After she had been dismissed, Isulril fell into a melancholic state. She ate little, and kept to her bed. Time was something both stilted and fleeting. Time kept her in a glass case, much like a butterfly specimen. She waited for she knew not what.
Soon, she began to waste away. Her body, once decidedly voluptuous, had now become thinner and frail. Her skin became nearly sallow, and there was a faint darkness beneath her eyes. She was weak, she was tired. Very little happened.
She had become something other than what she was when she had arrived in Bree-town. She began as a bold and argumentative harridan, as an ice maiden who would not allow anyone to break her glacial guise. But she had become something else.
She remembered what had happened those months ago. It had been nearly a year now, her arrival at the physician's practice, her meeting of the keen eyed woman and the cruel woman. She remembered how she had grown enamored of the physician, how her life had changed, how everything had changed, and how she was now, as a result, a shell of her former self. Strange.
She thought of all of these things as she packed her chest, packed some extra bags. She often wondered if she should return just a moment, to see how that particular man fared. If he was still there at all. Things changed, and yet everything was the same.
To Gondor she must go, she thought, though not to Dol Amroth. Minas Tirith called her name, spoke to her. Yes, that would be better.
