*sits by a window within their home, the light snowflakes whirling infront of the thick glass panes, her book open amongst many and the inkwell beside some hot cider
It was not upon a table this time, but I danced. I do not recall ever dancing in such a manner, I would scoff when Blodwynn would speak of how she was once dancing in my hall with a man, and now I, upon a flat rock overlooking a lake. I had only ever danced in a state of drink, too much ale finding me climbing upon a table surrounded by applause as I would do a dance resembling that of a drunken goblin.
*shakes her head in recollection and continues
My friend from afar, sat in the same spot day in, day out, my confidante. How easy it is to speak with him, also frightening. He has a keen insight to my character, my hopes, fears, desires. He is more open with me than I am with myself. Words flowing from him like nectar to my heart. I have missed such closeness, he wishes more.
*walks away from the table to stoke the fire, resting her palms upon the thick wooden mantle as she thinks, moments later returning to her written musings
My darling Yara, how can you not see how empty I have become yet a stranger can? Such longing do I feel. Strength is but a mask, dearest Lenwood understood this , I recall how we spoke at length of how I would place on a mask of courage, assertiveness, to hide what I truly feel inside. Behind it I am vulnerable, lonely, a woman no different from the scullery maid or socialite, I need reassurance for one day turns to the next and I grow ever more lost. I have devoted so much to you, endured countless days alone, your son as a reminder of what we have..had? I no longer know your heart..and I am scared.
*looks down at the exquisite ring upon her finger then to her son playing on a rug at her feet and sighs deeply, committing her last words with such venom to distract her of her prior thoughts
I grow more irritable, angry, the follies of others building a rage in me. Those who foolishly set out to Rohan returned, those who I wish luck although thought them stupid to embark on such an ill prepared journey. To return is not a simple undertaking, blood would be spilt, people lost and tears shed..as predicted. Not a picnic, as he once scoldingly told me. I watched in the inn, some whom had returned, jovial in nature. Why? What gain did they make other than returning with their guts still in their tired bodies. Life is taken for granted…as is love. I drunk that night, too much, a letter I burnt, the bottle at my table empty before dawns light, and the drink bought clarity, it showed me friendship, falsehoods and a soft bed that wasn’t my own. I awoke as I had laid, alone, thoughtful, jaded.
*leaves the ink to dry, reaching for her babbling son to place into her arms. Walking to the drafty window she gives him a sad smile before pointing out the frosty scene in the garden
