The summer sun bore down upon the verdant hills of Bree-land with its relentless heat. The air shimmered over the rooftops of the village, and glowed pale-gold over the windless fields and farms beyond. A fat bumblebee buzzed a lazy path from one clover blossom to the next. Cows huddled in the shallow river that flowed along the Greenway, flicking their tales as they waited for the respite of evening. The forests to the east and west were the only true sanctuaries; blessed oases of cool, lush shade and sparkling streams. The little stone cottage was indeed a refuge on this day. Not only from the balmy summer warmth, but from life itself. At least, that was what people believed. And it was why they continued to visit the woman who lived there.
She had exchanged her ubiquitous black dressing-gown for a lighter shift of similar coloring. Still the same ink-dark color, but without the extravagant, golden embroidery. The necessity of comfort demanded a slight lessening of her usual elegance, though she remained a vision of feminine allure, with her pale arms bare and her glossy locks pinned up along the back of her head, a few wisps straying loose to cling to the white column of her neck.
The heavy drapes over the windows remained in place. Perhaps it would have been pleasant to open the house and feel the soft air from the surrounding wood drifting through. But it was a risk she was not willing to take. For her own sake, as well as that of her visitor.
Contrary to popular belief, her company did not always consist of gentlemen, and in fact, it was a woman who now sat upon the plush couch, with tears seeping down her cheeks. Her face was that of any other Bree woman; sun-tanned, weathered from a life of hard work on a farm. She clutched a lace handkerchief in her fingers. An offering from her hostess, who was perched beside the grieving woman. Faylyn watched and listened, as was her way. Each visitor was there, not to be advised and steered, but to offer a piece of themselves, their lives, their souls, in the hope that they might find a moment of peace from their troubles.
"I want to see him again!" the woman cried, her fingers tightening around the kerchief so that her brown knuckles paled. "I want to see my son again!" Beads of perspiration decorated her lined face as she stared ahead.
A half-empty cup of tea sat on a low table nearby. It had been served cool, with a bit of honey to mask the bitter herbs within. Faylyn reached over and touched its side with her fingertips, subtly nudging it closer to the woman. "I know you do," she replied in a soft, steady tone. If the waves of poignant grief rolling off her visitor fazed her at all, it did not show on her gentle countenance.
"I want to see him..." the woman repeated, more quietly now as she sank into shuddering sobs. She reached for the cup and lifted it slowly. Her hand quaked so violently that the tea threatened to spill, and Faylyn quickly raised her own hand to steady it from below.
"Perhaps you will." The hostess' doe-like eyes studied the woman intently, taking in tiny, obscure details that most folk would never care to notice. She measured how quickly the woman breathed, the size of the black pupils in her earth-colored eyes, and the fluttering of the life-giving artery that pulsed along the side of her throat.
The grieving mother turned and fastened her widened hues on Faylyn.
A faint wisp of a smile was offered in return. "Perhaps you will see him in your dreams. If you think of him as he was, young and alive and vibrant, it is more likely that you will see him this way as you sleep." She kept her fingertips beneath the cup of tea, gently encouraging the woman to drink its final dregs.
The grieving mother trembled at these words. A ragged breath filled her chest as she nodded, tilting the cup up to swallow its remains. Faylyn regarded her in silence. The air felt oddly heavy, the heat of the afternoon throbbing against her temples. She would have preferred to be outside, sitting beside the little creek that flowed nearby, sinking her bare feet into its cool depths. But this was her duty. This woman before her cared nothing for the heat. She did not have the luxury of thinking about the weather at all, for she was trapped inside a prison of sorrow and heartbreak, and naught else mattered but finding a moment of relief from the agony. Just a moment. It was all she asked for.
It was the least Faylyn could give.
