Spring slips by with too much rapidity. Every season seems so to me now. Do I grow old without realizing it? When did the months become nothing but a blink, a flash? Here and gone. The early wildflowers are overgrown now with tall grass, so lush and green that its beauty almost pains me. The north has seen a perfect abundance of both rain and sun, and the earth is bursting with life wherever one may look.
I think of the grasslands of home and wonder if they are so vibrant and verdant on this day. I think of Waelden and Yllfa, Gamferth and Duncadda, and my heart is sad to have been away so long. I even think of Saexwyrd upon a time, and wonder if he is well, and how big Weda must be now. I think of my spot upon the riverbank, and how the willows must be full and drooping with their shady arms over the cool mud.
I feel that my time to move on from Bree may be near, but I am not sure of it. I did not think it might come so soon. But then again, more time has passed than I realize. How strange a thing Time is.
It seems very long ago that I stood at the quarry under a brooding, dark sky, and clung to the rocks there as if I might wither and perish without ever leaving that spot. Something about the presence of Cesistya and Baldmar, and their words to me, fixed something within me. Within my head? Within my heart? I cannot say. But it was driven home to me that he is not there. Even if I were able to unearth his dear bones, his spirit would not linger in them. I would not be any closer to him if I clutched them to my breast and longed with every fiber of my being to feel some remnant of my love. It is a puzzling thing, to remember the flesh and blood that I loved, but to understand that it was the spirit that inhabited them, that was the thing that I actually loved. And that spirit has passed from this world.
I have not seen Baldmar for a time. I trust he is not far away, for he would not depart these lands without telling me so. But I miss him. I felt oddly fettered in my heart and tongue when we reunited near Herne. It is not so severe now.
My feet have been restless with the coming of spring. I find myself walking further and further afield, beyond the hedge-wall. Jack is often with me. I seek solitude often. Is it too often? Do I do myself any disservice by being so solitary? I do not think so. It simply feels right to me.
I sit by the creek and think of Ryheric. Last I saw him, he was escorting the young Breeish woman somewhere south. I find my lips uttering silent prayers for his safe-keeping and health, and peace in his mind. Wandering wind, I called him. He seeks for things, but will not let himself rest in them. On and on he sojourns. He wears many hats, many masks, many faces. What is it that he ultimately pursues? What is the destination, wherein he might say at last, "I have found the thing I sought, and now I may rest here"? Perhaps it is something unattainable. Perhaps he will never find the thing, or give himself permission to stop going, ever on. And this thought brings me great sorrow. If ever a soul had earned its right to simply rest, and be, it is his.
It is difficult to think of our days in the hills. Not because the memories are painful, though some of them are. But because
Between the confrontation with my ghosts and my grief, and the uncaged manner in which that dearest lifweard has left me... I feel very free.
A bothersome thing, to have one's heart in two places, so very far apart. Bothersome, but perhaps not insurmountable.
