Even in the frozen dead of winter, not all was unpleasant in the outdoors of the northern lands of Middle-earth. The night she chose to depart from Herne was a good night. The air was still and the land empty of those biting winds that could turn a simple walk into a torturous struggle. Overhead, the sky was utterly cloudless, and the stars shone like icy chips of diamonds, flung over the heavens.
Briefly, she had considered leaving the fawnskin shawl behind, but ultimately it found its way around her shoulders still, as she departed the small bedroom of the Crossway House inn, and closed the door.
Change was normally something she associated with springtime. It felt, to her, to be the most restless season. Life bursting forth, energies renewed, young brought into the world, things blossoming, growing. Yet winter was not always merciful in allowing peace and contentment to reign over the world. She had learned that years ago, on a cold, frozen day in February. Winter could wreak unwanted, unwelcome changes, too.
Jack flicked his ears questioningly as she saddled him and packed his bags. His friend was not nearby, and had been missing for some time. The woman, sadly, could not account for the absence, for she did not know where the colt and his rider had gone, nor when they might return.
The child, Salin, had been found and returned to her mother's doting arms. The moment had been one of profound, deep-seated joy. There were not many instances for the Rohirric woman to be around young children, though she adored them with all her heart. She was content to simply sit across the camp-fire that evening and watch Sicarra cradling her newly returned treasure. When Ryheric swept the child up in a playful arc as she toddled a bit too near the fire, the last thing Brynleigh expected was to have that divine, precious bundle of life placed in her own lap. Knowing that her mother had only received her from danger and uncertainty minutes before, she was stunned, yet wholly delighted. A glance from Sicarra told her the gesture was acceptable, and thus she was able to indulge in a few, sweet moments with the babe in her arms. Fighting back tears that she could not entirely explain. Her heart was simply too full. She did not despise the loss of Salin when Sicarra received her once more, for the gift of having held the child so close, even for a moment, was more than Brynleigh could ever hope for. And the beauty of seeing mother and daughter together - dark-haired, spirited, so alike - was nothing but wonderful.
And now the young Tate had been healed from his long-standing, mysterious illness. A burden which plagued his friends and companions greatly with worry for his fate. The way they had taken turns sitting vigil at his side, particularly Winnie, going without sleep at times, was deserving of the utmost respect and admiration. There was great love between some of these people, and the way they selflessly acted for each other was a boon to her heart. Like a balm on an otherwise bruised and sore soul, as she mounted Jack at the village gate, and bade him to go north.
The vast, widespread darkness before her was not something she normally would go willingly into. She preferred light. Sunlight, candlelight, the cheery roar of a hearth. Yet there was a peculiar sense of relief to leave the hazy glow of Herne behind, and set forth under the moon's silvery eye.
The landscape was bathed in stillness and pale, soft illumination, once her eyes had adjusted to it. The young woman's mind drifted from thought to thought, as was her way, while the old stallion moved steadily and gently beneath her at a leisurely pace. Voices came to her from memory, and she could almost hear them anew, as if they were being spoken aloud from the air around her. Accented words, that had bitten and stabbed unjustly at her heart. Another voice, deep and grim, speaking things of resolution, of certainty, and of hope. Yet another voice, soft and sweet as the breeze under spring boughs, so full of love that it moved her to tears simply to recall it.
The air here in the wilderness was clean. Frozen with cold; clear and sharp. The air left behind was tainted with something, though she could not put her finger on just what it was. But something was very wrong, no matter how earnestly and passionately she wished otherwise. Something hovered over the village and its surrounding hills, like a toxic fume that would not disperse. Was it all part of the talk of curses, ill omens, and dark fates? Was it the unspoken things, the hidden desires, the stifled feelings, the glossed-over resentments? Trouble seemed to find its way to these good people more frequently than any folk she’d ever known. And there was one common thread that weaved through everything and everyone, and bound it all together.
It bound her as well.
She could feel that invisible cord with every pace of Jack’s heavy, plodding hooves. Stretching like a phantom rope. Its give was generous. She could go far away and it would still be knotted to her ribcage. But at some point, it would draw taut and tight, and something would ache inside. Was it doomed to remain there, tied inextricably to her gut, forever?
She thought then of the quarry. Far away to the north and west. She thought of memories, old and distant. She remembered what it was to be loved. And she remembered Death. And that all things - even suffering - will come to an end.
And she was comforted.
