I have found so little time to write these past months. Forgive me, diary. Even if you are but an inanimate object with no sentience at all, I feel guilty for neglecting you. Perhaps because you are something of a reflection of myself, and thus, I should not neglect myself, nor the chance to exit my thoughts from my mind.
The consistent pace of life is something I find very soothing. I wake before dawn, I empty water troughs and pour oats into feed troughs. I muck stalls and wheel barrows to the manure pen. I comb manes and check teeth and pick at hooves. Townsfolk come and go, as horses are needed daily, not only for travel, but for errands and work about the village. This will increase with the coming of spring, but I anticipate it with pleasure. I am not an idle woman, nor ever have been.
I think of Saexwyrd often, but I do not seek him out. It is an area of discomfort to think on it to deeply or for too long. I cannot tell if my feelings for him are pure, or born of loneliness and desire and darker things. Perhaps he has met another woman in Snowbourn by now. The thought tightens my gut.
There are rumblings in the village folk of late. I do not comprehend all of its meaning; only that I feel safest tucked away in the stable, or my apartment above it. I keep my eyes towards Waelden and Yllfa's home across the pond, and Duncadda's home upon the hill. They are all far more suited to defending themselves, and I would be little aid, should trouble come to our doorstep. I am best formed for perceiving the souls of our hooved companions, and comforting and helping my fellow kinsmen in ways that do not involve swords and shields. Whether this is me being honorably self-aware, or a touch of cowardice, I am unsure. I hope it is the former.
I have had a thought lately, that I should like to take to the road again when the fairer weather arrives. Jack is a lazy and content beast, but even he seems restless with the promise of spring. But I must inquire on the safety of the roads before indulging my whims of wanderlust.
For now, the frost seems all but melted away, and the air smells of rain. The streets will soon be mud, and getting about will be a chore. But it is the last little pain before sunshine and birdsong, and thus, we must endure it!
