Days had passed. Winter slipped into spring, little by little, one green sprout among frost-rimed leaf litter at a time. Miniature wildflowers of yellow, purple, blue, and white, dotted the bases of fence posts and dared to grow in scattered patches over cottage lawns. Predictable and unstoppable, just like the folk of Bree themselves, who always tutted and clucked their tongues at the chillier days, and remarked that the cold might just never end at all.
The southern woman had found years before, that she liked the cold to a point. The way it nipped at cheeks and felt like a wave of icy breath when blowing through her flaxen hair. It made one feel aware of the heat of their own blood, and the life in it.
Thus, she was without cloak or shawl on that early spring morning when an unfamiliar man approached her while she was puttering to and fro between the inn stables. At first, while he introduced himself, he reminded her of Conrob, for his scalp was balding, and a bit of a belly told of his years despite the strength that his sturdy frame held. But here, the similarities ended. The curious man handed her a sealed envelope, then promptly asked her to write her name in charcoal on a long banner that he carried with him. She was baffled at first, until she read some of the names scrawled upon the cloth, and she took observation of the man’s sweetly child-like manner, and then she understood. She added her own name, and thanked the man for his dutiful delivery of the letter.
Her first instinct was to hurry to her room within the inn. To seek the dim, closed-in privacy. The silent, safe walls. In fact, she was already walking briskly down the corridor to do that very thing, when her feet began to inexplicably slow. And then she was stopped altogether. It did not feel right to receive whatever was within the envelope while shuttered indoors. So she turned and promptly went back the way she had come, and burst quietly back out into the pale, bright morning.
In a tucked-away corner of the village, she found an old stone bench beneath an arching maple tree that was halfway through its spring bud. Flat, wing-like seed pods littered the seat and the ground around it. As she sat and carefully worked at the seal (which was closed with something semi-opaque and sticky, and was not the candle-wax she was familiar with), more seeds were fluttering down, spinning wildly on their way to the earth beneath. The air still held the edge of a chill, and beneath the sleeves of her tunic, goosebumps rose along her arms.
The letter within was several pages long. As she unfurled the fragile sheets, she recognized the elegant, harshly-perfected handwriting. As beautiful and flawless as if it had come from a noble’s scribe. Her throat began to feel tight, and she swallowed with some effort.
The first few sentences drew a soft light to her sapphire eyes, and a sad, wistful smile to her lips. She glanced at the pale, slender fingers holding each side of the parchment as if they suddenly held some interest for her.
The next few pages were read in solemn stillness. She sat with her head bent, tilted ever so slightly on an angle, while her golden hair dripped like a waving river over her shoulder and down to her lap. A faint furrow dimpled the smooth skin between her eyes. Then a name was read, and she blinked once, and the dark blue eyes widened.
As she turned the last page over, and her eyes drew in the final, elegantly scrawled words, her expression became more pained. The crease on her brow deepened, and the corners of her full mouth turned down slightly. There was a brief twitch upwards, and she murmured softly, “...Béma…” Her palm was set on the paper, and moved over it lightly, as if imparting some sort of calm or soothing to it.
She closed her eyes then, and filled her breast with a drawn-out, heavy sigh. The letter was slowly folded up again. Great care was taken to return it to the envelope's safe keeping, without bending a single corner out of place.
She sat beneath the tree, unaware of the fluttering green pods that had taken a landing in her long hair. She remained there for nearly an hour, before coming out of her reverie, and returning to the inn.
