The fire was burning low now, in the large hearth that consumed most of the wall in the lavishly appointed bedroom. Soft, golden light danced and writhed over the woman standing near, then cast longer and dimmer shadows into the deeper recesses of the room, just barely highlighting the unmoving figure laid upon the bed.
The woman brought a simple, ceramic cup to her lips, sipping its contents with lazed relaxation. A bare foot shifted over its counterpart as her ankles crossed, drawing the lightest whisper of black silk from her dressing gown.
A rough, snorting sound erupted from the man nearby, and her eyes turned to watch him. This was not his first visit to her home, and undoubtedly would not be his last. He had come seeking escape from the agony of the loss of his daughter, a child of only seven summers. His wife had been taken years before by an illness. He was left now with nothing, and no one, only a failing business of trying to run a small mill in Bree-town. Without anyone to provide for, he had lost his will to keep the mill going, and it was falling into disrepair. Like its owner, now broken beyond fixing.
The words of the entertainer had not left her mind since his visit. Annoying and needling in the back of her thoughts. He didn't seem to understand at all. Then again, she did not find much understanding towards him in return. His reasons for visiting her were opaque and obtuse, and a lingering, unpleasant suspicion hovered over the memory of their time together. Beginning the evening with a flurry of insults and accusations had not endeared him to her, though she strove to find some sort of pleasure in his company as the hours wore on. What he had truly sought from his time in her home remained a mystery to her, for she did not believe he had come with mere curiosity, or to seek "banter", as he put it. Folk did not wander miles into the dark woods outside of town for such things. His cocky congeniality was as much as a mask as if he'd come wearing one made of paper and feathers, and though she'd hoped he would drop the facade and reveal himself, giving them a chance at some sort of genuine connection, it had not happened. Perhaps he had worn the mask for so many years that it had become part of him, fused to his being, refusing to let him be himself.
A sudden, frantic mumbling of nonsense words burst from the miller on the bed, and his bare arms and legs set to shifting and squirming about over the sheets. She set her cup on the mantel piece and hurried over, demurely lifting the hem of her gown as she sat down beside him. A cool hand was laid against his sweat-soaked brow, and then she took his hand in hers and spoke softly to him. His fingers tightened about hers at first, crushing her bones painfully. She remained at ease, her voice drifting over the air like a soft breeze, whispery and soothing. His muscles tightened a few times in seizure-like waves, and then he stilled again. His hand relaxed, and she laid it gently over his stomach.
A fleeting thought of the Gondorian swept through her mind, along with a curious wave of a distant, not-too-sharp wistfulness. The herbs affected everyone in slightly different ways. The miller beside her struggled to let go of his suffering, his body tense and covered in perspiration, and a finger laid against his neck told of his rapid, fluttering pulse. The Gondorian had slept like a newborn babe, deep and silent and peaceful. He had embraced the oblivion offered to him, thrown himself into it from the moment he stepped inside the house and exchanged a few words and a cup of tea with her.
Her eyes drifted down to the figure on the bed. She had felt a sense of satisfaction and pleasure when the Gondorian left her house. She had lightened his burden. At the departure of the entertainer, she felt relief, but no sense that she had given him anything at all, beyond a warm body to hold while he slept, and a humble breakfast the next morning, and such things could easily be found much closer to town. When the miller woke the following day, she knew she would feel a sense of sympathy and hope, that she had made his existence slightly more tolerable, even if only for a day or two, while the effects of the elixir lingered in his blood. There was no salvation for men such as he. There was no way to fix what had been broken, nor to remove the pain he suffered. But wasn't it better to offer relief for a few hours, if she could?
She gazed towards the dying embers of the fire. Burning out. Used up. Emptied of their purpose until the room had need of warmth and light again. And she could not help but think that she had much in common with them.
