I will continue to ignore these changing feelings. Those that would coax me to give up my plan to go away, and abandon the idea entirely.
Time is the enemy of independence. The more time I share with another soul, the softer my heart becomes towards them, and the more impossible it is to detach myself and feel that I could exist without their presence. I care too ea I must be mindful of the sort of heart that I have, though even to do so flies against my impulsive nature. One side of me would claim that a person should simply be themselves, whatever sort of "self" they may be, and not try to be anything else. But the other side...is it even a side of me, or simply disapproving voices that I have heard in the past, that echo in my mind? It would tell me to be more prudent, more careful, more controlling of these winds and currents of various passions.
The sky has wept rain every day this past week. Preparing for the end of summer, I suppose. It will make for a good harvest, though it also makes for muddy streets and damp houses in the meantime. I took Jack for a ride in it yesterday. I did not burden him with saddle or bridle, since it was only a lazy sortie into the fields outside the city walls. Some of the townsfolk look at me as though I’m mad, but I mind it little. We don’t fear playing in a warm, summer shower when we’re children. We run out into it, breathless and happy, and splash our bare feet in the puddles and let the rain soak us to the skin. Why do we Why are we expected to suddenly find it abhorrent as grown-ups? Silliness.
I let Jack wander where he wished, and my thoughts wandered too, as I sat upon his broad back. My mind turned to my father and mother, and what I might say to them when we meet. I wondered what they might say to me, and if it might be less...well, less than what I think it will be.
I hadn’t realized how far he had gone until I spotted a familiar white horse, tethered beneath a great old tree. Perhaps my own horse had heard or smelt him from afar, and decided to seek out his friend. There was a subtle prick of concern, since we were standing at the graveyard of Snowbourn. I knew that Saexwyrd would be nearby, and sure enough, I saw him standing alone in the rain, gazing down at one of the smaller headstones.
We stood and spoke together for a time. Neither of us seemed to mind the rain. I like that about him; that he is a man who works outdoors with his hands, and he is not afraid of dirt or sweat or rain. I admire it, and it helps me feel a bit more comfortable with being a woman who is often herself covered in sweat and dirt and straw from the stables. He calls Lady Dytha “fancy” which is quite amusing to me. And I agree with him. She came into the graveyard with Barst just as I was about to leave (as much as I enjoy the rain, being soaked in it for hours is a recipe for illness, not to mention the risk to Jack’s hooves). Even in the overcast twilight, she is a beautiful and impressive sight. She carries a quiet, fierce dignity about her that elicits respect. From me, at least. Saexwyrd seems less than charmed with her, since she offered him a ring as a keepsake for Weda and spoke of young women going into battle. The thought troubled him deeply, and I think he held her words as some kind of dark omen for his daughter.
I am fond of him. There’s no way around it. That thought alone stirs up a dozen more, and each of those thoughts another myriad of feelings, anxieties, and puzzlements. I wish that I were a simpler sort of woman! Ought I to throw aside everything that I hold to be true and important when it comes to honor and virtue? Stop questioning, stop analyzing, and give in to all my whims and impulses?
No. I do not understand those who advise such a life. Perhaps their hearts are callous enough that they may indulge every urge and never feel any regret or remorse. Mine is not. And at the end of the day, I do not answer to those who may feel disappointed or frustrated with me for my failings. I must answer to myself and my own conscience. I wish I were simpler in nature. But I am not. And I cannot live as though I were.
Perhaps I am a fool among fools, to grow close to a man with a temper like a rabid bull, who just as easily spews harshness from his lips as he does those rare kindnesses. He has said time and again that he is not my friend. I know what he means by this. But, for my part, he is my friend, and I am his. A new concept to his crude world, maybe. I hope that time might show him that friendship and affection are not mutually exclusive. I hope that he will somehow find the patience to endure my friendship, without demanding more of me. Because, although I am still a flesh-and-blood woman, and my heart yearns for intimacy, and my flesh is not without its cravings, I cannot love anyone. Not in the way I would want, and not in the way they would deserve. While… you see, it is still nearly impossible to write his name… while Conrob does not fill my every waking moment anymore, I am somehow unable to imagine that I could ever love another man as I loved him. Crow asked when I would begin to bury him. The question was too informal, too harsh, too impolite for me to answer. I have begun it. But I cannot talk about it, not with him, not with anyone. I long for peace. I long to find a home again, to feel close to someone, to feel as though I belong. And yet I long to escape all of this, to run away from everything and feel nothing. To close my eyes and feel the world slip away...
These thoughts are too heavy tonight. I will never be able to sleep.
