Autumn was an in-between season. Summer held on still, with balmy afternoons under a warm sun and an abundance of lush, green grass. Yet its presence faded upon the sunset, each a little earlier than the last, bringing a pleasant coolness that kissed the flesh of one’s arms, for they were yet bare of any cloak or cape. It was easy to think that summer held sway until the eye caught sight of the color-dipped edges of the leaves on the aspen and maple trees. Wild birds flocked overhead, crying their hopes for long, migratory journeys and a safe ending thousands of leagues away to the south. She puzzled on these recurring mysteries of the natural world as she meandered over the sloping fields. The horizon lay open to the north, beckoning those who had wanderlust. Behind her lay a distant, dark line of trees, and beyond their tops, a faint outline of even more distant snow-capped mountains.
So too did her life feel it was an in-between season. The steady, earnest dreams of a youthful heart were long passed away. Tumult and tempest had worked their ways on her like a smith’s heated furnace, and poured her into some new shape that she did not always recognize. She looked at her hands as she walked lazily through the whispering, knee-high grass. The hands looked worn and strong and sturdy. She did not recognize them as her own. She curled the fingers inward.
A message had come to the village of Bancross in the Westemnet of Rohan, where she tended stable and looked after the horses. A menial position, somewhat beneath her skill, but one that was familiar, comfortable, and reassuring. The messenger was a lanky youth, eyes bright and full of that familiar, optimistic purpose she recalled from her own younger days. He spoke gravely of a need to the north, far up near the border of their country. A need that would put those long-dormant skills of the horsewoman to the test. Despite his gravity, she could see just how passionate he was in his task. So young, so determined, so full of pride that he had done his duty, and done it well.
There was no question that she would go. She was a woman of duty as well, and there was no dire need for her in Bancross at present. A local boy could handle the mucking and feeding and brushing during her absence. The message had come earlier that very morning, and she knew at once that she would depart the following dawn. Yet she walked now as though she had all the time in the world. Feet brushing slowly over the earth, pushing the long blades aside, her hands swaying carelessly, bumping against her hips.
A breath of wind sighed its way up from the south, rushing over the plains, hissing through the grasstops, and at the last, finding the woman and tousling the ends of her pale hair. Upon it, she fancied that she caught a scent of something from far away. Something exotic and foreign. There was nothing to see, yet she found her face turning to look southward towards those snow-tipped mountains.
Where was that wandering foreigner now? He had come and gone months ago. A wind in the grass. Like a torch that set kindling ablaze and then itself sputtered out and vanished, leaving behind the dancing flames that would carry on without it. It seemed an eternity since they had ever sat and talked at leisure, without any hurry or fear or anxious glances over their shoulders. He had been so terribly changed when last she saw him. And yet…still the same. She remembered the look he’d given her when the roaming scouts spied their campfire and approached. Anguish, but it set within a steely decisiveness. A fervent kiss was given, and she could still recall the weight and heat of his mouth, before he tore himself away and fled. And once more, he was gone. Gone on to unknown perils and fates, far beyond her humble croft among the fields of the Riddermark.
The wound ached in her breast, but it was a wound she knew all too well. She accepted it as one accepts any part of themselves. She did not belong in his world, nor he in hers. He had saved her life. And for that, she would forever be indebted to him.
Already another winter approached. How carelessly the years rolled by! No stopping nor slowing to consider the wishes, desires, dreams, or sufferings of the people aged by them.
She passed her hand over her cheek and wondered if she still looked young to the eyes of others. Young for a widow, perhaps. Young enough to still hope for children.
A low, acidic chuckle passed through her lips. It was better and wiser to think of the present. The past was a treacherous land to traverse, and the future was too dim to decipher. For today, she needed to think of the immediate duty at hand. To make it back home before twilight, and prepare for the journey north.
