Standing by the fire, the pale woman was clad only in her chemise, her feet bare, long black locks falling to her waist. She looked into the embers, and thought of the previous evening, standing by the fire in the common room of the Prancing Pony.
It had been packed with people and she recalled standing near the fireplace there, near the black-clad man. Their interactions had put her in a foul mood. She hated the fact that she seemed to stomp on the man's nerves, though she had no intentions of doing so. When he made to leave, she tried to detain him, but could not think of a good reason why. He had suggested before that she wanted him to chase after her when he left. She had contemplated doing the same, but ran out of the inn to be greeted by an older gentleman, whom she had met before.
He spoke of the sea and Gondor, and if she weren't in such a dark mood, she would have obliged him. He had asked her about the boat racing, the regatta, that she had been to in the Bay of Belfalas. Tonight she thought of that, settling down on the inn's very flat mattress, her head in her hand.
"La! You cannot be serious!" cried Isulril as Lord Hathostaran lifted her into the boat himself, carrying her in his arms and plopping her down onto the seat. Her pulse raced. She was set to be in this man's boat as he raced Lord Handrynhad and a few others.
She remembered how he had told her that if he had won, because of his good luck charm, he would be allowed a kiss and other liberties besides. She did not think his prowess was better than her lord's, but he had been a seaman in the past, and a military man beside. Perhaps she would have done better to not underestimate him just yet. She remembered how she had seen Handrynhad in the other boat, how he was sailing it at a quicker pace than Hathostaran was at first.
But Hathostaran was cunning.. He changed the angle of his mast, and made a few other adjustments, and soon the two were sailing across the Bay, far out of the way of anyone else. She could see the other side, where there were people cheering the men on. She remembered her heart catching in her chest, the excitement, the rush of blood as Hathostaran kissed her in front of everyone, of the way her lord looked at her with approbation. It was this approbation that she remembered, the way he smiled at her, and what he had said to her after.
"My heart's gleam," he whispered to her soon after the evening was through. "You have done well, as ever. Now because of your goodness, I will be closer to making the alliance with his fleet!" He had kissed her then, and she recalled how Hathostaran's kisses had not been nearly as searing.
Isulril stood with a start. There was no use in remembering those days anymore. As she had told the man from Pelargir, there was no use in dwelling on the past. It made her sad once again.
Her moods, she knew, had gotten worse yet again. She could scarce remember when they had been tamed. At the beginning, the physician had been very good at keeping them in check, though he likely did not know that he was doing so. But then, she knew, things had changed, and her moods had gone foul again.
The poor sailor, a man who only wished to rest his weary bones, had heard her confession, though she had not expected herself to say it:
"I hate the way he makes me feel. I hate that the more I am disdained by him, the more I adore him." It had popped from her mouth unbidden, and she could not take it back. She did not know her own feelings until then, that she still entertained such thoughts about the man.
The older sailor had been about to react when the Breel-and native whom she had entertained at home arrived. The instinct to flee was strong. She could feel it, how palpable it was, and she had fled.
And so here she was, in a shoddy room in the inn, considering her life choices. It was time to take a step back, she knew, before things would overwhelm her completely.
