The days continue to grow more pleasant...at least around me. The sun shines a bit longer each evening, and I've seen the first shoots of daffodils and crocuses and snowdrops along the roadside and the fences. The new season seems to bring people out and about somehow, too. Not only did I see the long-lost Aallan recently, but it feels as though faces, both new and old, are suddenly everywhere.
I thought to sit alone in the Prancing Pony the other evening, but there was a small gathering at a table. And while I only recognized Owena, I remembered that I was supposed to be living, and not dying. So I went over and greeted them, and they graciously invited me to sit. The other two were introduced as Ashwyneth and Firithain, and what do you know? They are both of them from the Mark! I found this extraordinary, and my curiosity felt piqued, but they were chatting away happily, and I was struggling to keep even the tiniest smile on my face, so I was mostly quiet. The three of them were as gracious and kind as could be, and I hope to see the two new faces again (though I'll come to another point on that shortly). I was able to compliment Owena on the basket of treats Aldwyn delivered to me, but I fear my words got a bit lost in the overall conversation.
The following day, I encountered Firithain again, and we enjoyed a pleasant talk, though I won't call it especially happy, as I felt my gloominess hanging over me still, and he seemed to be struggling beneath a few burdens of his own. An old wound, apparently, that has been plaguing him for not just months, but years, though I haven't yet learned the whole story of how it happened. He is "stuck" in Bree, seeking healing from Ashwyneth, and doesn't know how long the process might take. And in the interim, he cannot work as he used to, and has run low on coin. He was relating his worries to me about having to begin sleeping outdoors, but I heard myself blurting out a sharp rebuttal to such an idea. A brother of mine, sleeping in the mud in Bree? Not while I live and breathe. And before I knew it, I was leading him back towards Hookworth, and showing him the Guest House.
He asked then to see the stables, for I had told him that if he insisted upon working in exchange for a bed to sleep in, he could assist me with the horses during Leoffrith's absence, though Inayat has already been helping as well. Even if the need isn't great, a man who wishes to work is a man to be honored, and I will find something for him to do. And at the stables, we found my red-haired friend already attending to the horses for the evening, and they were introduced and seemed to get along very amiably.
And then something happened about which I feel terribly embarrassed. Ina and Firithain were talking away, friendly as could be, when he said something about "the life of a housewife". It was nothing. Just a passing phrase, and at first, it was like I hadn't even heard it at all. But then I felt as if the breath had been knocked out of me. Because my first instinct was to smile and say, "But I'm a housewife!" Yet before the thought could reach my lips, I realized...
I'm not a housewife. I'm not a wife anymore.
I felt myself crumbling. They both looked at me. The expression on Firithain's face was heart-wrenching, as he realized how his words had struck me, though it was no fault of his! And I tried to brush it away, to make it nothing, but I failed. Oh, how I failed. I ran. I grabbed Jack's bridle and ran. I might not have minded falling to pieces in front of Ina, but not a stranger! Not someone who doesn't know me! I was horrified. And Ina, damn her, she pursued me, and poor Firithain followed, no doubt wondering what miserable puzzle he had stumbled upon. That woman chased me all the way back to my house, and I fear she grew irritable with me at the end, but she doesn't understand. I don't think one can understand, unless they have the unfortunate curse of going through this themselves. She has Arenborne still. She has warm arms to go home to, a heart to love, eyes to gaze into. Béma forbid she ever has to taste this bitterness herself. I would not wish it on her in a thousand years.
Confound it all, but weeping makes it hard to write! Damnable tears...
The puzzling labyrinth of love and sadness continued, everywhere I turned. I have delicately avoided approaching Cesistya, though I am ashamed of it now. I suppose there is a limit to how many pitying, sympathetic looks and hugs one can endure, and I knew her pity would be the sharpest of all my friends, and that I would be helpless to pretend to be all right, and I've been afraid of it. But the time had come. I approached her, and without speaking, she rose from her spot on the floor and grabbed me into a fierce embrace. She said nothing, but clenched me to herself until her slender arms quivered and I felt her fingers clutching at the back of my dress. I half-expected to collapse into tears and embarrass myself further, but somehow I did not. We embraced for a time, tightly, and then we met each others' eyes, and spoke a little, and all was said in those few minutes of being face-to-face. And I felt a burden lifted.
The tale doesn't end yet. My hand grows tired. I grow tired. But I will finish my tale.
Aeglorond paid the tavern a visit shortly after. I have not seen him in a long time, and I wish it had been a happier meeting, for he had not heard the sad news. As we three stood talking, Firithain entered, and seemed to hesitate rather than approach. So I beckoned him over, and they were all introduced. The hour was growing late by then, and I was weary from so many meetings and hugs and tears, so I departed, with Firithain nobly offering to escort me home.
I didn't want to talk about myself and my bothersome sorrow, but he asked if I were all right, and somehow the topic found its way to my late husband anyway. I thought for certain that my presence and conversation would be repellant. Who wants to be around a weepy woman of gloom? But he was kind and patient and reassured me gently. He has a rather bold way about him. I think he speaks his mind very frankly, yet he is not harsh or abrasive at all. We said goodnight at the garden gate, and I expect he's gone back to the Guest House for the night. I don't know how long he plans to remain in Bree. I don't think he knows, either, for he must wait for his wound to heal and his strength to return. But for now, it is awfully nice to have a new friend about.
And so, the world goes on around me. And I move with it, like a figure on a chess board. But inside, I feel stuck. Stuck in the past, in my memories, my dreams. They say time heals all wounds, but is it true?
