It was a peculiar thing, to see a person choose dark colored clothing in the simmering height of summer. Most Bree-folk forsook heavier cloth and darker hues for the relief of pale, lightweight linens, so long as the sun stood high overhead and beat down upon their brows. Thus, the woman in black drew her share of glances, along with puckered foreheads and squinting eyes, indicating that the villagers thought the foreigner might be a bit "touched".
Few of them ever got so close as to notice that the frayed hem of her aged dress had been touched up and sewn back together countless times over the years. The frock, even in its wearied state, was still far more luxurious than anything their peers would walk about in. The gold embroidery that wound around her ankles and the cuffs of her sleeves was a remnant of a more indulgent age. A whisper of another land, too grand for the provincial farmers and farriers to ever imagine. Like the jealously clutched jewels of an old woman, the beautiful dress could not stave off time, nor the relentless march of years. And of consequences.
The oppressive heat that gathered under the matching black shawl covering her head, was a small price to pay for the familiarity of the gilded cage. So long as she kept herself apart, even in these trite ways, she was safe. A sojourning shade in a faraway land. Nothing more.
Today, her steps led her beyond the western gate of Bree-town. It was too warm for a walk to be pleasant. Sweat beaded on her hidden temples, and trickled down her cheeks. Once the town was suitably out of sight, she threw the shawl back onto her shoulders and inhaled the humid air. It provided little aid.
The hard-packed road went ever westward. Her eyes were cast down to the gravelly soil beneath her feet. She knew the countryside was idyllic and sweet to behold. There was no need to refresh the images in her mind. After an hour, the gravel became neatly arranged stone, and rose upward into the gentle arch of a low bridge over a stream that rippled happily beneath. It was here that she stopped for a time.
She recalled the small cottage in the forest. It was not far. She might have glimpsed it through the tree trunks if the wood were naked with winter. A tilt of her head revealed that the walking-path had not been rediscovered, for it was thickly overgrown now. No one else had claimed her old home. There was a whisper of being pleased, deep in her belly. Predictably, her thoughts drifted to the dark-haired Gondorian who had visited her there. She wondered if he lived still, and if he had ever found an end to his torments. It did not seem to her that haunted souls ever truly came to genuine, lasting liberty. Ghosts were not in the habit of loosing those they clung to.
It had been here on the humble, nondescript bridge, that she had laid the Breeish woman's body. There had been no other way to return her to her family, without being discovered. She had thought to give the woman to the forest, and let it consume her remains, as well as the tale of how she had come to her end. But while the woman in black remained enigmatic to the people of Bree, she was not without a heart. And she could not bear the knowledge that the grieved woman had not only perished in sorrow, but that those who knew and loved her would never learn what became of her. She could not carry the corpse, and had been forced to wheel it in a gardening barrow under the cover of night. Far enough from her cottage that none would think to connect the discovery with what lay in the forest. Close enough to Bree that someone would find the remains the next morning, and return her to her kin. There was no wound upon the body, no trace of disease, and no sign of foul play. Her death would be a mystery, but the involvement of the woman in black would not enter even the most inquisitive of minds.
A raven croaked hoarsely, its call echoing through the lofted, green space of the forest.
Perhaps it was time to go home.
