There was a particular spot on the edge of the stream that she had now chosen as "hers". The gravelly bank jutted out into the water beneath a tall, broad-limbed tree, and across the creek, the bank was stony and green, thick with reeds as it climbed a little rise and tumbled off into the fields beyond. It was pretty, here at this spot. Dawn and dusk were the best times to stand here, she had concluded. Fewer passers-by. Less clamor from the nearby village drifting through the air. Just the wind, the birds, the crickets.
She crouched down, the toe of her shoe just barely dipped into the rippling water, and lowered the empty waterskin into the current. The water was dark, a beautiful, midnight-blue color, as the sun hadn't yet crested the eastern horizon. A low, chuffing sound came from the rushes to her right, and her eyes turned to find the ghostly figure of the wolf-hound, peering out at her. She smiled a little.
"You've been away for days," she murmured, turning back to the task at hand. The dog padded closer, lowered his head, and began a thorough sniffing-over of her hands and feet.
"Yes," she said softly. "You smell him, don't you?"
The only response was more, rapid snuffling.
"It is all right," she went on, withdrawing the waterskin from the stream and corking it tightly. "He is a friend now."
The dog lifted its head and regarded her with intelligent brown eyes and perked ears.
The hooded woman turned to him, standing to her feet. "Do not worry, Cormac. I will still leave this place and wander with you again. Though, I do not know when. I thought it would be soon, but it may not be."
The hound sneezed loudly, shook his head, circled her legs once, and then trotted away into the dim light of the early morning.
She slipped the filled waterskin into the large, travel-stained satchel at her waist, looking to the spot where the animal had vanished for a moment, before turning to gaze over the fields again.
Everything felt strange. He had talked of his loneliness the night before, and so had she. But then, she pointed out, if they were sitting there, face to face with each other, they were not alone. Not unless they chose to be. She knew what he meant. She could sit in the middle of the Prancing Pony with her eyes on her lap and feel completely isolated, even with crowds of people around her. Loneliness was not frightening to her. It was comforting. She never wanted anyone near her. It always felt odd, alien, and uncomfortable.
But now, the Hooded Man's company had become pleasant. Perhaps, somehow, in their mutual aloneness, they had discovered that they simply were not alone anymore.
She sighed heavily. Such thoughts were exhausting. It was easier to be the shadow. The invisible phantom, floating through the world unnoticed. A slender hand rubbed over her forehead, and she turned away from "her spot". The day demanded her attention. There was much to do.
