At day's end, as the sky turned to muted shades of ember, the traveler beside the river's edge sat contemplatively beneath a bowed sapling. Weary, grey-green eyes focused on nothing except those things that were left to memory – so much so, that he took no notice of a doe and her fawn that had come to drink. The wind blew gustily, rustling the heavy hood of his cloak, the faded fabric caressing the sun-darkened cheek of his face.
The traveler hadn't eaten in quite some time and his belly rumbled in protest, bringing him back to the present. The deer darted at his stirring.
Ignoring his bodily needs, he turned to grab the battered rucksack deposited in the grass by his side. Within, his calloused hand found the crumbled wad of fine vellum sheets he'd acquired from a merchant he'd crossed paths with on the road.
Using the nubby remains of a charcoal stick, he swirled the page with his looping handwriting.
The touch of flame in the river of silk that flows from your head.
The lilt of your silvery voice when you sing an ancient hymn.
The touch of your small, soft hand when you reach for mine.
Dust.
Would that my heart could die with your light.
He ran dirt-rimmed fingertips over the words, then carefully folded the sheet multiple times, over and under, creating a miniature boat. Drawing himself up, he edged the water's shore and very neatly set the word-ship on the glassy surface. The lazy current carried the sentiments forever away.
Long he watched it sail, beyond the point when it passed the horizon. It was evening now, and his appetite could no longer be dismissed. On to Bree, then.
