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The house was quiet, which was nothing new, but Goldwyn still struggled to resign herself to that fact, even after all these years. Her steps were heavy as she moved through the cottage, a small candle in her hand to light the way. She grabbed her shawl from a nearby chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. Winter was approaching, and the nights had grown cool as of late.
She left the candle near the door before leaving her home. Middlemead slept as she walked through the town, silent as a ghost. Clouds obscured the stars overhead, but Goldwyn had long since stopped finding comfort in those celestial bodies, so it mattered little to her whether or not she could see them. She wrapped the shawl tighter around herself as she veered off the main path toward the woods that bordered her home.
It was a short walk, and one she had navigated countless times. Even without a light source, Goldwyn could find her way to the final resting place of her husband.
Léodan had been buried beneath a tree — the very one where he had asked for Goldwyn's hand so many years ago. A small stone with his name carved into it had been placed at the roots, and Goldwyn knelt to brush the leaves off it. Her calloused fingers traced the lettering reverently, as if it was something sacred, and to her, it was.
She sunk further into the grass and released a breath that spoke of bone weariness. "I know you would chastise me about coming out here at this time," she whispered. "I was always telling Éothel that she could not wander around in the dark, for dangers could lurk beyond her sight. Now look at me... alone on the edge of town without even a tool to defend myself."
She chuckled softly. "I am sure our daughter would be mighty upset at my hypocrisy. I think I could handle her ill-mood. No, I know I could. Though, frankly, I would not care whether her mood was good or bad, so long as she was here.
"It has been eight years now since she left, and yet it has felt like a lifetime since I last saw her... last saw you. I do not think I could even find it within myself to be angry at Éothel if she ever returned. I would want to be. I would want to yell at her for scaring me all of these years, for leaving without even saying goodbye. But, as a mother, I believe I would only feel relief to know that my sweet girl had finally come back to me. I know she is not dead. It is a certainty unlike any other. I would have felt it if something had befallen her.
"But I..." Goldwyn's voice stuttered, her throat tightening. "I do not know where she is. I do not know what paths she has treaded or where her roads have led her. It hurts, Léodan, to know that there are aspects of Éothel's life that are forever lost to me. I fear that her path will never lead back here, and in my mind, she will forever be that seventeen-year-old girl who wept in her room thinking I could not hear her."
Goldwyn pressed her hand to her eyes. "The house is so silent, Léodan. It claws at my mind, and I cannot bear it any longer. What am I supposed to do, love?" Her voice broke on the final word, and Goldwyn curled up on her side, her head touching the gravestone. Her fingers twisted in the blades of grass, and if she delved into her mind enough, she could pretend it was Léodan's tunic she was grasping.
"I do not believe I can stay here, but I also do not have the heart to leave," she whispered, tears slipping from her cheeks and soaking into the ground. "I cannot abandon you here, buried beneath the dirt, alone. And so I stay, but I think it may be killing me."
Grief had consumed her soul ever since Éothel came dragging Léodan's body back to the town. Her days had grown dull, then those days morphed into weeks, months, years. The air held no warmth for her anymore, and the trees stopped speaking to her. There were rare days when Goldwyn awoke and felt some semblance of what her life was like. When she could get out of bed and move throughout the world like she did not carry it on her shoulders.
But then the next day would arrive, and she would remember that the relief was only a passing thing. She was destined to feel this terrible sorrow forever, she thought.
Goldwyn did not want to speak anymore, did not want to burden her husband's resting place with her miseries. She remained curled there, and slowly, exhaustion took over. As she slipped into a light sleep, a breeze brushed over her, and it felt like Léodan wrapping his arms around her. She clung to the sensation desperately, and sleep claimed her.