There was something particularly enjoyable about the mornings in springtime. The nights still held a sharp chill, and before the sun rose, the air nipped at the flesh of her bare arms while she walked from her little house to the nearby stable. The streets were mostly quiet, save for the slowly patrolling guards, the lazy clop of hooves, the distant rooster crowing his family awake. A silvery hue was in the air, a mixture of shadow and mist, barely illuminated by the glowing sky to the east. Everything smelled cool, fresh, and green.
I'm so glad we found Weda! she thought to herself as she arrived at the stable and unlatched the heavy, wooden doors. Imagine if she'd been...no, I won't think about that. How sweet she was, hiding upstairs in the mill! Her own little table set up there to play.
A chorus of soft nickers and snorts greeted her as the doors swung open. She walked each one back and secured it against a post nearby, to avoid any danger of them swinging about if the day should prove to be windy.
Saexwyrd is such a curious fellow. Would I call him "simple"? Perhaps, but not in an insulting manner. He is blunt and without ceremony, but I have always preferred people like that. Perhaps because I saw too much ceremony growing up. Too many polite, painted-on smiles, too many pleasing nods and honeyed words...
The flaxen-haired young woman grunted to interrupt her own train of thought. This was not a day to feel bitter. Spring was a season of hope, of renewal. She hummed a certain melody that had been peskily embedded in the back of her mind for days, while plucking up a shovel that leaned against the wall.
I hope he really does make her some eggs and "tatters"... oh, bless her for being so cute! Of course, he said he can't cook. Well, no, he said he doesn't cook. "Men don't cook", he said. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud! Perhaps he'll take her to the tavern for breakfast? Dear Béma, how does this child eat? Ah, well, I do see him retrieving her from the meadhall sometimes. Perhaps the cook there feeds her during the daytime.
She brushed a hand over the front of her work tunic. A plain garment, pale green in color, tough and utilitarian with no frills or flattery for the shapely figure beneath. Still humming, she walked along the line of stalls, opening the one furthest towards the back. Soft words were murmured to the snow-white mare within, who shook her mane and stomped her hoof in greeting.
I'm so embarrassed that I nearly wept in front of him. Again. He was so kind. He said, "It gets better over time." I told him it doesn't. But should I have said that aloud? I didn't think about it until after I'd said it. He has a daughter without a mother. What happened to Weda's mother? Did she die? If she did, then he spoke authentically, and I had no right to contradict him. Perhaps it has gotten better for him over time.
A wheelbarrow was rolled into the open stall. The shovel was thrust into the straw, hooking a pile of half-dried manure and hoisting it up. The lumps tumbled into the barrow with a sound as familiar as any she'd heard throughout her life.
I told him briefly about the goings-on in the west, near the border. It's tiring to ride back and forth, but...no, I can't say that. It's not tiring, Brynleigh! Shame on you, talking like an old woman for being in the saddle too long. It is more tiring on my mind than my body. The air in those villages is thick with fear and worry and mistrust. For Béma's sake, they have a Dunlending working alongside a Thane of the Mark! What is the world coming to...
The barrow was wheeled back out into the corridor, where she paused to arch her back. A soft chorus of crackles erupted from her spine; the leftover stiffness of the night being worked out through her chores.
I meant to mention to Saexwyrd that I'd seen his uncle Beorggar again. Meant to, and plum forgot, as I am all too prone to do. I won't be too harsh on myself. Poor Saexwyrd was frantic to find Weda, and there was nothing more important to think of until we discovered her.
The pile of manure was impressive by now, as she had worked through several other stalls while musing and talking inwardly to herself. The barrow handles were picked up and the load wheeled outside. A larger, wooden cart sat beneath a spreading maple tree, its branches still in bud and leafless. She shoveled the manure into the cart, humming again, the same lilting tune. The cart would be taken out to the fields later, and the manure spread over the newly planted crops.
Why was Beorggar so grim the other evening? Kind words were spoken, but I did not feel kindness from his person. But you must grant him some leeway, Bryn. Look at the place where he works. Criminals and vile men. Shouting and profanity. Surely, a man must adopt a stony facade and a cynical nature to endure such work.
The shovel struck the bottom of the barrow a little more harshly as she frowned at the recollection. The manure was hurled into the cart with perhaps more energy than was needed.
Of course he was impatient with me. His life is subduing thieves and murderers, not coddling sad widows. I've got to keep myself under control. Stop letting folk see the sadness. Swallow it down. Be quiet about it. Politely turn the conversation if someone asks about it.
A sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, her cheeks glowing with a flush of warmth from her labors. She paused, breathing heavily, and set the shovel against the ground with a hard thump. A sweet, high note whistled above her head, and she turned her sapphire eyes upward. A thrush sat in the maple tree. The first, pale-gold ray of the rising sun had crested the city walls and struck upon its creamy breast. The bird tilted a dark eye down to the woman below, then lifted its head and sang out all the more lustfully.
Brynleigh stood for a long moment, simply watching the thrush. There was something about its song, so perfectly clear and bright in the still morning, that touched deep into her heart. She felt something shift inside her, like a gear in a machine that had been jammed for too long, rusted and cracked, suddenly coming to life again and beginning to turn as if it were being renewed.
Her eyes drifted closed as the sun crept ever higher, slowly and steadily, and its light flooded over her face. The thrush sang ever louder, and the town began to come alive. Doors opened and closed, horses whinnied, dogs barked, children shouted and laughed. Still, she focused on the thrush's melody, and a hand drifted to her breast, pressing against her heart.
I've missed you.
