The cicadas of Bree-land awoke in the latter half of summer. Crawling out of invisible, temporary graves in the earth to slither up tree trunks and play their croaking, hopeful songs to potential mates. It was a sound the huntress loved. Many called it an ugly noise; harsh, grating, and annoying. Perhaps she found some appreciation in harsh, grating, annoying things because she related to them. Or perhaps it was because the sound heralded the gentle waning of summer's oppressive heat and the too-long daylight that made it hard to get a good sleep without hiding in the half-dark under her blanket. Autumn was a time of splendor, both in weather and beauty, and she would welcome it.
The cicadas were singing lustily, mingling with the charming little crickets who had also begun to chirp their more delicate melodies beneath the cicadas raucous tones. Daytime crickets were the second herald of summer's demise. The last herald was the geese that would come down from the northern lands, passing over Bree-land on their jouney to more palatable climes. She had not yet heard their calls overhead.
There were still weeks ahead where swimming would be enjoyable, and the air was still muggy and heavy with summer. She awoke that morning with a faint sheen of sweat already on her brow, having inadvertently slept in her clothes under the gargantuan oak tree. Her companion was gone, and her hand was still laid out towards where he had been sitting when she dozed off. She sat up stiffly and peered to the lake that glinted in the morning sunlight, off in the distance. He was likely off to see to the salvage of his own campsite on the lake's northern shore, having been away from it so long.
Her heart felt lighter as she pulled her waterskin from her pack and emptied it in one, parched go. He had a way of explaining things so that they made sense to her. Simple, plain, rustic in his manner. No airs, no subtleties, no confusing labyrinths of mental puzzles that practically every other person she'd ever known used in their talk. He did not spare her feelings out of affection, but told her bluntly that the bard likely had a valid point. Not what she wanted to hear. But beneath the prick of wounded pride, the revelation was that not only did she want to hear it, but needed to. Somehow, it was safer, coming from the lips of a friend whose love she did not doubt. The blow was softened, and she could accept it.
She rose on bare feet and trod through the soft, knee-high grass to the edge of the stream that flowed through the forest before communing with the lake's cold waters. After filling her waterskin, she returned to the spot where they had rested, and pulled on her boots. Placing the waterskin back into her pack, her fingers bumped against a small, hard object. She did not need to touch it further to know what it was. The feel of it brought a small ache to her breast. She knelt there for a moment, bent and thoughtful. Then a decision was made, and she shouldered the pack, raked her hands over her sleep-tangled hair, and began walking southwest. Her eyes and ears were alert, and her head swept side to side as she went, looking for signs. The shape of a black horse, the sound of notes hovering on the heavy air, the tinge of fire-smoke. Alas, there was nothing.
A few hours later, as the sun was cresting overhead, the cicadas were singing so loud it made it difficult even to hear the distant roar of a nearby waterfall. She had arrived at the creek that flowed from the Chetwood, passing through verdant, fern-covered banks before tumbling over a high bluff, then running down past the Combe Lumber Camp. She didn't anticipate finding him here. This was her spot, after all, not his. But if he returned for...some reason...he would find her. And in the meantime, she would swim. Her feet carried her onward until she'd come to the brim of the cascading falls.
She climbed down the rocky ledge, slipping her pack from her shoulders and laying it down. She stood briefly to free herself of her garments and belt, then gathered it all up in her arms and crouched down, ready to set the items in their usual hiding place. But something was amiss. The familiarity of the stone's nooks and crevices meant that the out-of-place object, while well-hidden, stuck out to her eyes like a sore thumb.
Dropping her own possessions, she stretched out a cautious hand, but did not touch the object straight away. She knew what it was. It was plain to know by its shape. But where was its keeper?
Her knees straightened like a bolt, shooting her upright. She peered over the top of the ledge, gripping the rocks with clawed fingers, roving her eyes over the trees. He would not leave his beloved lute behind. Her mind began to grind with the mystery, rapid-fire thoughts swarming past each other.
Had harm befallen him? She turned and stared down the dizzying height to the misty pool below. Her heart was suddenly hammering behind her ribs. Don't let me see a smashed body down there... Impulse won over hesitation, and she gave the rocky banks a good inspection. There was nothing to be seen.
The puzzle only swelled in intensity. As if contact might impart some kind of knowledge to the young huntress, she knelt again and laid her hands upon the covered instrument. It felt wrong to touch it without his permission. It felt oddly intimate. She did not pick it up, but only rested her palms on it for a time.
Then, unbidden and unwanted, their previous meeting returned to mind. The way it had ended. Ugly, hard, angry. Part of her wanted to stop, to harness her tongue, to stay, to talk, to soften. Perhaps it was because it had been so long since she had allowed herself to feel much at all, that with the stopper pulled, the draining flow of passion could not be halted. He had pricked a hole in the reservoir, and paid witness to the messy, spurting flood that resulted.
Had he gone? Gone away? She knew he was planning to go soon. Go west, he had said, to help a woman on her journey.
Aloud, her lips formed whispered words, "But he promised to say goodbye..."
Her fingertips tightened over the lute cover, pinching it.
He had promised.
Crow had promised, too. Promised to stay. Promised to help. And then left.
The wistful curiosity blanched within her heart, and became something more bitter.
Promises could not be set aside over hurt feelings and angry words. This was not a permissible thing in her mind. Promises were resolute, unwavering, carved in stone.
But why had he left his precious instrument behind? It seemed a part of him. Like an appendage of his person. And while anger desired to rise up and roil about in her skull, she could not make herself fathom that this gesture had been designed to hurt her. Her first impulse was that he left it to encourage her to test it out with her own two hands. This seemed like a farewell more than anything else. But this could not be reconciled with the fact that it left him without the lute, and he would not do such a thing...not from what little she knew of him.
She drew it out at last, careful and tender with her touch, as if she were lifting a newborn infant from its cradle. She sat down and laid it over her bare knees. Her hands smoothed over the cover, recalling its shape.
Was it a promise instead? He had promised to say goodbye, and if he was gone now, he had not kept that promise. But perhaps this was another sort of vow. To come back for his lute, and he would say a proper farewell then.
Bewildered, she lifted her troubled eyes and sighed, gazing across the hazy, green landscape, as if one last hopeful glance would show him coming through the trees to explain it all. And to hear her apology.
But there was nothing. Nothing but the cicadas singing.
