As the edges of the dream began to fade and my awareness returned, the feelings lingered, soft and bittersweet. The garden’s warmth clung to me like a memory I didn’t want to let go of. Yet the earthy scent of the fresh hay mattress began to pull at my consciousness, grounding me. The quilt pressed gently against my skin, its weight a quiet comfort.
I snuggled deeper into its warmth, reluctant to let go of the safety the dream had given me. My body relaxed, and just as I thought I might fully awaken, I slipped back into a haze of dreams—fragmented and tilting between the remnants of that golden garden and the familiar sensations of reality. The two blurred together, comforting in their dissonance, until I drifted further, lost in the ebb and flow of slumber.
When finally, no more dreams came, I awoke. It felt as sudden as lighting a match. My mind was made aware of all the noises around me. The shuffling of feet in the next room over, a bench pushed back causing a scraping noise along the floor. Voices spoke low, too low for me to tell exactly what was being said, but I could tell there was more than one.
I cracked open one of my eyes and found that the room was still dark. Folding the blanket back, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet encountered the bare floor and I gasped from the cold. I stared at them; I couldn’t recall taking off my boots. More noise from beyond the door caught my attention now.
A light appeared, the glow of a candle, and a gentle voice said, “Aw, sweet’eart, you’ve woke up now.” Caoimhe filled the doorway and the warmth of the candlelight showed her gentle smile. I surprised myself by smiling in response to hers as she moved slowly towards me with her hand held out. “Come now, you’ve slept a’day an’ a’night. The sun’s risin’ soon. There’s work to be done and stories t’tell.”
Her hand was warm and steady as she helped me to my unsteady feet. With a gentle smile, she gestured to the boots resting at the foot of the bed. “Go ahead and pull yer boots on. We’ll eat somethin’, then fetch some water and tell the others a g’morning.”
I nodded silently and did as I was told, slipping my boots on and lacing them tightly. When I stepped out of the room, adjusting my cloak and straightening the folds of my dress, I glanced up—and instantly froze, my muscles tensing with unease.
An older man sat at the far end of the table, hunched over a bowl. He shoveled food into his mouth with a mechanical efficiency that made him seem more a part of the room than a person in it. His presence was sharp and unfamiliar, unsettling in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
I lingered near the doorway, instinctively shrinking back into its shadow. My mind raced, calculating whether I could retreat unnoticed before he realized I was there.
Caoimhe turned and caught my hesitation, her face softening as she smiled. “Come now, dear, ‘ave a seat,” she said gently, placing a bowl at the table. It was filled to the brim with what looked like a thick, white soup, a spoon standing upright in the center.
I moved cautiously, each step deliberate as I approached the table. My gaze flicked to the man, watching him warily. He didn’t acknowledge me, his focus entirely on the food before him.
I slid into the chair nearest the bowl, the wood creaking slightly beneath me. As I picked up the spoon, I glanced again at the man, but his indifference remained. Only then did I allow myself a slow breath, though my guard stayed firmly in place.
In the flickering light of the hearth and the soft glow of candles scattered across the table, I could make out the details of the man more clearly. His skin was darkened and weathered, etched with deep lines that told of years spent under the sun. A thick, dark beard obscured the lower half of his face, while his equally dark hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, strands of silver catching the firelight.
He ate with single-minded focus, spooning the contents of his bowl with a determination that suggested he would finish within a few more bites. His rough linen clothes, in natural, muted tones, matched the practical simplicity of the dress Caoimhe wore—and had worn yesterday.
As I slid into my seat, I noticed his hands: large and work-worn, the skin calloused and cracked, marked by labor that had undoubtedly shaped his life. His presence, though silent, felt heavy, a quiet strength emanating from the way he carried himself.
I lowered my gaze to the bowl in front of me, feeling the weight of observation shift inward as I tried to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible.
The spoon still stood straight up in the thick, white goop, unwavering as if it had been planted there. Tentatively, I reached out and gave it a tug. It came free easily, the substance clinging briefly before sliding back into the bowl. I hesitated, lifting the spoon to my nose and sniffing cautiously.
The smell was unfamiliar, faint and earthy but not unpleasant. If this had been served to me at the inn, I would have refused it outright, certain it was something forgotten too long or scraped together from leftovers. But the warmth rising from the bowl coaxed me, a small comfort in its own way, and I took a cautious bite.
The taste was nothing like I expected. Creamy and rich, with a hint of herbs that lingered on my tongue—it filled my mouth with warmth and chased the lingering chill from my body. A moan escaped me before I could stop it, unbidden and embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.
The older man at the head of the table paused mid-spoonful, glancing up with raised brows. A low laugh rumbled from him, rough and unrestrained, breaking the silence like a hammer on glass.
Embarrassed and startled by the sudden noise from him, I dropped the spoon with a clatter into the bowl, heat rushing to my cheeks.
Caoimhe whipped around, her voice sharp but not unkind. “Odhran!” The suddenness of it startled me, and I jumped in my seat.
Odhran grinned, the white of his teeth a striking contrast against the dark beard and weathered lines of his face. “The girl acts like she ain’t had porridge before!” he said with a chuckle, his deep voice carrying easily across the room.
Heat rushed to my cheeks again, and I ducked my head, staring down into the bowl. I hadn’t. Or at least, I didn’t think I had. Maybe once—back in the life before—but that memory, like so many others, was hazy and unreachable.
Caoimhe crossed the room, her steps quick and purposeful. Her warm hand settled gently on my hair, grounding me in the moment. “She might not ‘ave, Odhran,” she said, her tone softening. “Leave the poor thing be.”
The gentle motion of her fingers brushing through my hair calmed the knot in my chest, pulling me away from my embarrassment. Her touch was brief but comforting, and when she stepped away, I felt myself relax, the tension in my shoulders easing.
I reached for the spoon again, encouraged by the small kindness. My stomach growled, a low rumble of impatience, as I scooped up another bite of the thick, white porridge. It was warm and hearty, sliding down my throat with a soothing weight. I could feel the heat spread through my body, reaching down to my toes and settling in my chest like a steady flame. I could feel their eyes on me, but my hunger won out in the end and I let myself savor it—the taste, the warmth, the simple act of eating something that made me feel whole. It was such a small thing, yet it felt monumental, as if that bowl of porridge carried more than just sustenance. It carried the faintest whisper of belonging.
Caoimhe settled into the chair next to me, a bowl of her own cradled in her hands. A quiet calm fell over the table, broken only by the rhythmic scrape of spoons against bowls and the soft murmurs of chewing. The stillness wasn’t awkward; it was soothing, a kind of unspoken understanding shared between us.
Every so often, Caoimhe would reach across, her movements fluid and unassuming. She poured a splash of cream into my bowl, the pale liquid swirling and lightening the porridge. A moment later, she dropped a small pat of fresh butter in, and I watched as it melted, disappearing into the warmth with a golden sheen. Each addition made the dish richer, more comforting, and I felt myself relax further with every bite.
I took a slow spoonful, savoring the blend of flavors and the soothing warmth that spread through me. For the first time in a long time, I felt something close to contentment. I thought, in that quiet moment, that I could eat this for the rest of my life and be happy.
“So, Caoimhe, wot stray have you brought in this time?” Odhran asked, his voice gruff as he shoveled another spoonful of porridge into his mouth.
Caoimhe shot him a sharp look, her words cutting yet softened by the hint of humor in her tone. “By the gods, Odhran, you could’ve a bett’r choice of words.”
I glanced between them, unsure whether to be offended or amused. The tension I’d felt earlier began to ebb as their easy familiarity played out before me. Their banter carried a warmth that suggested a bond deeper than surface irritation, a connection that was strangely reassuring.
Lowering my gaze, I returned to my bowl, the flavors seemed to deepen with every bite, comforting in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.
Caoimhe’s expression softened as she turned toward me, her warm smile full of quiet encouragement. “Now that you’ve had a good amount of sleep,” she said gently, “we can find out more about you.”
Her words sent a small ripple of unease through me, but her tone held no pressure, only kindness. I hesitated, the spoon pausing halfway to my mouth, before taking another bite. It seemed easier to focus on the meal in front of me than to think about what answers I might—or might not—have for her.
More about me. The phrase bounced around in my head, frantic and wild, like a bird trapped in a room. My grip on the spoon tightened as my hand slowly lowered it back to the bowl. More about me.
There was nothing about me.
I was nobody. I was nothing.
The thought took root, winding through me like a choking vine. What did I have except the clothes on my back and the few meager belongings in my knapsack? My chest tightened, and the room began to tilt and spin, the warm glow of the hearth and the soft candlelight growing distant and distorted.
Then, warmth. A gentle hand covered my clenched one, firm but kind, grounding me.
I blinked, my focus snapping to where her hand rested over mine. The spiraling chaos in my mind began to slow, the world coming back into focus piece by piece. The rough surface of the table beneath my other hand. The faint scrape of Odhran’s spoon against his empty bowl. The steady crackle of the fire.
Caoimhe’s eyes met mine, her smile soft and sad. It wasn’t pity—it was understanding, deep and unspoken. It was the smile of someone who had seen too much but still found ways to offer comfort. She knew. Somehow, she knew the weight of what I carried.
The lump in my throat rose so fast it hurt. I wanted to break, to sob, to crumble into the safety of her arms and let the dam burst. I wanted her to hold me, to tell me it was okay to feel this lost, this broken. But the tears stayed locked behind my eyes, my body too practiced in holding them back.
Instead, I let the warmth of her hand anchor me, my fingers slowly relaxing under her gentle touch. It wasn’t enough to make the ache go away, but it was enough to remind me I wasn’t entirely alone.
“Let’s start with your name.” Caoimhe’s calm voice cut through the lingering haze, steady and gentle. It was a lifeline, giving me a moment to collect myself, to breathe.
I nodded faintly, my gaze locked on her. I didn’t dare look at Odhran sitting at the other end of the table. His presence loomed like a shadow in the corner of my awareness, but I couldn’t face it—not now. Instead, I focused on Caoimhe. Her warm eyes, her patient smile, the unwavering kindness in her expression.
A name. I had a name.
The thought was like a tiny flame flickering to life in the darkness. A fragile reminder that I wasn’t nothing, even if I had felt like it moments before. My name was mine, a small but undeniable piece of who I was. It was proof that I existed. Proof that I was someone.
“My…my n-name…name is…is A-Azra,” I stuttered, the words tumbling out awkwardly, each one feeling heavier than the last. My voice wavered, but I forced myself to say it, to claim it.
“Didja hear that, Odhran? Her name is Azra. What’a beautiful name,” Caoimhe said, her voice warm and lilting. She turned to him with a smile, one that seemed to carry a meaning I couldn’t quite decipher. There was something unspoken in the way she looked at him, a familiarity that felt both comforting and strange to witness.
I hesitated, my gaze flicking nervously toward Odhran. He met my eyes, and to my surprise, his expression softened. A gentle smile spread across his face, one that seemed at odds with his earlier brusqueness.
The knot in my chest loosened, though only slightly. I wasn’t sure what to make of him yet, this man who seemed so rough around the edges but now looked at me with quiet kindness. His smile wasn’t as bright or open as Caoimhe’s, but it felt sincere, and that was enough to ease the edge of my wariness.
I ducked my head, staring back down at the bowl of porridge in front of me. “T-thank you,” I murmured, my voice barely louder than a whisper. The words felt clumsy in my mouth, but I meant them.
Caoimhe’s hand gave mine another gentle squeeze before letting go, her touch lingering like a thread of reassurance.
“We are happy to ‘ave ya, Azra.” Caoimhe’s words were gentle, but there was a weight to them, a sincerity that settled deep in my chest. Another look passed between her and Odhran, brief but unmistakable, and I couldn’t begin to understand its meaning.
A comfortable quiet settled over the three of us, broken only by the soft clink of spoons against bowls and the occasional creak of Odhran’s chair.
Odhran had long finished his porridge and now leaned back in his seat, twirling his spoon idly between his fingers. Every few moments, a glance passed between him and Caoimhe. It wasn’t sharp or tense, but it carried a silent language I couldn’t interpret. It left me wondering what tied them together and how I fit into their world.
I focused on my bowl, the last few bites warm and satisfying as they slid down. When I finished, I realized Caoimhe had emptied hers as well. She set her spoon down with a soft clink and let out a heaving sigh as she rose, gathering both her bowl and mine with practiced ease.
“Bring your bowl, Odhran,” she said over her shoulder as she moved to the washbasin. Her tone was light but firm, carrying an unspoken authority I suspected Odhran respected deeply. “It’s high time you left for the fields; they’ll be startin’ wi’out ya.”
Odhran chuckled softly, a sound as low and rumbling as distant thunder. He rose without complaint, picking up his bowl as instructed and bringing it to her. Before turning toward the door, he planted a quick kiss on her cheek, a gesture so natural and familiar it seemed woven into their daily routine.
I watched as he moved toward the door, grabbing a straw hat that hung beside my knapsack. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. Something about it struck me as curious—how this rough, quiet man and the gentle yet commanding Caoimhe existed in harmony, bound by something I couldn’t name.
As the door creaked open and Odhran stepped out into the morning light, a faint breeze drifted in, carrying the earthy scent of fields and fresh air. Caoimhe didn’t look back but busied herself at the washbasin, humming softly under her breath.
“I’ll be back this ev’nin’,” Odhran said as he stepped out the door, his voice carrying with the creak of the wooden frame. He left it open as he went, allowing a soft breeze to filter into the room, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and grass.
Caoimhe called out after him, her tone casual but affectionate. “Don’t be late, Odhran!”
Her voice lingered in the air as the door swung gently in the wind, and then she turned her attention to me. Drying her hands on her apron, she gave me a smile that felt like it could steady even the most frayed nerves.
“Well, Azra,” Caoimhe said with a bright smile, “le’me go ‘n’ grab my other bonnet, and then we’ll head out to the well.”
She disappeared into another room, the soft shuffle of her footsteps fading for a moment before returning. When she reappeared, she carried a small apron and bonnet in one hand, the fabric faded but clean and neatly folded. There was a surprising grace in the way she moved, her steps purposeful but light as she approached me.
“These be my daughter’s old things,” she said, setting them down on the table beside me. Her voice held a note of fondness as she spoke, the kind that comes with memories well-worn but cherished. “She’s got ‘er own fancy ones now from ‘er husband, but these’ll fit you right enough.”
Her words were simple, but the gesture felt far more significant. She wasn’t just offering me practical clothes—she was offering me a place, a connection, however small.
Caoimhe placed a gentle hand on my head, her touch steadying and full of quiet affection. “Let’s take care of your hair,” she said softly, her voice kind and reassuring, as though this small act was as important to her as it felt to me.
My hair had mostly come undone from the plait I’d hurriedly tied when I left Pelargir. Strands hung loose, brushing against my face and neck, a reminder of how long it had been since I’d cared for it properly. Caoimhe’s deft hands moved with practiced ease as she gathered it up, her touch gentle and comforting.
“Hold still now,” she murmured softly, her tone as soothing as her movements. With careful fingers, she wove my hair into a neat, plaited crown, tucking stray locks into place as she worked. Her hands were warm, a quiet reassurance I hadn’t known I needed.
When she finished, she gave me a soft pat on the shoulder and reached for the bonnet. Settling it snugly over my hair, she tied the stays beneath my chin, her touch light but firm. “There we are,” she said with a small smile. She helped me into the apron, tying it securely at the back, and then stepped back to take me in.
“Now yer ready,” she said with satisfaction, her smile widening just enough to make me feel steady again.
I followed her outside, stepping into the cool dew of the morning. The air was crisp and clean, carrying with it the faint, earthy scent of damp soil and grass. A few women were bustling out of their homes, calling after husbands and sons with hurried shouts of advice and final goodbyes. Their voices blended with the quiet sounds of a village waking, the ease of many mornings spent this way evident in their movements.
Mist still clung low to the ground, soft and ethereal, but the rising sun was already beginning to burn it away. Golden light streaked across the village, illuminating the simple rhythm of its life.
My feet still ached in my boots, the leather not yet broken into my feet, but I followed Caoimhe diligently toward the well. A boy I’d seen there yesterday was at his post again, his small frame straining as he hauled up the heavy bucket of water.
Was it really only yesterday morning that I’d walked into this town, uncertain and alone? Now, instead of watching from the outside, I was a part of the flow, following Caoimhe with my own bucket in hand, ready to fill it and take my place in this quiet, simple rhythm.
The other women shouted cheerful greetings to Caoimhe as we approached, their voices ringing out across the quiet morning. They paused only briefly to cast curious glances my way, their eyes lingering just long enough to make me feel exposed. I clutched the handle of my empty bucket tightly, unsure whether to smile or look away, and settled instead on keeping my gaze fixed on the ground ahead of me.
At the well, the little boy grunted with effort, his small frame straining as he hauled the heavy bucket up from the depths. His determination was met with encouraging murmurs from the women gathered nearby, their chatter momentarily hushed as they watched him work.
With a final heave, the bucket emerged, water sloshing over its edges. One of the women darted forward, catching the heavy pail and hauling it onto the well’s ledge with practiced ease. A chorus of cheers erupted, loud and boisterous, as if he’d achieved a great victory.
The boy straightened his back, his chest puffed with pride as he strutted around, basking in their approval. Their laughter echoed warmly, filled with genuine affection, and Caoimhe joined in, her laugh a light, musical sound that made me pause.
I stopped a few paces short of the group, watching quietly as they moved with an ease born of familiarity. Their interactions were fluid, every smile, laugh, and word of praise fitting together effortlessly, as though they had shared this routine countless times before.
It was a world I had only ever observed from a distance, and now, even standing on its edge, I felt both drawn in and hesitant to step fully into it.
Caoimhe glanced over her shoulder and smiled at me, a look of reassurance that made me feel just a little braver.
You could stay here, my traitorous mind whispered. No more walking. It would be safe.
The thought was as tempting as it was dangerous, and I let it linger, just for a moment. My mind drifted into a daydream of what the future might be like here. I imagined myself easing into the quiet rhythms of this little village, no longer an outsider but a part of its heart. I thought of my dream—the warmth of the garden, the safety it promised. I could almost smell the fresh-baked bread wafting through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the fields.
I pictured my scarred hands growing more worn, not from hardship but from honest work in a farmhouse of my own. Late nights by the fire, early mornings filled with purpose. I saw the glow of my own hearth, steady and unyielding. And then, a fragile hope—possibly a family. Laughter filling the rooms, hands reaching for mine, belonging.
Ungoránë.
His name struck like a lightning bolt, cutting through the softness of the daydream. My heart gave a little hiccup, and I ducked my head, the warmth of the imagined future dissolving into cold reality. I didn’t even know where I was, not truly. I wasn’t sure I could stay here. I was getting ahead of myself, letting myself fall into fantasies when I didn’t have that luxury.
The last letter I sent… I had told Ungoránë I would be in the city. There was a job waiting for me there, a chance at a new beginning. I couldn’t shun his kindness—not after everything he had done for me. He had gifted me this opportunity, the possibility of a new life. I owed it to him—and to myself—to take that chance.
I thought of our last conversation, sitting in the garden together. His calm voice, the way he looked at me as though I was someone worth listening to. I had only known him for a brief time, but the ache of missing him was undeniable. With him, I had felt safe in a way I hadn’t in years, perhaps ever.
My stomach twisted, a dull ache spreading through me as I clenched the front of my dress tightly in my hand. The daydreams slipped further away, leaving behind only the uncertainty of the path ahead.
“…Azra.”
The sound of my name pulled me sharply back to reality, cutting through the haze of my wandering thoughts. I blinked, realizing with a jolt that nearly every pair of eyes around the well was fixed on me. I had missed whatever was said before, but it wasn’t hard to guess. I was being introduced.
Shyness washed over me in a wave, cold and heavy. My instinct was to hang back, to make myself small and unnoticeable, but their gazes pinned me in place. Caoimhe turned to me with another of her warm, reassuring smiles. It helped—just a little—but the weight of the others’ stares was harder to shake.
Some of them smiled kindly, their curiosity tempered with cautious welcome. But there were others whose expressions were tighter, their eyes sharper. Suspicion flickered in their gazes, unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air: Where did she come from? Who is she? Is her name even the truth?
The accusations weren’t voiced, but I could see them plainly, hear them in the quiet judgment lingering on their faces. I could feel myself shrinking under their scrutiny, the edges of my vision starting to darken. My chest tightened, each breath shorter and more labored than the last. The panic was creeping in, pressing at the edges of my mind like a heavy fog.
My hand instinctively clenched the handle of the empty bucket, the rough wood grounding me for only a moment before the weight of their eyes threatened to crush me again. I wanted to speak, to say something—but the words stuck in my throat, frozen behind the knot of fear growing there.
Caoimhe stepped closer, her presence a steadying force. She didn’t say anything, didn’t rush me, but the warmth in her eyes was enough to cut through the haze just a little. Her subtle shift drew some of the attention away, breaking the sharpness of the moment, and I took a shaky breath, clinging to the fragile thread of calm she offered.
Caoimhe’s gentle smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of concern crossing her face. Then, with practiced ease, she smiled widely again and turned back to the others. She spoke, her words calm and fluid, though I no longer heard them. The rushing in my ears drowned out everything else, a deafening roar of panic that made it hard to breathe.
Their attention shifted from me to her, the weight of their stares lessening but not disappearing entirely. A few glances still darted my way, sharp and questioning. I could feel them, like pin pricks against my skin, even as I focused on the ground in front of me, willing myself to stay upright.
Then, gently, Caoimhe’s hands rested on my back. Her touch was steady and grounding, a quiet insistence that pulled me from the spiral threatening to consume me. With calm assurance, she began to steer me away from the well, her pace unhurried but deliberate, as though we had all the time in the world.
At some point, I must have dropped the bucket. It remained behind, unfilled and forgotten, a small casualty of my unraveling. The murmuring crowd faded into the background, their voices blending with the soft rustle of the morning breeze as we moved further away.
Each step we took eased the crushing weight in my chest just a little, enough for me to draw a shaky breath. But the heaviness lingered, a sharp reminder of how exposed I had felt under their scrutiny, how quickly the fragile calm I’d found could slip away.
Once we were back inside, I sank into the nearest chair, dazed and silent. My hands rested limply in my lap, the faint tremor still lingering in my fingers. Caoimhe moved around the kitchen with the same ease she’d shown the day before, her motions fluid and familiar, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
For a while, the only sounds were the soft clatter of dishes and the creak of floorboards beneath her feet. The quiet wasn’t oppressive, but it left too much space for my thoughts to run wild.
Finally, she spoke, her tone as steady as her movements. “I don’t know what happened to ya, lass,” she said, her words careful but certain, “but I’s keen to know fear when I see it.”
Her voice didn’t carry judgment—only understanding. She didn’t look at me as she continued her work, giving me space to process her words without the pressure of her gaze.
“You needn’t fear these folks,” she added gently. “They don’t mean ya any harm. They’re just curious, is all.”
Her words hung in the air, wrapping around me like a lifeline. I wanted to believe her, to let go of the gnawing tension in my chest, but the instinct to distrust was too deeply rooted. I glanced down at my hands, scarred and clenched, and tried to force them to relax.
Caoimhe didn’t push for a response, continuing her tasks as if we had all the time in the world. Her presence, steady and unshakable, was enough to keep the panic at bay, even if it couldn’t fully chase away the shadows.
A great tidal wave of emotion threatened to crash over me, pulling me under with its weight. My chest tightened, my throat constricting as I fought to keep it at bay. Not now. I swallowed hard, forcing the rising tide back, and took a slow, steady breath. One breath, then another, until the trembling in my hands began to ease.
When I felt that I could speak without my voice breaking, I said softly, “I am t-traveling to M-Minas T-Tirith.”
The words felt heavier than I expected, as though saying them aloud made them more real, more final. I dared a glance at Caoimhe. Her hands paused briefly in their work, her gaze flicking to me, thoughtful and quiet, before returning to her task. “That’s quite the journey for ya, lass, t’be all alone. It’s nearly a ten-day walk from here,” she said, her tone a mixture of concern and curiosity.
I nodded, my throat tightening under the weight of her words. The distance was daunting enough without the reminder of how truly alone I was. Still, I forced myself to respond, my voice hesitant still. “I…I h-have a p-position,” I began, my hands fidgeting with the edge of my dress. “To learn t-to…to be a s-seamstress.”
She turned to me now, her expression softened, and a small smile touched her lips as she studied me. “A seamstress, is it? That’s good work, lass. Honest work.” She paused, her gaze thoughtful. “Though I reckon you’ve got a fair bit o’ grit t’be makin’ such a journey for it.”
Her words caught me off guard, the hint of pride in her tone unfamiliar but strangely comforting. I nodded again, unsure how to respond, and looked down at my lap, my fingers twisting the fabric of my dress as I fought to steady my breath.
“A noble position, to be sure…” Caoimhe said, her voice kind but probing as she moved to the table, settling into a chair across from me with a deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving mine. “But don’tcha think there be positions for ya in Pelargir?”
Her question hung in the air, soft but pointed, and I felt the weight of it settle over me. My hands stilled in my lap, the fabric of my dress still bunched between my fingers.
I shook my head, my vision blurring slightly as I fought to find the words. “I…” My voice broke, and I swallowed hard, willing the bile in my throat to stay down. “There was n-nothing,” I finally managed, the words barely above a whisper.
Caoimhe nodded slowly, her face soft with understanding. She didn’t ask more, and for that, I was grateful. “Well,” she said gently, breaking the silence, “le’me speak with Odhran this evenin’. We’ve got some supplies to trade in Arnach, and he was plannin’ on takin’ the wagon with wee Branigan to help ‘im.” She paused, studying me carefully before continuing. “If ye plan on goin’ on to the city, lass, Odhran can at least get’cha that much closer.”
Her words settled over me like a balm, the kindness in them threatening to undo me entirely. Tears sprang to my eyes before I could stop them, and I blinked rapidly, trying to keep them at bay. “You’re all being so k-kind to m-me,” I choked out, my voice trembling.
Caoimhe reached out without hesitation, her work-worn hand finding mine. She gave it a firm, reassuring squeeze, her grip steady and unwavering. “We’ve no reason not to be, lass,” she said softly, her voice full of warmth.
And that was it. The dam broke.
The sobs came fast and heavy, shaking my entire frame as the tears poured out. I cried into her shoulder, clutching at the fabric of her dress as though it could anchor me, keep me from falling apart entirely. I cried for the family I didn’t have, for the mother I never got to know, for the father who had cast me aside. I cried for the loneliness that had followed me, unrelenting, for so long.
Caoimhe said nothing, just held me close, her presence a steadying force against the tide of grief and pain that had finally spilled over. For the first time in what felt like forever, I let it all out, safe in the knowledge that she would not judge me, that she wouldn’t let go.
When I finally managed to pull myself together, Caoimhe dried my face with the edge of her apron. Her touch was gentle, her movements unhurried, as if there was no rush for me to regain my composure. Once she was satisfied, she gave me a kind smile and stood.
The rest of the day passed in quiet, purposeful work around the farmhouse. Caoimhe led the way, her steady presence guiding me through the tasks as if I’d been part of her life for years. She showed me how to make dough for bread, her hands moving deftly as she explained the process. “Ye want t’knead it just enough so it rises nice ‘n’ light,” she said, her tone patient as I clumsily mirrored her movements.
She pointed to the bundles of dried herbs hanging from the mantel, naming each one with the ease of someone who’d grown up knowing them. “This ‘ere’s rosemary—ye’ll find it wild along the hillsides. An’ this one, thyme—real good fer soups.” She didn’t just name them; she told me where to find them, how to use them, and what they could do.
All the while, she didn’t ask me any more questions. She simply talked, her voice a gentle rhythm that filled the spaces between us. Her stories ranged from the practical—how to keep dough from sticking, where the best berries grew—to little anecdotes about the village and its people.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of expectation was gone. I wasn’t being pressed for answers I didn’t have or judged for the ones I did. Caoimhe’s words filled the silence in a way that felt natural, comforting, and as the hours passed, I found myself listening more closely, the tension in my shoulders easing bit by bit.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and amber, the door creaked open, and Odhran stepped inside. The scent of earth and hay clung to him, mingling with the warmth of the kitchen. He was greeted with a kiss from Caoimhe, her hands resting briefly on his shoulders as they exchanged soft words about the day and the harvest.
Their voices blended into the homely rhythm of the evening, grounding the space with an ease I admired but didn’t fully understand. As they spoke, the stew simmered gently on the hearth, its rich aroma filling the room and mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread cooling on the table.
We sat down together to share the meal, the table laden with simple but abundant fare. The stew was hearty, packed with fresh vegetables I had helped peel and chop under Caoimhe’s careful guidance. The bread, golden and soft, was my first attempt at making dough, and the pride I felt seeing it on the table was almost as satisfying as the smell of it.
As I tasted the meal, warmth blossomed in my chest. It wasn’t just the delicious food or the effort I’d put into making it—it was the sense of being part of something, however briefly. I felt proud of what I had accomplished, but more than that, I felt included, as though I had carved out a small space for myself in their world.
The conversation around the table flowed easily, and though I mostly listened, their laughter and words drew me in. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like an outsider.
After dinner, the quiet of the evening settled over the farmhouse like a comforting blanket. Caoimhe retrieved a sewing basket from its place by the hearth and set to work repairing a pair of Odhran’s trousers, her needle glinting faintly in the candlelight. Odhran sat nearby, a whetstone in hand as he carefully sharpened a scythe, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone blending with the crackle of the fire.
The calm was palpable, wrapping around us like the warmth of the hearth. I felt at ease here, more so than I had in a very long time. My gaze lingered on the scene, committing it to memory—the steady hum of shared purpose, the unspoken bond between two people who had carved out a life together. I didn’t want to forget this feeling.
For once, I felt wanted. Welcomed.
The thought stirred something deep within me, and my mind drifted to Ungoránë. I realized, with a small jolt, that I wanted to write to him. I wanted to share this fleeting sense of peace, to let him know how his kindness had given me the chance to experience something like this.
With quiet purpose, I unfolded my writing bundle at the table, the candlelight casting soft shadows across the parchment. I dipped my pen into the ink, hesitating for a moment as I tapped it gently against my chin. What could I say? How could I capture this moment—the calm, the warmth, the faint, fragile hope blooming within me?
I closed my eyes, breathing in the scents of bread and stew still lingering in the air, and began to write.
Ungoránë,
It has been nearly three days since I left Pelargir. I am embarrassed to tell you how severely unequipped I found myself.
I paused, the quill hovering over the parchment as doubt crept in. Would Ungoránë be disappointed in me? The thought struck like a stone, heavy and cold in my chest. I hadn’t waited for his response before leaving Pelargir, too eager—or perhaps too scared—to delay my journey.
My hand drifted to my stomach, where my money belts were still securely wrapped, filled with the coins he had entrusted to me. He had given me so much—more than I could have asked for, more than I could repay. What if he regretted that moment of generosity? What if, upon reading this letter, he saw me as ungrateful or foolish?
The doubts swirled, louder and heavier, until the ache in my chest became unbearable. I shook my head, willing the thoughts away, and carefully folded the parchment. The ink had barely dried, but I found myself wrapping my writing things back into their bundle, as if closing them away might quiet my mind.
I couldn’t be sure of how he would feel when he saw me again, but I could only hope—hope that he would be pleased, hope that his kindness had not been misplaced.
With the bundle safely secured, I leaned back in my chair, staring into the flickering light of the candle. My heart felt heavy, but beneath the weight, a fragile thread of determination remained. I would press forward, and perhaps, when I reached Minas Tirith, I would find my answers.