think such things? And so I will continue to watch from afar, and creep around him, and trust that he knows much better than I, what he wishes and needs. Perhaps he is a man fallen on hard times, and simply doesn't know where to go, and hopes that enough drunkenness will reveal his path to him? That sounds like a joke, perhaps, but the Pony's warm fires, cheap drink, and bounty of willing bedmates has eaten up the time, money, and humanity of more than one lost soul. How out of place I must appear to most folk, sitting with a cup of tea and worrying over the sad faces of the people around me, rather than taking some wine and flirting with whatever handsome animal walks next through the door.
Once again, I have stayed up too late writing. The sun is down, the house is cold, the fire neglected. I feel the slightest bit of relief, though, having emptied my head for the moment. Or at least...most of it.
