The girl sat in the meadow with a crown of large petaled white daisies upon her head, royalty amongst nature and a view of farms, meandering streams and overgrown hedges for as far as the eye could see. A dragon fly hovered by her, the sun showing off its bright blues and greens in all their glory, the beat of its wings a dull buzz that almost reminded her of the hives at her home. Whilst watching the bleating smudges of white being herded by the barking smudges of black in a far off field, she bit into a honey cake and agreed with herself that it was a very fine idea not to be in the town.
Her friend had warned her, men are lovely to look at, lovely to hold, but also the biggest reason a lass gets upset, and her friend was right. Her friend wasn't always right, but she was content and happy with the man she lived with and that seemed one reason to hold onto her words.
None of the men that she knew of late had treated her kindly, not really, one was kind though he was in the employment of her friends lover, and a distraction they thought she needed. She still thought of the trader, and indeed it was true he was no prince to behold, nor fair of word, but, she missed him. Perhaps it was because he was the first man she really ever knew, that he made her laugh, or that she still saw the hurt she caused to him when they parted ways, a day she had come to regret as the days passed. She had hurt him, twice, once after being lulled in by the honeyed words of a blacksmith, the second at a bridge outside of the town, then again she had also seen his cruelty, heard his vicious words and they left marks upon her heart.
The blacksmith, a tall, strong man, the stench of pig iron, sweat and dust normally upon him, warned her of the trader. To be wary of the traders way with women, how he spoke to them, crudely, with such malice. As a snake waits patiently in the long grass, the blacksmith waited, bided his time for the perfect moment, a moment where her heart was vulnerable, where events with the trader had made it weaken. Eventually days turned to weeks, the trader no longer her love.
The blacksmith claimed he desired her, that she was rare, perfect, what he wished above all else, but that she must agree to it, and she did, even though the scars in her heart burned still, even though his insistence was strong. She agreed yet she should not have.
In every lie there is a little truth, desire is a powerful thing, though it is not love, for love can be cruelly destructive yet when true, very powerful, binding and no band of gold or fancy wedding would change it, it is pure. The women folk of Bree talk, they laugh, their days spent at washing troughs, in kitchens, at the market. Rumours flow like ale and gossip would run from one end of the town to the other in the time of a heartbeat. Talk of new visitors, of new traders, but the talk most enjoyed would be that of infidelity. This day of a Blacksmith that many knew, that the girl had spoken of, that had been seen with a beauty in the town of Combe and indeed seen in a very familiar way. He lied, he desired her, but not above all others.
The queen bee rested in the grass and white wildflowers, her wilting crown upon her head as she watched, thought and made a silent vow to be kind to her heart, to no longer allow it to be used as it had. She had experienced much in such a short time, sickness of the heart, sickness of the body, though she would not allow such times to sour her. There was still the young girl and now a young boy, and it seemed she collected the homeless youth of Bree like someone would stray cats, but, they were a fine distraction and one that would keep her heart kind and not mangled and twisted by recent events. She had her work, the hundreds of bees that would soon quieten down with the winter, and, she had her closest friend, a friend that never judged her for her ill fated choices.
The sun slowly began to set, making the streams look like lines of fire cutting through the landscape. Tomorrow would be better she told herself, tomorrow would see her start anew.
