"Look, Brynleigh. Come on, lass. What'd we say about sleeping in the saddle? Get those eyes open. Look where we are!" The man's voice boomed through the still, cool air, jarring her out of her thoughts. Her head jerked upwards, and weary, shadowy blue eyes blinked a few times at the scene before her.
Towering, ancient trees, bare of their leaves, leaned over the road upon which they now rode, giving the vague sensation of being in a vast tunnel. To their left, a wide, brown ribbon of water flowed through the forest, its voice hushed and somber during these final days of winter, before the spring melt would swell its current and turn it into a growling beast, rushing south with an impatient fury. The Great River, Anduin, Langflood; its names were many. She knew it well, for it would lead them from this wood, meandering its ever-winding path down into her homeland. And indeed, when she looked ahead, she could see a distant circle of grey light, indicating the end of the forest.
"How long has it been?" she asked quietly, and her voice sounded strange and out-of-place to her own ears, for she had not spoken aloud for several days. She could not remember entering this forest, nor coming down from the high mountain pass, nor much of the days before that. She remembered bits and pieces of things, fragmented images and sounds. Aldwyn's voice, encouraging her to look at this or that as they rode, exhorting her to eat when they sat by their campfire. The mountains, tall and imposing, snow-capped, and the freezing air that sought to seep through her heavy cloak as they crossed them. The steady sway of Jack's body beneath her, solid and strong, rocking her to sleep even as she sat upright, for the nights were anything but restful. She feared the darkness now, and the way it pressed in around her, blotting out the landscape, forcing her inward, into her mind and heart, where there was nothing but torment and agony. Her gracious guardian slept soundly in the cold, winter air, but she could only lay awake, shivering, terrified of the nightmares, until exhaustion won and she would fall into a restless and uneasy slumber.
Aldwyn looked over at her now, green eyes studying her in his patient way before speaking again. "Been nigh a week, I'd say, since I heard a peep from you."
She watched him briefly before turning her gaze forward. "I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry for?" he chuckled dryly, while his thick fingers tightened on the reins, waiting for her reply.
"That you're wasting your time watching over a dead woman." Her voice was not bitter, but gentle and melancholy.
The man's hands clenched further still, and his bearded lips pressed tightly together. "You're not a dead woman, Brynleigh," he countered in a soft tone. "You're grieving. And you've a right to do that."
"I do not think you understand, Aldwyn," she said.
"What don't I understand? Hmm? I buried Aelfnod not even a year ago." His words took on a slight edge now. "I know about losing the person closest to you."
The young woman's head bowed slightly, and she did not speak again for some time. As they passed through the final stretches of the old forest, and the trees became scattered, and the grey light of the later-winter afternoon spread about them, she went on in a faint whisper. "A husband is different."
She could not recall a bed ever feeling so good. Her stiff, aching bones welcomed its softness, though it was hardly a thing of luxury that she laid herself upon. The hearth blazed with a cheery fire, stoked to life by Aldwyn's hands, and between the bed's comfort and the cozy heat flooding through the room, she felt very nearly relaxed, for the first time in a long time.
The village of Stangard stood vigil over the northernmost edge of the Mark, and though she had yet to glimpse the beloved, wide-open plains, the land was already whispering of its closeness. The forest had given way to rolling heaths, dotted with rocky hillocks, and the sudden openness had birthed a quiet thrill, deep in her veins. Was it traitorous? For her to feel anything but suffocating sadness? Her mind knew better. But grief was still more powerful than sense, and she felt confused and bewildered.
After securing a room at the tavern for their brief stay, Aldwyn had departed from her to seek out supplies for the final length of their journey, but only after making her promise more than once that she would rest and not do anything foolish in his absence. Aldwyn's mare, Gemma, was safely stabled alongside Jack, and the stablemaster had taken notice of her communion with the two horses, and inquired if she might return the following day to speak with him and tell him where she'd learned such skills. Aldwyn had puffed up a bit at first, like a protective mother hen, but he paused and turned to Brynleigh with a questioning expression, allowing her to answer for herself. She said that she would return, if he wished her to.
She stared sleepily towards the fire now, musing on all that had happened this day. And for the first time, just for a moment, her beloved husband was not clamoring at the forefront of her thoughts.
