Melowen tosses aside the parchment and quill, disappointed with herself.
Stupid, stupid girl.
She never felt the urge to tell the tale in writing, no matter how thrilling or epic was the battle she fought. And now? Feeling compelled to write poetry... no, seriously, poetry? Melowen?
She can almost hear again her brother scolding her because she could not even manage to write a decent label for the sacks of produce he was about to carry to Garsfeld at the market. She was never good at writing, unless one wouldn't mind to wait a few hours for a sentence. Or wouldn't mind the horrible squiggles as a result.
Ulcwyne no, she was the talented one; her labels were artistic masterpieces, the runes perfectly drawn, with a side sketch of the type of produce contained in the crate. She even learned to play an instrument, in her spare time, althought Gleothain kept scolding her for that. "Get to work, don't waste your time in useless things!".
Heh. Gleothain surely liked to scold a lot.
But where were we? Ah yes. Irwfrith.
Grouchy, cantankerous, surly, ill-tempered, ballsy, tender, loving Irwfrith.
Melowen felt so guilty toward Wulfreda, for this growing feeling toward Irwfrith she couldn't - or wouldn't - fend off. But what could she do? It grew slowly, furtively, till the last moment, when he... he took her hand. And kissed her fingers. And then told her there was no future for the two of them. She was about to ride to Rohan, he would stay back, in the North.
Perhaps, when the war will be over, they will see each other again. Perhaps.
She sighs deeply, then picks up the quill and smoothens the parchment with her hand. The quill screeches against the parchment, drops of sweat are on Melowen's forehead, for the effort. The result was... her kind of poem. "This is me." She says.
Only Irwfrith, possibly, would understand.
