Days later, the traveler sat in a field just outside Bree, again. He'd found a patch of wildflowers still clinging to warmth before autumn's first frost obliterates hope, and he crouched centered within them.
He plucked the blooms one by one, as near to the ground as his fingers could find, so that they retained their long green stems. The stems he tied together, loosely, for he was not a weaver but just a man lost in reverie.
With each dreaming bond, he saw the same young woman with scarlet hair and wide, curious eyes.
Smiling in the daylight sun.
Singing a song in a language he couldn't understand.
Drawing his portrait on a scrap of parchment.
Appearing behind a door he'd just knocked on.
Rising from a steaming hot bath.
And more.
She had the sparkle of youth and beauty, and was one who thought life exciting and jubilant, which he'd always found intoxicating. Someone so full of hope and yearning to see all the bounty the world offered to those who would simply claim it; for whom age and mortality were never a consideration.
She had been right to not worry for one of those.
The midday sun managed to bore itself through his heavy, worn cloak. The back of his neck grew hot and irritated despite the slight seasonal chill in the air. As he tied the last flower, he held the loose chain of blossoms upward and dared not count how many he'd added. He set the circle over his shoulders and meandered back within Bree's gates.
There was no reason to his walking path within the town. He simply ambled wherever his feet felt like carrying him. His eyes scanned the buildings along the stroll, silently choosing a fitting door.
He'd found it, now. A sturdy timber one with blackened iron fittings upon what looked to be an occupied residence. Peering quickly up and down the street for onlookers, he then crept noiselessly to the door, placed his wreath of flowers over the handle, and without looking back, paced away.
He had no idea who lived within the house. But he felt sure that whoever it was, they would eventually find his gift, believe that their own beloved had left it for them, and think fondly upon their lover. With any luck, if the lover were witty, he would keep quiet and enjoy the blessing of a delighted sweetheart.
