How indifferent the world is to one's pain. Another idyllic morning greets her as she steps out of her cottage. Cerulean sky without a trace of clouds. Soft choruses of crickets and sleepily waking birds in the flaming-orange maple tree in the front yard. The waterfall that feeds the lake behind the cottage is a gentle thundering in the background.
She draws her cloak close about herself, locking the door, and slipping the key into the empty flower box rather than putting it in her pocket. She pats idly at another pouch on her belt, assuring that the letter was there. Her fingers drift past the neck of her tunic. The beads are there, and she nods. Jack stands patiently by the gate, snorting softly, his saddlebags heavily laden with everything she owns in the world.
She walks past his lowered black-and-white head, her fingers gently grazing his jaw. "Come on," she says in a dull, muted voice. The stallion moves obediently to follow her down the winding lane, heading towards town.
The day is blossoming into a fine autumn morning by the time she reaches the Prancing Pony inn. The sun is warm, but the air is crisp. Vendors line the streets with their bounty of apples and pumpkins. She pats Jack's flank as they arrive at the tavern, not needing to say a word aloud for him to stand patiently outside and wait for her.
Inside, the common room is dark, cool, and nearly empty at such an early hour. She moves purposefully to the counter, where Mr. Butterbur is wiping out mugs with a dingy cloth. "You're none too early today, Brynleigh," he says pleasantly.
"I'm leaving town, Barliman," she states plainly, without looking at him.
The old man freezes for a moment. Brynleigh stares at the rough, wooden grain of the countertop. She hears a long, weary sigh from him.
"It's him, aren't it?" he asks in a somber voice. When she doesn't reply, he sighs again. "I knew I shouldn't 'ave told ya he was here and gone away again."
"You did nothing wrong, Barliman," she answers gently, swallowing with a bit of effort as she draws the letter from her pocket and lays it down.
"And ye wan' me to give this to him if I see him." His words are a statement, not a question.
She nods faintly, pressing her lips together. She feels a large, calloused hand lay overtop of hers.
"You're a good lass, Brynleigh. Bit too much feelin' at times, I think, but a good lass. And he's a good man, from what I've seen. Ye'd do well to just find each other and stick to each other next time. And stop this runnin' and leavin' and searchin'."
"I would if he would have me, Barliman." She takes a deep breath. "I just can't stay here anymore. I don't belong here. I don't think I belong anywhere. But here, there's just too much that reminds me of him."
"So, where ya goin' then?" He removes his hand, returning to wiping out the cup.
"I'm not sure. I've thought of trying to go home, even though it's a fool's hope that I'd make it alone. But I'll send word back to you from wherever I land. Just in case he...well, just in case." She clears her throat softly.
The pudgy barkeep nods grimly. "A'right, then. You'll be missed, Brynleigh. You come back anytime, ya hear? Anytime at all."
She slides the envelope towards him, and he receives it, tucking it into his apron. She says nothing more, turning towards the door, and vanishing into the bright, cheerful sunshine of the day.
