In most respects, the fletcher's apprentice was like the other village girls: not very pretty, and not very clean. She had the same garb, with a scarf on her head when the weather was cold and dirt clinging to her neck and ankles. She smiled broadly and had all her teeth, but her jaw was hard and hair dismally limp. She was not much of an apprentice for she did more work than the grumbling fletcher, but she was young and gave him that purported honor.
Only when a person drew closer could certain differences be noted. Talking to the girl was an unnerving venture, for her hands kept flying like the arrows and she forgot to meet a person's gaze. Her eyes were more than simply blind. Raised scars clung to her faint temples, and all the color had been ruined.
I knew her brother, but my path towards her I could never trace. I spoke often with the fletcher when we came through town, but when he sniffed and farted and hobbled inside, I would stay. I don't know why I sat with her at first. Maybe it was pity, or maybe it was more like desperate hope. I loved her sister in a distant time, and from some paces back they looked alike. Parîel was a rare one, beautiful where most were not, but my brother had her and I could grudge him that. That had been my fault, truly.
I liked to hear the young girl's talk. I did not want to listen, but that was unavoidable. I just liked her voice, though it seems a foolish thing to say. She would not interrupt with the liar's tales that held the village children captive, but she would listen and beg for stories when I had none to tell. That row of houses was starved for conversation, and the silence of wretched Polm Navurnnîon must have been a tiring burden.
I brought her flowers from the fields, and laughed and called them day's eyes. She tilted her head to smile and wore them like a wreath. I left more among the feathers for her to find. It seemed the kindest thing to do. Some days she would crush them with a careless palm if I left too quietly, and then her face would crumple and I'd dare to guess a tear as she cupped a ruined blossom. She'd shake her head for the birds, however, and go about her business with a passive front. I'd bring another when I could, sometimes red, and later yellow when seasons changed.
I could do little for her in the winters, though she still had her stories and the tales of village life. I knew the characters from when I lived here, and she knew the current gossip. I would spot her fingers freezing blue and white while she fumbled with the cords, refusing to leave the bench while I was there. She let me warm them once, and I nearly kissed them for there was no chance she would feel the touch. I would bid her escape the cold, but I had no leave to enter the fletcher's house, so she would not go.
"'Tis dark inside," she would say, and for a moment you'd believe her until the snowshine reflected in her eyes and I remembered.
Polm eventually ushered all inside where he'd order her to find a blanket and then drape the quilt across her shoulders like a good master was required. He'd fix me with a stony stare and I would quickly leave with my regrets.
The summers were a better time for us both, though my company would stray farther North and months could pass before I slipped back for supplies. Báldan would hand me trinkets to deliver to his sister, and I would add my own and claim they were from him. I know it pained him to see her, and though silence around the campfires told much of him, I could never press my dearest friend. Fîriel was a favorite for us both, but as I felt myself drawing closer, he shied away from every trip to town. Strange thoughts began to enter my mind as I would lie awake and often troubled, and he kept my confidences in quiet check.