The moon hung itself over the eastern sky like a phantom disc, pale and watchful of all beneath its soft light, but ever without feeling for what it witnessed. Whether it saw a weary traveler struggling towards the promise of a fireside meal and a bed, a joyful rendezvous of young lovers stealing away into the shadowed fields, or a young fawn set upon by ravenous wolven jaws in the dark forest, the moon cared nothing for any of it.
Thus it felt nothing when its beams lit over the small figure laid upon a bedroll beneath a great, twisting oak tree that bordered a crumbling ruin east of Bree-town. There was no camp-fire, and she was uncovered, for the nights of the waning summer were yet warm, and the crickets and frogs sang the final strings of their chorus from the surrounding fields and streams.
Her bare feet shifted restlessly. The hands that were folded together under her cheek clenched. Soft, wordless utterings moved her lips.
She was on her feet in the nearby ruins. It was nighttime. The moon was still overhead, just as it had been when she fell asleep. Bodies were strewn over the earth. Each of their throats had been cut. Ahead, a man in cloak and hood was knelt on the ground, facing away from her. Beneath him was one of the corpses, splayed on its back, arms and legs stuck out at alarming angles. She could hear him slicing into the body, a gentle, smooth noise like a butcher’s knife cleanly slicing through portions of meat. She moved closer, step by reluctant step, wanting to reach out and touch him. That would make him stop, surely. As she drew near, the kneeling figure bent forward over the corpse’s face and began stuffing something into its mouth, violently, grunting as he did so. “Ry, don’t!” she heard herself crying out, and her hand landed on the man’s shoulder. He turned with a swift jerk and looked up at her. The face within the hood was handsome, young, and pale. His eyes were so blue. Not the bard's face at all...
A rush of near-silent wings swept into the oak tree. The owl folded its velvet limbs into its sides and side-walked upon the crooked limb, blinking at the bright moon.
It was a summer evening near Trestlebridge. The western sky was painted in so many hues, and the setted sun still cast its soft light over the scattered crofts of the farmers. Along the winding road, a man and woman walked hand in hand, lazily, no trace of a hurry about them. She was some distance behind them, trying to catch up. Why had she fallen so far behind in the first place? She felt a smidgen of guilt for doing so, and the guilt was familiar. But the sensation was fleeting, soon replaced by contented peace and warmth at the sight of the couple. “Pa! Ma! Wait for me!” She broke into a trot as the man and woman turned from the wide road and onto a narrow lane that dipped down and turned out of sight between scattered trees and tall grasses. They passed from view for a moment. She ran faster, though her feet felt oddly heavy and sluggish. As she reached the lane and followed onto it, she could see them again, and beyond them, a small cottage nestled between fields of ripening crops. The windows of the house glowed a warm yellow in the twilight. “Pa! Wait!” The man slipped his arm around the plump waist of his aging wife, and they mounted the steps of the cottage together as one. The yellow light began to flicker. It became darker, red and orange, flashing and writhing behind the windowpanes. An awful terror burst open within her breast. “Pa! Ma! Stop! Wait!” she screamed. Her feet were leaden, dragging over the earth so that she scarcely moved no matter how she strained. Her father laid his hand on the door latch and turned it.
A mouse scurried forth from its hole in the base of the oak tree, darting behind the stem of a toadstool. The human on the ground had eaten a meager supper before the sun went down, and the scent of it was still in the air. Camps could mean scraps, crumbs. The mouse halted, going onto its hind legs, miniscule forepaws held together like little hands as its whiskers twitched and it sniffed the breeze.
She was kneeling down, sobbing under a bright light. She couldn’t remember why she was crying, or what she grieved for. A big hand scooped gently under her chin and lifted her tear-wet face. Her eyes squinted painfully at the sun as it shone down, blotting out the face of the person at first. “Come south with me,” said a deep, merry voice. Little by little, the features came clear. A flowing mane of golden hair, tossing on a slow, balmy wind. They were not in the fields or forests of home, but a small hobbit-village beside a river. She was kneeling on a little circle of pretty, flat stones. A table was to her right, set with two chairs, two plates, two cups. He was smiling, and his smile was as luminous and filled with warmth as the sun itself. “When are you going to stop being afraid?” he said, and leaned in to touch his lips to hers.
The mouse smelled the remnants of bread and cheese. Surely, the clumsy human had dropped at least a few morsels. It dropped to all fours and raced over the earth. As it neared the head of the slumbering woman, there was a great, abrupt pain. A crushing pressure on all sides.
Narys awoke with a cry, her limbs flailing as she sat up. The owl startled at the sudden movement and hastily spread its wings to flee with a wild, silent flapping, rising back into the shadowed trees. From its curled talons, a dead mouse dropped and rolled against her bare foot.
