The patter of the rain hit the roof with a relaxing, soothing sound. Isulril sat, once more, at work on a text. These Breelanders, she thought, They do not understand the grammar in Sindarin, nor the particularly Gondorian manner of grammar. She sighed to herself. Even a scholar in Bree was, she thought, not truly a scholar--at least, not to her mind. But then, she had come from a city where grand libraries were quite a sight to behold, and had a wealth of knowledge at her fingertips.
Tonight, she emphasized in her head, she would focus on her work, would take the time to make a perfect translation. The rain began to drive harder, the sound of thunder striking her ear. She nearly jumped from her seat, so sudden was the sound. It brought to mind the past.
After she had left Lord Handrynhad for good, she had wandered the streets of Dol Amroth, and had half-heartedly attempted to find a new benefactor. She had her own apartments in the city, but she shunned them, knowing they had been paid for by her lord. She thought of what she might do, where she might go, how she might make a new path in life.
With a firm resolution, she had eschewed Dol Amroth, and sought the refuge of Minas Tirith, that many-tiered city. She had taken it upon herself to become a humble housekeeper in one of the minor Houses of Lore. There she did the most mundane tasks of cleaning the shelves, returning the books to their proper places, and assisting those who might enter.
It was far less exciting than her life in Dol Amroth, far less exciting than the pomp and pageantry she had been used to. Indeed, though she had the most fabulous of wardrobes, she had locked it away, and rarely wore even the simplest of garb that she had from her time in that city. She instead wore a plain dress and a veil over her head, covering her thick, raven locks.
Isulril sighed, thinking of that time. She had not felt worthy enough to apply as a scholar or even scholar's assistant. She saw her time there as a time of penance,a time to forget. But forget she could not, even now, at the table in her Bree-home. She could not forget the rift between she and her lord.
As the thunder continued, joined by flashes of lightning, Isulril thought of other, more recent matters. She considered the time she had met her compatriot, a tall, proud noblewoman with an interesting story. She thought to herself how such a woman might have scorned her if she had known what she had done in Dol Amroth. But she did not. Indeed, she could not.
And then she had taken to a table in the inn, had been invited to join another group of people. Two Bree-men with their rustic banter, a strange elf, the Gondorian noblewoman, an odd younger girl, and her friend to whom Isulril regretted having been rude.
She had fallen into melancholy that night, and indeed, the mood stayed with her even as she tried to concentrate on her texts. She remembered being unable to stop the spilling of her current misfortune to the strangers there, as though she had spilled a rather large cup of tea upon the table where she sat. She grimaced at the thought.
Why had he not wished for friendship? she asked herself. Something so easy, so simple, so amiable. He had scorned it, and in so doing had scorned her. Indeed, as she thought of her time working in the garden, working as the physician's gardener, she was reminded of the not too distant past, in which she been housekeeper in Minas Tirith.
She was not unused to manual labor, though many may have thought if of her, due to her well-kept appearance and dainty hands. But when she was a child she had labored in her father's fields. And later, in the dim light of the Houses of Lore.
Plucking weeds, tending to the soil, checking in on the health of the plants, making notes. All of these were a solitary occupation, and she had no need of her employer's company. Indeed, she reasoned to herself, she would not become dependent on it, would not engage at all with someone who found her offer of friendship repugnant.
She sighed to herself. Everyone was a stranger to her. Especially the physician. But perhaps it was the other way around. Perhaps she was a stranger, unknown and unloved by any.
She snapped the book shut, rubbing at her temples. This is your life now. You must learn to accept it and be happy. It was something she had told herself many times. She reminded herself now. But sometimes reminders were not enough.
