Winter in the south was not the frozen, snow-laden beast that it dared to be in the northern reaches of Middle-earth. Snowfall at all was more rare, and thus more thrilling, or bothersome, depending on one’s outlook. But the cold did not spare the plains and hills of Rohan entirely. The open, tree-less knolls invited wild, violent gusts of bitter wind, and they raucously rattled the windowpanes of Bancross stable, and the apartment above where the stable-keeper resided.
Brynleigh brushed a length of her flaxen hair behind her shoulder, and picked up a sprig of evergreen from a pile of branches she had placed on her bedside table. It was a small gesture of celebration, perhaps. But it did not feel right to let the season go unobserved altogether. She wound a red ribbon about the darkly verdant needles, then carefully tied it beside the window.
Three years. More than three years. How could it be? How could Time pile up so swiftly, without her noticing?
She could see him still, as clear as day in her mind. His balding scalp and rough grin. Those soil-brown, Breeish eyes, that could be so needful and desperate for her one moment, then hard and frightening the next. How proudly he had stood in his deep, blue robes, with the fabric stretched taut around his thick limbs and middle-aged belly. Oddly, she couldn’t recall at all what she had worn to The Bree Yule Ball that winter. But she could still see every single thread of what Conrob wore.
It couldn’t possibly have been four years since they had danced together in the candlelight, surrounded by friends and music and food. So carefree. So certain. They would have a lifetime of Yule dances to cherish. Of course they would. She was so young, and he was strong and healthy as an ox, even at his years.
Her eyes felt hot and irritated. Her throat was tight. She blinked resolutely and repeatedly, and adjusted the red ribbon.
It was somewhat tempting to think of holing up here in her apartment over the stable, and to hide from the festivities taking place around Bancross. Hildfrith would be hosting many merry suppers, drinks, and spontaneous bursts of song and dance at the Roaring Dragon. Cheerful folk like Waelden, Yllfa, and the spritely Ethel would be there. Perhaps Duncadda as well, boldly throwing back mug after mug, daring others around to him to keep up. Would Luccan appear, too? He seemed quiet and inward, but always polite and warm, and with an appetite of a man twice his size! And what of Gamferth? Dearest friend, she could not let Yule pass without seeing him, even if she was forced to seek him out at his farm. He understood her best of all. He had been there in Bree after Conrob’s… passing. It was Gamferth who gently and protectively escorted the grieving widow southward, back to her homeland.
She stepped back from the window with a sigh, and examined her handiwork. Her midnight-blue eyes beheld the greenery, but her mind did not register the sight of it. Her thoughts were wandering yet.
There was a pricking desire to visit Saexwyrd and Weda. It would not feel charitable to avoid them during a season that was meant to be full of gratitude and connection and joy. Her hands wandered up her arms, the fingers brushing over her sleeves, until she was lightly embracing herself. How long had it been, since he had held her?
She couldn’t recall.
Guilt soured the bittersweet nostalgia of her musings. Already her mind’s eye was traipsing into fantasies of darkness and blankets of bear-hide and the heat that comes with bare flesh.
Selfish. That’s what she was.
She turned from the window with a violent sweep of her limbs and skirt, exhaling sharply. For a minute or so, she paced the small bedroom, round and round, a wild mare in a smothering paddock. Her hands clenched and relaxed, over and over.
Why couldn’t she have been granted another life? Another fate? Any other existence but this one?
Beyond the windowpane, the sky darkened with sooty clouds. Evening crept in from the east, crawling over the village like a phantom veil. The wind howled anew, trembling at the glass as if it sought to come inside and pay a call to the tormented widow.
She found herself hurrying to the dresser and falling down onto her knees. Her fingers shook as she clutched the carved knobs and tugged. The drawer stuck, she jerked again, and it popped loose with a snap.
An unwanted, unused blanket covered the length of the interior. She hesitated, breathing in a chestful of air, and then slowly drew it aside. Beneath, a blue garment was folded, perfect and creaseless.
The sight of it drew dampness to her eyes, and her vision became blurred. Her hand reached out, hovering above with fingers splayed wide. A solitary finger curled, and its fleshy tip brushed the cloth faintly.
“So,” she whispered to the empty air. “It does not end.”
