Beneath a brooding, slate-colored sky, a solitary cart passed along the Road heading east towards Bree-town. Its wheels rattled sharply in the cold, still air, and its driver was swathed in a thick, wool coat, head bowed, face invisible. Paying no notice to the thin, subtle lane of dirt that branched off to the right, trailing away into the naked trees. A very observant passerby may have taken notice of the slender wisp of smoke that rose from a distant spot in the forest, hinting that some form of human life lay within. Most, however, paid it no mind, and carried on down the Road to more important ends.
Under the bare, winter-stripped boughs of the wood, the cottage sat. Unimpressive and unlikely to draw attention, though this was all by design. The small stream, which chattered so pleasantly in the balmy heart of summer, was now choked into silence by the grip of cold, and the verdant ferns along its banks were long since withered into crisp, brown forms, twisted and lifeless. Yet the scene was not without the suggestion of life, warmth, and comfort. Thin strips of firelight glowed at the edges of the covered windows, and if one watched long enough, the shadow of someone moving within might be glimpsed.
Past the curtained panes and locked front door, the scene was that of a comfortable and cozy sitting room, decorated in rich, dark hues. A hearty fire blazed in the hearth, and several lamps were lit on various tables, lending a gentle, golden light that bathed the woman’s form in delicate illumination. She stood very still, her lush figure draped in a dressing gown of black silk, woven through with elegant gold embroidery; an oddly luxurious item for a woman of Bree. Waves of glistening, chestnut-colored hair caressed her shoulders and kissed the pale column of her neck. Her eyes were large, round, and stood out in dark contrast to her porcelain complexion. In her hand was a teacup, finely glazed and painted with flowers, and with wisps of steam rising into the air. The hand was extended forward towards the occupant of the sofa, offering the cup.
“Nothing’s been the same since,” said the visitor, a Breeish woman, middle-aged, her face prematurely lined from years of hard work beneath the sun, the hollows around her eyes now exacerbated by sleeplessness. The curse of inescapable grief. “I can’t do it anymore, Miss. I just can’t.”
The cup was lowered a little more, making it easier to receive. “I understand,” replied her hostess in a voice that was softly melodic. Soothing. The voice of a comforting lover. A mother’s voice. “Here.” She moved her hand carefully so that the cup nudged softly against the woman’s fingers.
Her guest blinked and startled slightly, perhaps having been lost in her own reverie of memory and sorrow. She took the teacup then into her quivering grasp, lifting it to her weathered lips for a long sip.
Faylyn sank down onto the cushion beside her in a graceful movement, so smooth and slow that it seemed unearthly. Her doe-like eyes did not leave the woman’s face. “Rest will do you good, ma’am. You know you may rest here as long as you wish.”
“But, I - I have no coin left,” said the woman in a broken, tremulous voice. Her leathery fingers clutched the cup in her lap. “I have nothing now. Nothing to live for.”
These words did not shock her hostess. Neither the claim of poverty nor the despondent proclamation of hopelessness. Her visage remained as serene as ever. “You need not pay me today, then,” she answered softly.
The woman sniffled pitifully, and her brown eyes were rimmed with tears. “I don’t know what I would have done without you, Miss,” she whispered, taking another gulp of the tea.
A faint frown touched Faylyn’s brow. There was an odd note of finality to this comment that planted an unsettled sensation behind her breast. Before she could ponder further upon it, the woman reached over and quite suddenly grasped her hand. Faylyn’s reaction was minute, a subtle twitch of her posture, and she tried to return the gesture by taking the woman’s hand in her own, but the grip was too powerful. So tightly did the woman squeeze that she could not move her own fingers at all, and the frantic strength of her guest puzzled her.
“Thank you,” said the weepy-eyed woman, nodding her head quickly so that her frazzled, brown hair bounced against her cheeks.
The calm stoicism of Faylyn’s dark eyes was compromised now, though anyone who beheld her would see almost no change in her countenance, unless they were acquainted with her usual, cool composure. Beyond the typical observation and watchfulness, there was something else now. Still, her duty was her duty, and though her gut sensed something, she could not pin it down or give it a name. Thus, the evening would carry on.
Faylyn watched on as her guest swallowed the final, crucial dregs of tea, and the expected cringe of distaste tightened the woman’s features. The honey was a blessing, and it masked many things, but the herbs could not always be concealed entirely.
“Come now, my dear,” she murmured gently, reaching over to extract the cup from the woman’s fingers and set it on the side table. She rose to her feet in a fluid movement, extending her hand to her guest in an invitation to follow.
The grieving woman did not obey at once, but sat for another moment, trembling and quaking. Her fingers lifted to her breast and were laid over her heart. Faylyn watched with seeming disinterest as the fingertips probed and crawled over her age-spotted skin, as if seeking entrance into her own chest. A breath later, she stopped and looked up, as if coming out of a daydream. Her weary eyes held a peculiar light that reminded Faylyn of a child’s gaze. Vulnerable, aimless, and uncertain. At last, she took her hostess’ hand and stood up.
The bedroom felt dim and vast after the firelit coziness of the sitting room. Faylyn’s eyes slid across the bed, seeing it and yet not seeing it, for to acknowledge its existence fully meant a recollection of all the memories that it held, all the faces and bodies and voices that had become a part of her mind and soul in this room. Such a thing would only bring a sort of madness, and so she moved about the chamber like an automaton, perfectly calm, hospitable, and attentive. Still somehow keeping herself, her true self, safely locked away from it all.
The small fire was stoked, the thick, crimson coverlets of the bed drawn down, the wick of the bedside lamp turned up a little. Her guest was not new to the routine, and she willingly slipped off her mud-spattered shoes and crawled into the bed as her host floated around her, making the room ready.
“Thank you, miss,” she said again, as her head sank down onto the pillows. Her voice was thin and airy, rank with exhaustion of body, heart, and mind. “Don’t know what I would have done...without you…all this time…” Already her eyes seemed to be growing heavy, the lids sagging down.
“It is nothing,” replied Faylyn in her own quiet tone. She moved over to the side of the bed, and lightly rested her weight on the very edge of it so as not to disturb her visitor. The woman’s breathing deepened and slowed, her hands softening on the coverlet, the tense lines around her brow and the corners of her mouth smoothing out as the muscles relaxed.
Faylyn sat still and turned her gaze to the fireplace. A tiny sigh filled her chest and was exhaled again. The herbal mixture that had been added to the tea was potent enough to provide the woman with a long and dreamless slumber. It seemed like such a little thing. Such a pointless thing. An evening of kindness, quiet, warmth, and rest. What good did it do for these people over the course of their lives? The same questions asked of herself, every time. She refused to argue with her own conscience. They sought what she offered, and she found a measure of purpose in giving what she had to offer.
It was quite normal for her guests’ breathing to shift and change as they sank into deeper levels of sleep. The woman in the bed seemed no different than any before her. Her chest hitched gently. Faylyn turned back to observe her, watching the rise and fall of her breast. She watched the soft roundness of her bosom lift as a breath went in, and then sink as it departed again.
She waited for it to rise once more.
A second ticked past. And another.
Surely, the woman’s chest was moving again, and she just wasn’t seeing it. The movement, perhaps, too subtle in the darkness.
Nothing seemed to be moving at all.
A trick of the firelight, for certain.
Her eyes shifted to the woman’s face. The lips were gently parted. Her countenance was utterly serene.
As if in a dream, Faylyn moved, leaning forward over the supine figure in her bed. She could see quite clearly that the woman was not breathing now, and yet her mind refused to allow this thought entrance. A tender press of a finger to the woman’s neck revealed a weak, fluttering pulse that, even as she felt it, sputtered and faded into stillness.
She withdrew slowly, staring down at the woman. Her hands felt suddenly cold. An icy calm washed over her. An odd sense of expectation being fulfilled. Of Fate standing in the shadows behind her. Retribution lurking in the doorway. Punishment approaching from the next room. She swallowed with effort.
A log popped in the fireplace and then all was still.
The world had never been so utterly silent.
