I have been alone for a very long time, and yet I have never been alone.
Always, there has been Cybryn, Arugru and Minalmano. This was enough, or so I believed. My son, my faithful hound and my chatty crow. Ever was there something to do, whether it be gathering herbs for making poultices, teaching my child his letters or the ways of his ancestors, walking with my animal companions, putting to use my skills as a tailor in order to acquire a little more coin on which to live, or healing those in need in body or mind.
It was enough, and I was content.
Then, seemingly from the ether, there returned to me a man I had once known, a man I believed long dead. He proved to be of flesh and blood, and though dark the path he had so often wandered, he had finally set foot again within the light.
I worried, at first, that he would disappear again. Had he not done so before? A few short months in the warmth and he had chosen to slip away into the cold. Would he break my heart yet again, speaking soft words of laying down his arms and armour, of beginning a new life, only to turn his back upon it all and leave me hopeless and afraid for him?
It may yet happen.
History suggests that I should ward myself against this possibility. Experience tells me that I should have turned away, let him melt back into the shadows that he has forever called his home.
But Hope bade me give him another chance. Forgiveness bade me not turn my back. Love bade me accept him with arms and heart open.
These three things, the foundation of the woman I chose to become and the way in which I conduct every aspect of my life, are greater than any fear that may yet remain for him, of him, because of him. Thus, I have welcomed him home and for as long as he stays, I will be here for him and with him, unguarded, unfettered by the past and with an eye to both the present and the future.
To see him smile so freely now, to hear his soft, low laughter, it is a balm to a wound that I never knew I possessed.
He has asked that I give him the gift of a family name. Never before has he had one, and he wishes to fit in a little more with the people here. He wishes for that name to be held by our son, that the boy might be considered more "normal" as well. This is important to him.
I understand the convention; it is little different to the tribes from which I hail. Each tribe has a shared moniker by which to show their allegiance and their belonging. The surnames of Bree serve much the same purpose, though on a more intimate scale. "This is my tribe," they say. "This singular bloodline is my people."
I see little need for it. We know who we are. We know where we belong, and to whom. But some things are not about need. Some things are about want and that, too, has its significance.
And so, I turn my thoughts to a name he might comfortably wear for his own. He is, he believes, of Bree-land stock, despite being rather more tall than the locals. If he is or is not, I cannot tell, though I do harbour a mild suspicion as to potential Gondorian ancestry. Those men are tall indeed. But it is not Gondor, or anywhere else, that he comes back to time and again. It is here. It is Bree. This is where his heart lies. This is where he chooses to make his home.
However, I find the traditions for naming here to be rather more frivolous than would suit him. They are frilly and soft around the edges, too concerned with herbs and flowers. Although he has always been gentle with me, I sincerely doubt a man of his heart would wish to be forever associated with Baby's Breath or Calendula. But I have not forgotten that this name will be bestowed, also, upon our beloved child who, too, will wear it going forward. I have, therefore, enlisted his aid, though perhaps the input of a nine-year old is not quite so useful as one might have hoped.
Suggestions such as "Dogsbutt," and "Groinroot" lead me to wonder if apprenticing him to a blacksmith so soon was not, in fact, a poor choice on my part. I may have to have words with the man concerning his manner of speech in the presence of my son.
Consideration continues, amidst bouts of joy and a growing togetherness. Cyfier now is much more forthcoming than once he was, and rather more affectionate too. Yestereve, we swam in the lake small lake of Wolfhaven, and although, at first, I felt nervous and exposed, anxious that someone might peer out of their window and see me, my scars and tattoos bared, his presence soon washed away those misgivings.
As always, in his arms, by his side, I was safe.
