Rain fell beyond the blurred windowpane. Straight down on a windless, dreary afternoon. The world outside was a mix of brown and grey. Winter had not felt so long and bleak as it often did to the woman from a southern land. Already, there was a sense of spring's approach, felt more in the heart than anything else. Her head was leaned against the cold glass, and the wan light from outside gleamed upon her foreign, gossamer hair.
She was surprised at just how weary she felt after the journey. Sleep had been stubborn, but even so, her body was strangely heavy and reluctant to move. There was much to ponder, after all. And pondering was a tiresome occupation.
Baldmar had kept a sort of vigil nearby. Upon arriving back at the Bree west-gate, he'd asked if she wished him to take a room at the inn. She knew this was not in his nature. He was a man of the wilds, even more so than any hunter or Ranger. His spirit and flesh were closer to the beasts of the hills and forests than other Men. Her words strove to be gracious and she offered him his freedom while hinting at her own wish to keep the comfort of his presence. Perhaps his years of knowing her so well allowed him to perceive what lay beneath the generous speech, and he went with her to the inn, and took the room beside hers for that first night. Since then, she had not bade him to remain within the inn, nor even the village walls. It was enough to know that he was close by, and the little packet of wrapped honey-cakes found outside her bedroom door every morning warmed her heart to its depths.
With a similar, sweet assurance, she knew that Cesistya was close by as well. The elf-maiden would spend her evenings downstairs in the common room of the inn, reading, writing, studying the curious world of Men around her. Always ready with a kind word, a smile, and a helping hand for any in need. She would slip away after dark and take her peculiar, non-sleeping sort of "rest" in the forested hills, lofted in her tree hammock like a gentle, mysterious bird.
The woman knew she could not tarry forever in this pensive, inward manner. Idleness did not suit her, nor was it healthy for a mind and soul to brood endlessly, even on pleasant things. She would need to find something to occupy her hands and offer something useful to the world around her again. Skilled horse-folk were always appreciated, and she did not doubt she would find work somewhere in the village or its outlying hamlets. It would be enough to carry her through until the spring, where a decision would have to be made.
Beneath the light of a lone candle on the table just beside her, a little piece of parchment was laid out. It was curly at the edges, as if it had been tightly rolled up for a long time. She had set a cup on each side to keep it open so she could see the letters smudged onto it. Her finger ran over one of the furled corners, making a tiny, scraping sound.
I hope you know that we were there. That we came to see you. That we miss you.
Dampness touched her eyes, but no tears fell. She blinked them away and took a deep breath.
A visit was in order. Once the sky stopped its weeping, and the rain came to an end.
