Found:
I sit in my room in the tavern. All is silent. I am the only one staying here and, it being Yule Day, the staff are all at home with their families. Dear Bessie, who has taken to watching my every move like a mother hen with a worrisome chick, made a point of putting aside a plate of cold cuts for me to dine upon. She has, she said, no wish to see a young woman alone and hungry at this time of year. I failed to mention that I am hardly young and that I am always alone, preferring instead to offer my gratitude for her thoughtfulness and my appreciation of her in general.
As cliche as it may sound, to me this is just another day. One more day in a long list of days. And why wouldn't it be? In my youth, I was not afforded such things. I was most often relegated to the barn with a blanket and a plate of table scraps whilst my half-siblings and my would-be parents celebrated in the house with gifts and feasting. In adulthood, I had no family to spend the time with, until recently no friends, and the taverns were always closed. I spent Yule as I would any other time; traveling or digging.
Maybe next year, I tell myself. Things might be different.
But they won't be. Deep down, I know that. I'll be upon my island in Evendim, making notes or translations, perhaps restoring some centuries old treasure; maybe even something that was gifted to a long-dead recipient for Yule in ages past. Nothing will have changed really; I'll just have traded one line of work for another.
I push the food around the plate with a long tined fork, unable to escape the metaphorical similarities. Pieces of cold meat. Pieces of me. What little appetite I recently found is gone again.
I pull the blankets more tightly around my shoulders as I watch the snow drift past outside. I've heard it said that it washes the world clean, but all I see is a temporary covering. I'll admit that it's pretty. It most certainly is that, but it is still freezing and wet and I really do not like it.
My thoughts drift to promises made. The promise to stay. The promise to go. The letters that will never be read or, if they are, summarily discarded without further thought.
Why do I do it?
Because I gave my word.
Staying here for another week, perhaps two, makes Neyaa happy. It makes no difference that I dislike Bree-land. It makes no difference that a part of me is eager to just get on with my life, to retire to what must become my home and start my new work. All that matters is the smile that crosses her lips when she sees that I have not yet departed. All that matters is how much more light her heart becomes when she remembers that she has a female friend in whom she can confide.
I left because it was needed. Not for me. I needed to remain, to watch over, to help if I could. I needed to know that he was, or would be, safe and well when all is said and done. But what I needed wasn't what he needed or wanted. So despite my reservations, despite the nagging sense that it was the wrong thing to do, despite how much it pained me, I left. Again.
I send the letters to prove to him that he was wrong. I doubt he'll ever read them. I doubt he'll care one way or another if he ever does. I doubt that this is anything more than a waste of time and parchment. But he needs to realise that his curse is as false as his guilt and this is the only way that I can show him.
I do these things, and have done many more over the years, because a promise was spoken, my word given. My word is all I have ever had that is, and always will be, mine and mine alone. It is my reputation; not the simple surface notoriety of a treasure hunter or vagabond, but something much deeper and valuable than that. It is what has ensured me the best prices, the best business dealings and vocational contacts. It is what makes some trust in me when all others see naught more than the wanton and feckless image I have purposely projected. It is what has seen me succeed where others would fail.
Despite the fact that I have have always kept my word and it has helped me pave my way forward, it has not given me all that I want or all that I need. It never will. Promises fulfilled will only get one so far in life. I still lack the things I have always craved, the very things I have always denied wanting or needing. It was easier that way; be content with what you have and you can never be broken by that which you lost. And what I have, when all is said and done, is very little.
The house in Evendim awaits. The new work, the distraction to detract from the fact that I am still without that which is most important in life. I have Steel and Salwen, and I love them both dearly, but they are horses. I have gold, but when have I ever cared about that? I have several friends who mean the world to me, but still I am unfulfilled.
I am, if not open, then at least honest. I am empty still, a vessel waiting that will never be filled. I am alone. I am lonely.
But if there is one thing that my tumultuous life has taught me, it is that I am a survivor. Although my steps may sometimes falter and my shoulders sag from the weight, I am strong enough to endure it all.
