I have sat here for a long while, and thought about what to write. The sun lowers in the sky, and I feel a keen, wistful longing, though I know not what it is for.
I miss you, my husband. It is not the same sort of pain now. It is no longer the black, clawed fingers, tearing at my chest, ripping it open and stealing the life from my lungs. I don't have that terrible, gnawing pain in my gut all the time now. Now, I think I understand, at least a little, the sort of grief that comes with memory of something beloved that is in the past. It is quieter, gentler, and sweeter. A tear hangs at the corner of my eye as I write this. I wish I could ask if you miss me, too. I wish I could hear just one more word from your lips.
My mind is so full of things. I cannot write them all down. I cannot even sort through it all tonight. But I will write what I can.
Firithain is going away. He received a letter from his father, and it seems the man is in his final days, and understandably wishes to see his son once more before he leaves the world. And while it is doubly sad, to say goodbye to a friend I've made so lately, and that he goes home to say farewell to his father, there is a bit of light as well. One of Firithain's heaviest worries has been that he dishonored himself by fleeing the Mark after his terrible illness. In the letter, his father expressed the most compassionate and sincere understanding, and it was clear that there was nothing to forgive, and that he only wished to know his son was alive and well and safe. My heart was lightened to read these words, and to see that portion of burden removed from his shoulders. Whether he will live to see the day his honor is restored among his fellow warriors and former Thane, remains to be seen.
I am surprised at how much I will miss him. I know that my heart is tender right now, and it's likely that I simply feel everything too much and too sharply. But there is a kinship with Firithain. The people of the Mark are deep-feeling and passionate folk, and he no less than I. A few evenings ago, he said that he loved me. I don't know if that's true, or if...like myself, he feels things quickly and profoundly and perhaps mistakes his fondness for something deeper. I worry still that our friendship will be more of a burden to him. But, perhaps this time away will give him clarity. And I will worry every moment, like I always do for those I care about. He reminds me, in many ways, of Lainric, and that worries me. I don't wish to care for anyone too deeply. Lainric was lost. Tothrandir followed. And then my husband. I'd like to believe that there is a grace that will show me mercy, and that my life will not be a series of broken hearts. I'd like to believe it. But I'm not sure I do.
Amid these gentle, sad feelings, Aeroden walks like a quiet shadow. The word that echoes in my mind when I'm with him, or think on his friendship, is "comforting". His ways are easy and calm, his smile warm. He, too, carries much sadness over the loss of the man and child he considered to be his family. He has a way of simply being there, following the ebb and flow of my sorrows, always with a soft word of understanding. Yet his spirit is like a child's, too; quick to grin, to laugh and joke and slip from grief to joy and back again, never seeming to mind the cycles of emotion that surround me. We walked to the Hookworth library yesterday, as I had promised to show it to him, and spent the evening exploring the vast shelves of old tomes and the assortment of odd artifacts collected by the Knights over the years. His face shone like a boy's, so full of enthusiasm and curiosity. We spoke in hushed voices as we crept through the rooms, as if we were two children sneaking in forbidden places, and at one moment, he made me laugh so hard, I could scarcely breathe. Everywhere we go, he offers his arm with the same, boyish smile. I think I have stopped blushing about it. I hope I have. I know I blush at the drop of a hat, and some folk find it amusing or perplexing or endearing. I find it bothersome and embarrassing!
I have to return to town tonight, though the air is chilly and I don't particularly wish to go. I await a letter from Adso about a delivery, and it will get to Barliman long before it gets to Hookworth, so I have been checking there every evening. Bless the man's heart, he has never minded holding messages for me and others that he knows, and I'll be sure to slip him a few extra coppers when I get my tea.
