Aeruthuil

I am beginning to remember why I promised myself that I would not become attached to any person in this world. And I have no one to place the blame upon, for my current situation, other than myself. 

The guards of the Bree-town west-gate had grown familiar with the sight of the young woman in the deep blue hooded robe, and with only a nod and a quick wave, she was permitted through. Into the bustling hubbub of the village's cobblestone street, filled with vendors and merchants, setting up their tables and stalls in the early morning light of another summer's day. 

A summer storm raged outside the walls of the little candle shop. The few windows not facing the driving rain were left open to try and catch whatever breeze they could, for the air was warm and heavy. Within, two women - one old, one young - moved about with a quiet, comfortable ease. A lantern sat on the table between them as the clouds drew the town into a stifling, temporary darkness. 

"That hood cannot be comfortable while you're trying to see what you're doing," remarked the old woman.

My hands have held many things.

A moth-eaten book, as I sat in a large tent, surrounded by people whose names I can't recall, while an old man pointed out the letters on the pages to me.

The side of a rickety old wagon as we bounced along endless, nameless foreign roads, and I cried for not knowing where I was going, or where I had been.

A stale loaf of bread as I sat beside an ice-covered stream, wondering how and where I'd find my next meal. 

My days continue to be perplexing and strange, though not in unpleasant ways.

There was a particular spot on the edge of the stream that she had now chosen as "hers". The gravelly bank jutted out into the water beneath a tall, broad-limbed tree, and across the creek, the bank was stony and green, thick with reeds as it climbed a little rise and tumbled off into the fields beyond. It was pretty, here at this spot. Dawn and dusk were the best times to stand here, she had concluded. Fewer passers-by. Less clamor from the nearby village drifting through the air. Just the wind, the birds, the crickets.

I have found work at last. It is nothing consequential, really. But it should allow me to remain in Bree for now, as I have somewhat settled here, and found the place to be charming and quaint, despite its occasional ignorance and narrow-mindedness towards outsiders. I will remain at the inn, or perhaps find a rented room, as that may be a little cheaper. The urge to leave is still present, and I make no promises that I will not give in to it at some point.

She didn't know how long she had sat there on the edge of the bed. The solitary candle on her bedside table seemed to capture and hold her attention. The flickering little flame, a hypnotic, writhing creature of gold and white, reflected in her emerald eyes. The rest of the small, sparsely-furnished bedroom, one of a dozen in the Prancing Pony inn, was bathed in shadow.

Thoughts drifted through her mind as if they, too, were shadows. One following another, each one slightly different and unique. A strange, internal argument.

It was reckless to care for someone.

My feet are so weary. I walked far today. I don't know what it is that I look for every day among the sunlit fields and shady trees. I only know that I cannot keep still. My mind will not let me. 

I passed over the little stone bridge beyond the west-gate. I turned and looked along the stream. I appreciated the way the sunlight glinted off the water. And, fool that I am, I looked for a tall, dark shape to be standing in the grass along the bank. He was not there. And I was glad.