The wind sighed mournfully over the rolling hills, as if spurred by the scene, or perhaps the breathed words of the diminutive elf-woman standing afar. The clouds overhead poured in thickly, and a chill sharpened the air. Jack gave an anxious, wheezing chuff, shook out his mane, and moved to stand close to Baldmar.
Below, in the depth of the quarry, Brynleigh closed her eyes. Her fingers curled into the cold, frozen pile of earth, unable to pierce it past the outermost layer of dust. Her arms were slightly outspread to each side, as if she might have been attempting to embrace the whole landslide. Or what she believed lay beneath it. After a time, her head bowed forward, bending towards her breast. Perhaps it leaned against the rocky soil, but it was hard to tell from such a distance. Cesistyas' eyes might have been able to discern more than Baldmars'.
The woman stood thus for long minutes. How many of them passed? She was hardly keeping count.
Where were his bones now? The not knowing had been a poison in her heart and mind for so long. Others knew the fates of their departed. They had bodies to bury. Even if only in pieces...
She felt the urge to crawl over the entirety of the place on hands and knees. Maybe she would somehow find the spot. Sense him down there, under the earth. Dig him up. Touch his bones... just touch him, one more time. Take him back to Bree. Take him home. Lay him to rest as he deserved.
Looking at her pale, splayed fingers, she thought of Ryheric. Of their conversations long ago; of death, of love, of Conrob.
She thought of the knife on her belt.
How peaceful it might be. Dark. Quiet. She could wander the shadows in a timeless embrace, until she found him again.
A voice interjected into this solemn musing. A memory.
Drops of bright, terrifying red. Warm and slick on her skin. The promise made. "I want to buy your safety. And to do so, I want you to pay some of your freedom. You do not kill yourself. You eat that freedom, and contain yourself to life. For yourself, but if not for yourself...then for me."
The thoughts were grim and hard. She closed her eyes with a deep sigh, knowing she would not act on them. They were simply another thing in her mind to contend with.
What patience and sympathy Baldmar and Cesistya had, it may have begun to feel tested after half an hour goes by. Then an hour. The Rohirric widow had not moved. In truth, she had found that she could not. It was the closest she had been to whatever may have remained of Conrob, in the past five years. Whatever strength of will she might have possessed, it could not find the strength to move from that spot.
Dimly, she was aware that time was passing. The cold of stone and earth was seeping into her bones as she laid herself over the tumbled rock slide, almost like a pitiful semblance of a lover. Her skin felt prickly with the frigid wind, but she found it oddly comforting. It made her so very aware of her own flesh. If she stayed long enough, it would numb her arms and legs and face. Perhaps at length, it would numb her whole body. Right down to her heart.
The sound of slow, steady, ponderous steps approached. The big, heavy hand came down on her shoulder, and she knew her minutes of self-indulgent grief were at a crossroad. She ought to withdraw from her pathetic clutching of the earth and dab her eyes and walk away with her friends.
Ought to.
Her arms would not cooperate. Indeed, her whole body continued to clutch at the stony mound of soil, and her cheek was laid against it. Her eyes were closed, and her face was grimacing. "I can't," she whimpered in a soft, high mewling, when Baldmar touched her. "I can't leave."
He knelt, then, bringing his body low and close to her. His chest rumbled and his voice was kept low and quiet.
“Grief and sadness weigh heavily,” he said, his other hand setting down on her arm. “But they must not be the end.” He glanced upon where she clutched for a moment, and his eyes then settled upon her once more. “Would it be his wish for you to remain here, a numb statue upon the stone? Or would his wish be for you to live and to make bright the world with your presence?”
He let the words linger upon the air for a moment, furrowing his brow as the sounds of the rolling weather echoed in the distance. “It is time, Brynleigh.” He spoke, giving both arm and shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It is time.”
Cesistya moved up to the other side of her prostrate friend; she did not reach out to touch her, but she spoke clearly and softly. "His spirit has passed into the West... and you may carry his memory and his love wherever you go... there is nothing more of him here, save for his place of rest... let it not be yours as well."
Brynleigh's chest hitched, and a choked sob welled in her throat. Bleary, darkened eyes peeled open to look up at Baldmar, and then slowly over to Ces. Tears rimmed their depths, and seeped unhindered down her cheeks. She seemed to breathe oddly; erratic, sharp punctuations. Then, in gentle resignation, she bowed her head. "Help me," she whispered. The plea may have been puzzling, but the way her splayed fingers gripped onto the soil, and showed no sign of letting go, were a hint of what she meant. She was giving permission to be forcefully pulled away.
Indeed, Baldmar took her meaning. He rose and took hold of her, gently, and heaved her free. It was little difficulty to do so, for his strength was great, and she was not a woman of great size. He let her not alone, however, for he tugged her into a tight and firm hug. One hand came to rest upon her back while the other cradled the back of her head.
Cesistya stepped up as well; she would join the embrace, but there was far too little of Brynleigh left to do so, wrapped up as she was in Baldmar's large arms. She did, at least, find a bit of shoulder to rest her hand on, and stood close enough that her presence would be felt.
The Beorning cradled her thusly for several long moments, allowing her whatever solace she might have needed for a brief time. His gaze idly followed the dark clouds looming ever closer on the horizon and his brow furrowed.
“We cannot linger here.” He finally spoke, grunting. “Foul weather is upon us.” Gently, he pulled Brynleigh from the shelter of his chest, and he peered down at her. “I will carry you, if I must,” he said with comfort, not chastisement.
The Elf let her hand linger where it was, but her eyes turned up toward the East; there was not much to see, being in the pit as they were, but she reckoned also the time it took to arrive here, and how long they tarried. If they departed now, and at a swift pace, they would make it back to the camp by sundown, and with such wind and cold a fire would be needed, and food, for they had not yet stopped to eat, and it was getting past tea-time.
Looking then at the collapsed rubble, Cesistya spoke softly. "There are few in these parts... who are laid to rest in so kingly a barrow," she remarked, offering a new perspective on the scene. Yes, it was rubble and rubbish, but it was still a quarry, and the markings of many years of sweat and labour and honest work were etched into its every being. "... with your permission, Miss Brynleigh... I shall mark this site as such, and set Mister Conrob's name into the stone."
Hearing Baldmar's warning of the turning weather, Brynleigh opened her eyes and lifted her head to look back over her shoulder at the sky beyond the overhanging trees. At the mouth of the quarry, Jack seemed to affirm the Beorning's thoughts, stomping his forehoof and snorting anxiously at the trio from afar. Her legs found their footing on the earth, rather than sagging limply against Baldmar, and she straightened herself, though one hand remained around his middle.
"I...I can walk," she murmured. The fingers clutching Ces' robe softened as she turned to look at the elf's face next. Puzzlement at first was on her visage, to hear the word kingly in such a place. But at the words that followed, a flush of eagerness rose beneath the sorrow, and she looked back at the rock-slide with a swift nod. "Yes," she said quickly, almost with an urgency. "Then I can come here again. I will visit this place...again."
The Beorning gave the Elf a nod - he too shared her concern for the weather. “Walk safely," he offered, before making his way out of the quarry and back from whence they came, glancing over his shoulder to ensure Brynleigh was following.
The Elf lingered by the stones, taking in the sight such that she could find the most appropriate place to carve. As for carving stone, Ces had some few tools at her disposal; she was a hobbyist silversmith, after all, and though her jewelers chisel was not - properly speaking - meant for stone, it would suffice.
Over the next hour, the quarry rang with the sound of steel upon stone for the very last time. It was a simple message, a humble one. She recalled how Conrob was taken aback when she presented him with the circlet of woven gold; this time she would not be so fancy.
When she was done, she drew some parchment from her coat, laid it upon the marks, and lightly rubbed the edge of her charcoal pencil over it, such that the parchment would pick up the exact shape of the engravings; something for Brynleigh to see, and approve of, once they were back at camp:
HERE LIES Conrob Barleycorn
Beloved husband
and a Good Man
nai seres sérello
(may they rest in peace)
