Rajana, better known to the world as Silver, returned from her camping trip feeling lighter than she had in weeks. It had only been a month since the love of her life had departed on a dangerous mission to a place she knew all too well, but in that time her mental state had deteriorated far more than she would allow people to see.
Much had occurred, and all of it stressful. Each day that passed had added further weight to her psyche until she could take no more and she knew that she had to get away from the cosy prison she had made for herself.
Regardless of the responsibilities that were not really hers, which had been heaped upon her all the same, she had taken her gear and departed town for a few days, all too aware that staying would have only resulted in far worse than a punch in the face for a wayward brother.
A few days. Just a few days in peace had been all she needed. Of course, her solitude had been disturbed more than once, but those few who had happened upon her camp had made for pleasant, if brief, companionship so she had not minded overly much. In some cases, it had even been helpful.
Now, having stabled, brushed, and fed her beloved horse, a companion of fifteen years, she made her way to the house she so often despised. Letters in the postbox were retrieved, the door pushed open and a sigh breathed for the cold darkness within.
He had not returned yet, then. A part of her had hoped that she would find him sitting there in his favoured seat, dozing before the roaring fire, resting as he awaited her arrival. She could almost see his sleepy smile floating in the air, almost hear the sound of his voice welcoming her back and almost feel the warmth of his lap, the strength of his arms around her as she settled against him in the chair they had often shared. It was disappointing to find that this was not so, and yet despite her hidden hopes, she had hardly expected it.
The butt of her cane clacked loudly against the flagstones as she walked across the room. The silence, in lieu of a warm greeting, felt oddly oppressive, but she put paid to that in short order with the merry crackling of a newly-laid fire and the humming of a cheerful tune beneath her breath. The candle upon the table was lit, her rump lowered into her second favourite seat before she picked up the missives to sort through them.
One was from a contact in Ost Forod, the parchment rough and of low quality. He had come across a set of tarnished goblets and wondered when she would return to Evendim for appraisal.
One was from a woman in Gondor with whom she had dealings in the past, this time requesting she be on the look out for the “fabled” Spoons of Inexactitude. The paper was of fine make and scented with roses. Indeed, a few rather desiccated petals fell out onto her lap as she opened it. Rajana sighed, brushing them away. Did such a thing even exist? And if so, why were they called that? Had some metalsmith of ages past found a way to make factually imprecise cutlery? More to the point, why? It sounded very much like a hoax to her.
The next was from a scholar in Bree who wished her skill with languages to be turned to a particularly obscure tome - he guessed - about fruit.
It was the fourth that caused her to furrow her brow in puzzlement. It was written in a hand she did not recognise, and hastily sent, if the smudges and the half-peeled sealing wax were any indication. There was little point in wondering, however. She peeled the wax the rest of the way, unfolded the paper and read the shaky scrawl committed to parchment in charcoal.
Puzzlement turned to horror, then to anger. Surely this could not be, right? Surely she had read it wrong. She read again. Then again. And again. The words before her refused to change. Anger faded as quickly as it had come and in its place... nothing.
She felt nothing. Not pain, not upset, not concern. Nothing. Not the heat from the fire, not the chair beneath her bottom, not the parchment between her fingers. Nothing.
Numb inside and out, even the passage of time was lost to her. She didn't notice when the fire grew low, sputtered and eventually died. She did not notice as the candle burned down, the flame flickering briefly before extinguishing itself. She felt not the cold and saw not the faint blush of a new dawn through the window. She knew only the words before her. Even in the darkness, when she could no longer see her hands or the paper itself, the words were still there, seared into her eyes and mind.
A rising scream, guttural, heartbroken, misery from the very depths of the darkest abyss, shattered the silence. For a moment, she wondered where it was coming from. Such pain, such anguish, such passionate sorrow. It ripped into her ear, shredding straight through the walls she had long since built within her mind.
In the split second that it took for her to realise that she was the source of the cry, every feeling that she had been unknowingly keeping at bay throughout the night crashed into her all at once like a tidal wave of pure, raw emotion, sweeping away her every defence.
She fell from the chair, down upon her hands and knees, fingers digging into the plush rug like desperate claws. Head hanging low, she screamed for a second time, the pained wailing simultaneously sinking into the thick material and bouncing back to spear her ear again. Moisture formed in her eyes, but she blinked it away. She had no use for tears. Gasping for breath, silvery eyes staring blindly down at the sumptuous mat, her first thought was to join him.
And why not? She hated this place. There was naught for her here but pain and terror, naught but nightmares and threats. The only pure light in her life, the only one she had ever truly loved, was gone now, and she could not bear to live in a world that did not have him in it somewhere.
Yes. She would join him. She would burn this hated house to the ground with herself in it! A drink to numb the senses, a candle placed beneath the curtains. It would only take a little preparation and then... one final, dreamless sleep.
But as she raised herself to her feet to go in search of the last of the valerian root tea, she stopped in her tracks.
The letter had not been definitive. The wording was vague.
He had still been alive when last he was seen. Gravely injured, perhaps, but alive. Even were that not the case, he was still in Fornost. If dead he was, indeed, then to be allowed to lie there would afford him no rest. She could not let that be his fate.
Trajectory altered, she strode toward their bedroom as well as any woman with a cane could stride. Head high, back straight, determination masking the gnaw of despair, she desperately pulled herself together within whilst, without, she appeared as strong and steady as ever.
Instead of the teapot, she took up her kukri. Instead of the tea, she retrieved some rope. Instead of the candle, she carried her traveling gear.
Then, without a word or a note left behind, she stepped out into the soft, cold, morning light.
With Steel beneath her, clad in charcoal leather but armoured in Silver, Rajana rode to the north in search - one last time - of the dead.
