[littlemanpoet]

Ædegard awoke. He had dreamed, but could not remember anything from them. He sat up. The fire was low in the grate. He looked around. Marigold was not in. Everyone else was still asleep. He rose from his makeshift bed and stretched, keeping quiet so as not to rouse the others. He carefully made his way through the tangle of sleepers and opened the door. He stopped cold.

It was cold! And white. Snowflakes were falling on a mild breeze. The first snow of winter. He went back inside and put on his coat, then went outside and closed the door behind him, walking up the gentle slope leading from the cottage and away from the marsh. His booted feet left tracks in the deepening snow, so far up to his ankles.

He heard a muffled noise, not unlike noises he had heard in the craftsmen's huts in Edoras. He followed the noise and after a little while, found Erebemlin and Taitheneb laboring over a growing hole in the ground, shovels in their hands.

"Good morning!" Ædegard said. "Where is Marigold?"

"Yonder," Erebemlin said, nodding west with his head.

Ædegard made his way in the direction the Elf had indicated, and soon came upon the lone figure of Marigold, her back to him and her arms raised to the air as if directing the very winds and snow through the air. He stopped and watched. Her movements seemed less fluid this morning, and she seemed bulkier and heavier. She turned and faced him. Hers was now the face of the old woman, her cheeks as bright red as apples.

"Good morning!" she said. "Let us go in and wake the others and make breakfast."