((neatly penned in Lumi-kieli))
Bree is such a place of commerce that it is no surprise people come and go, but still, it is always surprising to me how common it is that people I have known for almost all of my time here are gone, and new people are coming all the time. In a few weeks it will be two years since I first came to Bree and shyly asked Mister Butterbur for work. Is there even one person I met then who is still here? Maybe one or two. Miss Cesistya certainly, now that she is back from her journeying. But I can think of no others. Mister Baraque has been gone, and Mister Haleron after one time I saw him after our marrying (when he swore he would be about more, but then did not return). Friends I miss dearly, like Ruevir, and Eira. I had come to feel a kinship of sorts with Sicarra while she worked at the Pony, but she left quite abruptly, I did not even know she had left until she had not come in for some days. Even Miss Cat has not come into the Pony or been seen about town in moons, ever since she and Mister Nathan decided they prefer the squalor of Combe's tavern. And winter has Beri aslumber so much of the time. I did see Mister Frimsi once of late, but only once. And what came of Mister Arnleik?
But there are new people to befriend, and ever another new one. And people to be met, also, from all manner of places and with all manner of oddities. As I write this, there is a woman drinking a sort of tea made with lemon zest in hot water mixed with vinegar -- vinegar! -- and she has paid two silver pennies for the privilege, since lemon zest is rare in these parts. Mister Bob has finally hired on a new stablehand, who is called Rafel, and he seems a good-hearted sort. I have only known him a few days, and with how many others have come and gone, I will have to count the days wondering if he will also move on. But perhaps if he remains, and proves to be as he seems, when Beri and I have built our home and are ready to bring children into it I might ask him for assistance.
I have not written in my journal since the wedding. It was a small ceremony, only a few guests and witnesses, and a few more at the feasting in the Pony after. Hravanis did not come and never answered the letter we sent, so perhaps it was never received, or perhaps mortals like us are of less note to the vanha-väki than it seemed at the time. Frimsi also did not make it, though he brought later some fine jewelry that Beri did not like. In truth we have too much jewelry as it is; I wear a bracelet from Sofie, who came all the way from Lumi-mâ for the after-party but did not stay, and of course the Elf-stone, and a fine gold-shot stone from Nathan also around my neck. Beri wore my sad, uneven gákti, even after the marrying; she is so good to me.
I have also not done much painting, though thinking of that, and speaking with a man called Humegilras who I have known more than a week but not until yesternight did I know he was an Elf and not until tonight did I know his name, and with Rafel, I came to do a little painting of hillot. And that is what made me think of digging my journal out of its dusty storage in the room Beri and I still rent.
I remain clumsy, and prone to speaking too fast and too sunnily so that I drive people away with my excess of cheer, though speaking in the etelä-kieli still mitigates this. People speak very well of my cooking, even though it is all very simple pub food, prepared more for being able to serve quickly than for flavor, but it is rich and not subtle. Mister Butterbur remains sour about many of my ideas but I can tell he appreciates how well I manage things like keeping our supplies stocked. While few remain long enough to become friends, and I rarely have opportunity to sing, play my harp, or tell my tales, people seem inclined to treat me well. Though recently an Elf-elleth, having heard the story of how I was taken from Lumi-mä, called me a murderer, which troubled me greatly and still does. Miss Cesistya spoke to me about it and put me at ease, somewhat, though I understood little of her Elfen wisdom. (I have recently learned from her the making of some soap-based salves for healing, but have not yet found any healers who might want some.)
Rafel means to teach me how to get past my fear of horses. I have been persuaded to humor him. Who knows, perhaps there is something to his reassurances.
Winter drags on, if you can call this winter. It is nearly February and we have not yet seen a single snowflake in Bree! (Though Beri somehow brought back snow from the Misty Mountains, so she said, in a pair of nested clay crock-pots lined with hay and sawdust, to treat a sore ankle, so I cannot say I have not seen snow.) Winter always feels like one is simply waiting for something, whether it be a chance to get out, a taste of some fresh greens or berries, having more options for things to cook with again, the return of traders and travelers from over the snowed-in passes, or just the sun on your face. This year, with our marrying behind us and the building of our home ahead in spring, and with winter itself being such a bland greyness devoid of cold or snow, it feels all the more like a wait, like when father has finished one story and will tell another in a little while, but now, there is only the silence between.
Perhaps when spring comes I will set out to learn something new, like woodcraft, or even hunting. Perhaps Miss Lotherwen might teach me something of defending myself more than what I have already learned, if I can catch her on a day before she finds the brandy. Or maybe I am just listless from winter, and it comes out as wishing to learn something? After all, I am already a cook, soap-maker, and bard, and occasionally a poor artist. Maybe that is enough.
