It had been another evening in the company of the physician, after her work in the garden. She had found it difficult to extract from herself her reasons for staying, long after her work had finished. It was becoming something of a companionable habit for her. She felt some guilt on the matter, and had told him so, but she could not express why, to him, or even to herself.
She had asked the man about loss, about the death of his father, about his reactions, his feelings. She considered to herself why she had these desires to ask of him such personal questions. She recalled when she had told herself, and later the woman who had apparently been listening in on their conversation, that she had found him fascinating in the manner of a connoisseur uncorking a bottle of interesting wine.
Working in the garden alone now, she winced and grimaced to herself at the thought. It was not that. She knew that now. Her interest in the man was not like that at all, and it frightened her. She was, she thought, lonely, and had sought out his company to reduce her loneliness. But it was not that, either, for she had had much livelier company of the past few days, and had still felt so very alone.
She sighed, pulling weeds, ripping them from the ground in a rather frustrated manner. No, it was not that she felt that way, but she daren't admit to anyone--especially herself--how she felt, how she was beginning to feel. It caused sick to well in her stomach.
She remembered then when the man's friend had interrupted their conversation by revealing herself. She had, Isulril recalled, been eavesdropping on the conversation between the physician and herself. The physician, she knew, was oblivious to the fact. For one so intelligent, he had been oblivious to certain things.
When he had left the two women, the other had made swift to threaten her, believing her desirous of causing hurt to that man.
Isulril went about ripping up some dandelions, careful to set them aside, but just as desirous of throwing them--and everything else--into a fire.
She had been composed under the duress of the other woman's threats and intimidations. And indeed, she admitted to herself, she had no desire to hurt this person, or anyone besides. She knew in her heart that she would never attempt such a thing.
A sudden flash of emotion came over her. It all came back to her, the grief of losing someone so dear, so utterly important to her. It had been well over a year since he had perished. She remembered it well.
She had been dusting a table in one of the lower Houses of Lore, alone but for the musky smells of books, the company of ancient tomes. It was a room reserved for books about the ancient philosophy of Arnor. Few people came this way, but Isulril loved the room, loved the quiet, and had felt sad for it, because it was so little used. So little, that she did not expect to see the very important-looking man who came inside.
He had the look of a Swan Knight, that much she knew. He was in civilian clothing, but the silks, the emblems, the polished boots--they were all there. She had found herself blanching.
"I do beg pardon, Miss Isulril," he said with a courtly bow. "I am sent here from Lady Ysabelle, the wife of Lord Handrynhad. I do not wish to shock you, but after a long bout of illness, my lord has perished."
Isulril remembered her reaction as though it had been yesterday that she had received the message. She had set her hands upon the table, dropping the cloth she had been using to dust in the process. Her head bowed beneath its veil, and she had let out a silent sob.
"Miss Isulril, I know this must come as a shock to you, but I am arrived to tell you something else as well, so please compose yourself." The man was awkward. He knew nothing of consoling women who had lost everything in one sentence. She idly wondered to how many people he had to relay this message. She slowly stood to her full height, maintaining her usual perfect posture.
"What is it?" she asked.
"As the executer of his will, Lady Ysabelle has been required to make known the contents of my lord's final intentions, his last will and testament. Miss Isulril, do not be sad. You are to be given a piece of land, a small estate."
"In Dol Amroth?" Isulril had asked, confused and bemused by the whole affair.
"No, Miss Isulril, in Bree-land."
Isulril remembered it as though it had only just happened. It was visceral, the shock, the sadness, the bereavement. She paused in her weeding, looking around. It was sometimes the case that the physician himself would come out to observe certain things out of door. It was also possible that a visitor of some sort might come up the path. No one was there. Assured of this, she allowed herself to burst into tears, as though watering the herbs with her crying. His death had taken a piece of her, and she did not know if she would get it back.
