Clad in a satin and taffeta dress of fancy make, Isulril leaned against the door of the physician's practice for a long moment, breathing heavily, as though she might be asthmatic. She knew that she was not, and she had not physically exerted herself to such a point. Indeed, the hyperventilation coming from her had nothing to do with any medical or physical anomaly. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remarked upon this, and, shakily climbing down the stairs, she laughed. Not loudly, not cheerfully, but she laughed.
Taking the path away from the practice, she walked another hundred feet or so before she found herself sick in a hedgerow. She had not, she thought, been that drunk, to make herself sick. But perhaps she had. She had spent most of this night drinking as well, once with the cheerful woman with the interesting hat, and once with the physician himself, not to mention the few she had had prior to coming to the Inn of the Prancing Pony.
It did not make her friendly, did not make her lighthearted, did not make her altogether different from what she was. Instead, it only served to make her more miserable. But it was a misery she hoped she would soon forget.
She continued to walk in the darkness, alone, sobbing, laughing and altogether miserable. When finally she spotted her own house, she fell sick once more on another series of shrubbery. She wiped her mouth sloppily with the back of her hand.
She took a key from a pocket in her dress, and fumbled with the lock for some time. When she was done, she removed the trappings of an inn visit, and exchanged them for a thin nightgown. She threw herself upon her bed, having washed her face, and began dry sobbing. There was nothing left to sob, there was nothing left for crying. It was wise to do so when she was alone, rather than in front of others.
Her mind swirled with the way the evening had begun, the man by the counter, inhaling and exhaling the smoke of his pipe between drinks, the appearance of the starkly dressed physician, the way the inn crowded and crowded with people, the merry woman with the hat, the claustrophobic feeling she felt when person after person had arrived.
She had mentioned to that woman, a complete stranger, the events of the previous night, with the mysterious Gondorian gentleman. Even now, she did not know his name. The woman who cleaned with her had come by, with a precious kitten. It was the first time Isulril cried that night. The rest was a blur, but for the exchange of wine, the whispered secrets, the arrival of a Bree-man, her exit, and her attempt to speak once more with the black-clad man.
She remembered again how they had both loathed the crowded feeling of the inn, the pressing of bodies, creating an unpleasant heat, the sweat, the smell of beer, ale, wine, spirits. The way the woman had warned her, she thought, about the man to whom she had been speaking.
It all swirled around and coalesced, then fell apart in her head.
She remembered walking at a distance from the physician, the offer of wine, the acceptance of tea, the conversation that followed after. The way she had told him what the woman had said. She had worried on the matter, as she had worried about everything. The way she told him, tried to indicate to him that if they did not wish wagging tongues, they should no longer speak alone. The way it had backfired, and he had suggested--nay, stated--that she resign from her position.
The confusion, even at the cusp of dawn, remained with her. What had she done? She had not needed the livelihood. Even she had to admit that. But she needed the way to pass the time, she needed to use her talents for a worthy purpose, and she needed, yes, she thought, she needed the companionship--the conversation--of the physician.
It was simpler, in Dol Amroth, she thought. I did not have to confess my darkest secrets to strangers, I did not have to confront such anxiety. I had the protection and foundation of my lord. She paused. Have I tried to replace him? Have I been seeking something strange in my loneliness?
It did not matter now. She would have to make a firm decision soon. Should she set tongues a-wagging by her continued conversation with the physician? Should she leave Bree altogether? She could not say, not even to herself.
