A woman dressed in black on a black horse rode into the flower covered meadow. The purple tiny blossoms danced in the breeze of twilight.
The horse came to a stop and the woman dismounted.
Zoe pulled the large object that was wrapped in blanket off the horse with a little difficulty. Finally she succeeded in getting the heavy object from the horse. She lay it in the field.
Then with one glance backwards Zoe left the field.
Qais couldn’t see much that evening, but he could see stars. In his escape from the oppressive heat of his empty home, he had found a clear patch of clover to rest not far from the homestead gate. The sun had set and its last light was fading, letting the small silver buds twinkle open in the sky. He was peaceful, thinking on the day as he waited for tiredness to drive his body back to bed. But then he was not alone.
Qais lifted himself onto an elbow and looked out on the field from his rest atop the hill. He watched the figure’s approach curiously, then apprehensively. He had known women to abandon children they could not feed and could not bring themselves to kill in the prettily flowered fields south of Bree. But this bundle was larger than a child, and it didn’t move.
The youth waited for the horse and its rider to be off. He had no sword on him, not even a night stick, and even if he did, risking injury in confronting the stranger wouldn’t serve to help whatever…whoever…they had left behind.
He stood, and crouching, carefully, slipped down the face of the hill to the bundle that blackened the grass.
It may become apparent as he got closer that the bundle had a vague human shape, giving a clue to the grim discovery. If Qais pulled back the blanket to investigate this is what he would see:
A woman's bare foot stuck out of the end of the blanket. The toes had blackened with the loss of blood circulating through them. If the blanket was peeled back slowly from the top red curls, familiar red curls, cut short and choppy were on the opposite end of the blanket. Curls that used to smell of spices and honey now were dull and still. And the face. The too familiar face of Owena Anne Baker was below those curls. Her freckles still cheerfully peppering her nose.
Death has not taken all the color from her skin. The lips that once laughed and asked "Would you like some tea?" were rigid and cold. The bruises from being beaten by men much larger and stronger than her marred the creamy skin. Each dress Owena had ever worn had been tailored to her form. Now she still wore the dirty ragged dress that may have once been yellow.
She couldn't call out for help anymore. She couldn't wrap her arms about Qais in a hug. Her hands would not offer out a basket full of jams and fresh food for his ailing mother. She... wasn't Owena anymore. Now it was a corpse. A corpse that killed the hope of a brighter future.
Qais caught his breath. His hand shook. His empty stomach tightened to purge food that wasn’t there.
“No…” he muttered, shaking his head as if someone might see and answer.
“Owena…” He sat in the flowers and pulled her into his arms. Gently he swaddled her in the shroud, as if to protect her from the wind, as if that was what blued her skin. He was used to the weight of her baskets on his arm, but he never held anything with more care than now.
“You were supposed to come back.” He stroked her face as if her bruises were but dirt that he could brush away. “I was supposed to save you.”
“I’m so sorry.” But nothing in the forest heard him. He held her and wept.
Midnight came. Bree was too far in darkness. The moon had left lighting the night to the stars. He scooped her up. Shivering, he stalked home, slowly, as if she might wake and scold him. He kept the blanket wrapped around her bare, blackened toes.
He didn’t want to give her up. He could pretend for a bit longer she was asleep. But he had failed her in his duty. He hadn’t been able to save her from the hard men that prowled the gentle woods, the legacy he had been born into. He wasn’t his father. He was a Watcher. Her parents deserved to be told, and no one deserved to see her like this.
On the black road to Bree he told her stories. Remember when, Owena? Remember how we used to? He apologized for the promises he hadn’t kept. I was going to take you north to fish in the fall, even though I knew you could never bring yourself to bait a worm. He said his goodbyes and made his vows. I won’t ever do nothing again.
When he reached Bree and laid her in the jail, covered in the shroud, curtains closed, he didn’t leave her side. He didn’t want her to be afraid. He kissed her cold hand. It always made me uncomfortable, but I should have let you hug me more. He slept, woken more than once by the joyful voice he thought whispered, “Qais?” He always answered.
She was still Owena to him
