Godric was always easiest for her to picture, because she knew he had black hair and gray eyes - black, which was her life, and gray, which was a lightening of it; she remembered light well enough to imagine gray. From there he was a faint image of an angelic smile //in his voice though she couldn't see it// but more the touch of callused hands on her arm and the always sharp but usually not pungent smell of potions.
Potions she knew only by smell, and that vaguely. Blindness was too great a weakness when touch, taste and hearing were useless or outright dangerous - so Godric said. He was kind when he said it, and kind when he barred her from the brewing rooms whilst unaccompanied. Godric knew what it was like to be forbidden things for a defect. So she didn't go to the brewing rooms, but only listened to Godric when he showed up manic and sleepless outside her door //he wasn't really supposed to do that, and she wasn't supposed to let him in, but they both did it anyway// and started talking about dragonfly wings and eye of newt and water which didn't boil when it should, and maybe it didn't because of tiny bits (he didn't know what to call them yet) inside the wormwood, which stopped it, just like hensbane did in the sleeping brew that the old saxons had liked to use, and - //"rowena, are you all right? ... she's fallen asleep."//
When she woke the next day she would think of Godric's words and thread them together on strings which made little webs like gossamer - or what she thought it was like, anyway. It had been twenty years since the last cobweb.