A jewel has brilliant fire, but it gives no warmth. Her hands are not so soft, but they can serve. Her body not so young, but she is strong. her lips are not perfumed, but they speak the truth. Love is not an art to her. Love It's just part of life and death. She is not dressed in gold and silver and fine linen. Strength and honor are her clothing. Her small wagon is not the columned halls of Men, Dwarves, and Elves, but Hobbit children play happily before it. She can offer you little... but she offer all she have. This is Yule, the web-weaver, the life force, the midwife. For some she comes in dream. For others in words as clear as a water stream : " I am here " she whisper.
For the past two winters, Yule had been more quiet and more invisible than ever. Pages of her journal were left blanks. Yule was getting older and wiser. She had spent most of the last two years wandering alone in forest deep and on mountains tall, offering her services as a midwife and as a healer in exchange for a little food and some shelter. Yule was an evolving source of wisdom, love and power, even when she was alone in her solitude.Nine winters had passed since the birth of Shire Rose - time had been kind to her. Sitting by a campfire, deep in an ancient forest, somewhere in Middle-earth, Yule sat listening to the gentle crackling of the fire, gazing at the stars.
"Happy 9th Birthday, Shire Rose..." she whispered
