Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Fire and Ice (#3253)
Author: NeumeIndil
Chapters: 6

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings (Movieverse)
Description: A plentiful harvest season has led Morwen and the rest of the inhabitants of the Dragon's Hoard into a bitterly cold, bleak winter. While snow rumbles down the mountains in the distance, trouble brews along side the ale behind the tavern's doors. The next part of [u]Nights in Rohan[/u]. Special thanks to Binka for the beta work. You've saved my sanity again! Nominated for: The 2007 My Precious Awards by {someone who will be thanked here if he or she lets me know}! & The 2007 Middle Earth Fiction Awards by Robinka! Many thanks, my friend.
Published: 10 Jan 2007
Updated: 01 Jun 2007
Warnings: Bad language, sexual situations, adult subject mat
Type: Drama
Characters: Morwen, Gamling, Hama, Folcwyn (OFC)


Chapter 1 - Spark to Flame

Morwen never quite fooled herself into thinking winter could be pleasant, and she was correct. It wasn’t. The season started out nicely enough with a blanketing of crisp snow that Morwen couldn’t help but enjoy. It felt, in a way, like an anniversary, and in the days following the storm she wandered through the Dragon’s Hoard with a cheerful smile. The other women felt differently about the weather of course and that animosity only grew as storm after raging storm pelted the Mark, interspersed with brief warm periods before storm clouds rolled in again. The resulting accumulation of snow was layered with ice, and Morwen saw for the first time beautiful but treacherous avalanches sweeping down the slopes of the White Mountains far in the distance. The distant rumble sometimes woke her in the night, a sound reminiscent of carts rolling over the docks near her childhood home. By Súlime, even Morwen was tired of wearing every shift she owned and two layers of stockings to try to stay warm. Enough was enough. Something, somewhere had to give, to relieve the monotony of day after day trapped inside the tavern looking out of frosted windows onto a world turned hard, glistening white. There were no snowball fights that winter, no joyful tumbles through snow banks. There was, however, Gamling.

The fiery-headed Doorwarden seemed to be one of the only people in all of Edoras unaffected by the ice and chill. Many nights he braved the slick paths to and from the tavern to see Morwen and any pretense of hiding his attachment to her went up the chimney with the smoke. Customers were few and news of the further reaches of the Mark bleak, so Walda said nothing about the arrangement, though Folcwyn’s disapproving glances said enough for the both of them. Gamling seemed oblivious to their displeasure and Morwen chose to ignore their concerns entirely, finding some small comfort in denial during those times when lack of work let her mind settle on worries for the future.

The other bright spot in an otherwise dark season were the twins and their antics, their new dresses points of vivid color in an otherwise dim room while they served tables and chattered. Blithe’s aversion to whoring abated very little, if at all, though the Prince was her only repeat visitor. The arrangement seemed fine with Blithe and Théodred was never refused, but if anyone else thought to try it, Bliss was quick to distract them and allow her sister a chance to escape. The other twin brought in enough coin to keep both girls and even tried to pay Morwen for their clothing, but the older woman refused.

“I have enough, child. You should learn to accept kindness when you get it. It comes rarely in places like these.”

“I don’t believe you,” Bliss replied. “You’re all the nicest people I’ve ever met. Well, except maybe Dreame.”

This last was whispered in Morwen’s ear while Bliss pulled a comb through Morwen’s hair and snipped off the damaged ends. Blithe seemed to know her sister’s mind and giggled across the kitchen but Morwen only stifled a smile. Yet another problem, of course, was the surly little blonde woman who had made it her personal mission to see that everyone else was as miserable as she was as often as possible. Walda wasn’t the striking type, but watching him deal with Dreame’s constant whining and complaints, Morwen was convinced there were days the old man would enjoy backhanding her across the mouth before she could actually speak. Morwen was also convinced that she’d be willing to do the striking if Walda couldn’t. More doors were slammed and dishes broken because of that woman than any whore Morwen had ever worked with. How she stayed employed was truly a mystery. The greatest problem, though, came from Folcwyn.

One night in mid-Súlime, Gamling wasn’t alone when he ducked through the door to the Dragon’s Hoard. Háma stood behind him shaking snow from his cloak and hair as the door drifted closed. Morwen greeted them both and approached the table with tankards, failing to notice the gleeful look on Folcwyn’s chubby face. If Gamling noticed he said nothing and Háma seemed distinctly not himself. He was still as civil as he’d ever been to Morwen, cool yet respectful, but something caused creases in his brow and around his eyes. A few minutes into their stay Morwen realized that Gamling, too, was worried about something, most likely his friend. Shortly after that, she noticed Folcwyn also kept an eye on the door guards’ table with a look rather like the cat that swallowed the cream.

“If you need aught else, you know where to find me,” Morwen said with a wink in Gamling’s direction, dedicated to the last to the character she played in the tavern’s common area. Gamling smirked at the gleam in her eyes but went back to his drink just as quickly. He’d chosen the Dragon’s Hoard for a specific purpose. The service was reliable, the food passing good and the ale excellent, but due to its location and the political leanings of its proprietor, there were few chances of Gríma’s henchmen causing distractions. Though he was always glad to see Morwen’s smiling face, tonight his focus was on Háma.

Whatever was bothering Háma, he didn’t seem willing to discuss it. So much for the idea of a nice ale or two to get him talking, Gamling thought. He knew the winter was wearing on his friend, it wore on everyone some way or another, but months had passed with no indication of why. It seemed to Gamling that the problem lay at home for, though Gríma’s suspicious behavior worried them all, it was a plague the guards had almost grown used to. Certainly nothing of Gamling’s own doing could be responsible for it: he’d hardly been around them since spring. While invitations had never been needed for Gamling to visit Háma’s family, something other than Morwen had been keeping him away. There was always a sense of falseness in the house whenever Gamling visited. Haleth seemed tired- more tired than a lad of eleven should be- and always busy with something, hauling wood, bringing water, tending the fire. Feanreth, too, was not herself and clung to him tenaciously through his entire visit. If there was something the lass wished to tell him, Gamling couldn’t puzzle it out, but neither could he find the child at a time when her mother or father weren’t present and any chance for discussion ruined.

To say that Háma’s wife Fyrene was not herself would be an understatement. Gamling couldn’t recall the last time she’d told him more than he’d ever wanted to know about local widows and merchant’s daughters ready for marriage or tsk-tsked at a pulled seam he hadn’t taken time to fix. During his few brief visits that winter, Fyrene had been quiet, withdrawn, not inhospitable exactly, but… perhaps it was simply how used to a warm reception he’d gotten from his evenings in the tavern. It was very nice to earn a smile simply for walking through the door. Perhaps he’d begun taking such things for granted, but sitting around supposing would gather no answers. Asking questions probably would, but would those answers address the question fully? Honesty Gamling knew to count on, but full disclosure was something else entirely. That, he knew, was unlikely unless Háma had more than just a few ales. It could turn out to be an expensive evening.

Watching Gamling and Háma drink, Morwen wondered if men knew how transparent they could be. There they sat, Gamling watching the room, Háma watching the door, shifting like restless cats, but neither of them actually speaking. Half a moment’s observation told the story: Gamling waited for his friend to talk while Háma remained lost in thought, content with the anonymity offered by the racket of the tavern and the noise within his own head. The options left to Morwen in this situation were few. Bombarding the man with questions would snap him shut tighter than an oyster, trapping the pearl within. Distracting Gamling would let the problem fester even longer. The only reasonable option- though, truly, staying out of it was the safest route- was to see that Háma had a full tankard and Gamling’s attention at all times.

“You’re hogging the good customers again, Morwen,” Folcwyn whispered somewhat bitterly.

“I’m seein’ to who needs attention, just like always,” Morwen replied as she hoisted herself into a seat near the bar.

“Then why do you dash off every time Gamling puts that tankard on the table but half-ignore the others unless you’re on your way back, hmm? He was just here two nights ago. You can’t be that lonely.”

“Oh I’m not lonely,” she replied, thinking quickly over what to say to the blonde watching her so intently. “But someone is, and I’m not about to leave him cold and suffering.”

“Then you just leave Háma be,” Folcwyn spat. “If there’s ever been a night to have a go, this is it, and I intend to take a chance on it.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Rose said quietly. “Look at the man; he’s got his mind on something a hundred leagues from here. You won’t get noplace with him.”

“Ain’t no harm in tryin’ is there?” Folcwyn retorted. “It’s what I’m best at, after all.”

“I thought youngsters were your specialty?” Morwen asked, hoping to get Folcwyn talking about past customers. There really was nothing she liked better than awkward teenaged boys in need of instruction, but this time Folcwyn didn’t take the bait.

“Lyin’ in my back’s my specialty regardless of who else’s there,” she answered. “Though I’m hopin’ to get at least one redhead out of his bottoms before the night’s out. Best watch close, Morwen,” Folcwyn teased, “I might give ‘em a two for one.”

Morwen snorted, “You could try.” Folcwyn took the remark as a challenge.

“Think you I won’t?”

“Try or succeed?” Morwen asked, still laughing. “I’ve no doubt you’ll try, but I have every doubt you’ll succeed. Not with those two. Not tonight.”

“Yes I forgot you’re an expert on Gamling,” Folcwyn retorted.

“I’m fairly certain if he’d wanted to bed you, he’d have done so before now—”

“What makes you think he hasn’t?” Folcwyn interrupted, but Morwen simply spoke over her.

“—but I primarily meant Háma. Look at the man, Folcwyn; look at him carefully. Does he look like a man in need of a tumble?”

As she spoke Morwen and Rose turned toward the men in question, studying Háma without actually staring. A moment later Folcwyn appraised him openly.

“He definitely looks like a man in need of a whore,” she said quietly. “Hasn’t been properly bedded in a month of blue moons. Look at how he’s sitting, all hunched in on himself, not lookin’ at nobody. He needs to relax.”

“He needs to get a weight off his chest,” Rose replied, not entirely kindly. “Maybe a lass’d help, but someone to get him talkin’ would probably do more regardless. It’s as plain as the nose on my face.”

“It’s not your nose that lad in the corner’s looking at,” Morwen muttered as she gestured across the common room. “Think you’d best grab a pitcher and push the girls up a bit. He’s been studying you for a while now.”

“What girls?” Rose joked looking down at her relatively flat chest, but she loosened the top of her bodice anyway before she wandered toward the man in the corner. With that interruption the topic was dropped, but only for a while. A scant hour passed before Folcwyn started circling the table with a knowing smile on her face. There was little Morwen could do but watch and shake her head, but Folcwyn ignored her displeasure as well as Morwen had ignored Folcwyn’s disapproval of her time with Gamling. Soon enough circling became joining, nestled against Háma’s side. After a moment to make sure neither of the men was pleased with Folcwyn’s presence, Morwen filled a pitcher and wandered in their direction.

“Cold enough to freeze the balls off a stone stallion out there lately,” Folcwyn was saying as Morwen approached. “Bet a warm bed’d feel good on a night like tonight.”

“It will,” Háma replied. “I’ve a family at home. I’m just here for a drink.”

“Oh now,” Folcwyn purred, “you’ll miss all the fun we could have if you leave too soon.” Her comment was met with stark silence, though the look Gamling shot her crackled with irritation. Morwen laid a hand on his arm with an apology in her eyes, but Folcwyn kept on, moving the conversation almost entirely on her own and fighting every moment to engage someone else. It didn’t work and finally she rose, pattering off in a huff.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” Morwen muttered as her friend walked away. “She’s not been herself since autumn.”

“She’s gone now,” Háma said with a weak smile. “No harm done.”

Gamling humphed in reply but said no more and Morwen left the table again though she stayed within easy hailing distance, just in case. Thankfully a blacksmith came in a few minutes later and wasted no time with ale, but picked Folcwyn by virtue of her womanly gifts and took her straight upstairs. Morwen breathed a sigh of relief that the big, burly man hadn’t wanted her attentions- Gamling wouldn’t have tolerated that for a second this night- and kept an ear tuned toward the stairs incase there came to be a difficulty. On the contrary, though, the happenings abovestairs seemed anything but unpleasant and, since the tavern was fairly empty, more than the usual amount of noise drifted down through the floorboards. Strangely enough as Morwen watched, Háma’s face changed, and the longer the squeaks and groans continued, the darker his expression grew. If Gamling noticed the shift, he said nothing, but all signs of drinking stopped. Stillness fell over their table, an unsettling counterpoint to the racket from above. As the sounds of Folcwyn’s activities crescendoed, Háma set aside his tankard and stared grimly out the window. His reflection mirrored his disgust back at him and finally one freckled fist thumped down on the table, rattling their tankards and sending the wooden candlestick onto its side. As Morwen hurried over to right the candle and wipe the table she heard him muttering beneath his breath.

“What’s that, milord?” she asked, but stopped mid-wipe when she made out his words.

“Filthy fucking whore.”

“What?” Gamling growled, fixing his friend with a stare that could have melted ice.

“Thinks I’d roll in her filthy sheets when I’ve a wife at home waiting for me. Half-witted bitch.” Morwen refilled Háma’s tankard and slid it across the dampened table, then laid a finger across her lips and shook her head at Gamling. Apparently the dam on Háma’s tongue had broken, or was about to, and she sat quietly on the corner of Gamling’s bench while the Doorwarden stared into space again. “I’ve a son to look after, and two daughters, two beautiful daughters. I’ll not let market gossip tell them their father’s no better than a whoremonger. They deserve better than that. And she…”

After a moment’s silence Háma reached for his tankard again and drained half of it in one go. Morwen and Gamling sat quietly, waiting, hoping he would say something more that would help them understand. Instead he finished his drink and waited while Morwen poured more. A few more drinks, he decided, and he would go home to the children. Odd, he realized then, that he went home to his whole family, but thought only of the children, probably because most of his worries lay with them. Between household chores and the weather, the children had precious little time for anything more than sleep, not even a simple snowball fight or stories before the fire at night. Haleth did most of the heavy work around their little home simply because he was the only male there. That burden was only heavier in winter, even though Feanreth had taken so much of Fyrene’s work on herself. Fyrene still fed little Gytha; she must, for the child thrived, but it seemed she hardly ever left the bed otherwise, day or night, and left the children to their own devices. She certainly made it clear that she had no further use for Háma, regardless of what he did or didn’t do, but this was one of his few times away from both the duties of work and those of family. He should enjoy it while he could. And yet, that bloody whore and her insinuations, her fingernails tracing the edges of his mail beneath the table, had done something, reminded him of something. The warmth, the desire he’d always felt for Fyrene- the same longing he saw stamped on Gamling’s face whenever Morwen walked past- was still there, he felt it still in his heart, in his gut. But when had his wife, the fiery girl he’d spent two years chasing after and dreaming of before she finally came to him, become someone else? As the thumping and shouts from the bedrooms finally quieted, Háma spoke again.

“What did I do?” he asked the air, staring at something only he saw. “How do I…?”

“You insulted Morwen if that’s what you mean,” Gamling growled, but Morwen waved the thought away. Somewhere in a dim corner of her mind she retained a bit of gossip from months past. “That wife of his… wanted a boy, got a girl…”

“No, not that. It’s… is it trouble at home Háma?” she asked.

“Aye,” he replied. “The winter, I guess. The weather’s hard on all of us this year.”

“I can come by—” Gamling started, but broke off when Háma interrupted.

“No, we’ll manage. Thanks.”

“It’d be no trouble,” he tried again, relieved to have finally heard Háma name the source of the problem.

“We’ll manage.” After another awkward silence fell, Morwen stood to leave, but Háma reached for her arm before she’d gone very far. “I didn’t mean you,” he said softly. “Truth be told I rather like you. You’re good for him. I apologize for… what I said.”

“Think naught of it,” Morwen replied. “It’s nothing.” She kept a reminder that Gamling had been insulted as well firmly behind her teeth. That was his business to sort out with his friend, and now that light had begun to fall on the source of Háma’s mood, it was time for her to leave, let the men talk it out between themselves, or to simply sit listening to the noise of the tavern around them and sipping ale if that’s what Háma needed. She found it difficult to walk away rather than sitting beside the man and telling him quietly what wagging tongues said about his family, but she knew the knowledge would only anger him more, and probably increase the pain he felt over whatever truly plagued his family. Perhaps it’s best I never had a child, Morwen thought eying the two soldiers from across the room. They change so many things.

Three days later in the purple-blue of an early winter morning, Morwen passed Folcwyn on her way to the privy and hesitated, watching the other woman groggily. Something looked wrong, and turning quickly, she followed her friend back into the warmth of the kitchen, the comfort of her bladder forgotten.

“Folcwyn, are you well?” she asked quietly as the little blonde put her foot on the lowest step.

“Of course I am. What would make you think otherwise?”

“Your stomach,” Morwen replied bluntly. “You look months gone with child.”

“I am,” Folcwyn replied, “what of it?”

Morwen gulped. “You’re keeping it then?”

“Yes. Should be here at the end of summer, perhaps early autumn,” Folcwyn said, looking slightly irritated to be answering Morwen’s questions in her shift at the barest beginnings of dawn.

“I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t realize. Are you all right? Feeling well, I mean.”

“As well as can be expected, though truthfully you’re the first to ask, or notice. I’d like to keep it that way, at least until I tell Walda. I’ll have to slow down soon enough, but I need to keep working until then.”

That’s why she was so dead-set on bedding Háma, Morwen realized in a flash of insight. And why she’s upset about Gamling. They always have money.

“Anything else?” Folcwyn asked through a yawn.

“No, nothing, I just… I was surprised,” Morwen said. “I didn’t think you would…”

“I’ve done that before,” Folcwyn replied. “Damn near killed myself. So, not this time,” she said passing a hand over her barely swelling abdomen. “More women survive it than don’t, after all. And it might be nice, having a wee one around.” The look of contentment on Folcwyn’s face when Morwen met her eyes was almost as startling as the revelation of her pregnancy. It wasn’t until she saw the glint in her friend’s eyes, the shadow of the dimple in her left cheek, that Morwen realized she’d not seen Folcwyn smile in far too long.

“Women have been having babies since well before we took breath,” Morwen replied, gathering her courage. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. May I tell you something? Something else private?” Folcwyn asked. When Morwen nodded, she smiled again. “I’m actually excited for it, the child. He’ll be something that’s mine and mine alone. I’m looking forward to that.”

Morwen smiled again and nodded, bidding Folcwyn good night as she turned back to the privy and her former business. Pregnant. It explained so much, Morwen realized, perhaps even the feeling of dread that had crept upon her with the autumn and haunted her through the long, cold Edoras nights. “More women survive it than don’t,” Folcwyn had said, but the number of women who lived through a successful birth was only a bit larger at best. Of course there were the twins, both of whom knew their mother’s leechcraft well. They would midwive for Folcwyn, surely, and the others would do all they could to help as her time came. Walda certainly wouldn’t force her to leave, as some landlords might, Morwen realized. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion that the old man would be glad, at least in some way. The end of summer… Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

A.N.:
Súlimë- roughly the last week of February through the first three weeks of March in the Gregorian calendar.


Chapter 2 - Ashes to Ashes

“Careful with that Lass! Let me—”

“Let you, Old Man? Hardly! You’ve no reason to overwork yourself just because—”

“There’s no call for you ta—”

“Oh Morgoth’s bleeding stumps, both of you, out of the way!” Morwen fumed, fed up with Walda and Folcwyn’s constant arguing over which was more fit to do heavy work, the visibly pregnant whore or the landlord with the troublesome heart. Fighting the urge to grumble under her breath, Morwen put her shoulder to the cask in question and shifted it in the rack behind the bar until it settled with a thump.

“You’ll bruise yourself, doing it that way,” Walda grumbled.

“Better a bruised shoulder than bleeding ears,” Morwen shot back with narrowed eyes. For a moment they stared at each other sternly but eventually Walda’s eyes twinkled and the corner of Morwen’s mouth quirked. Their stand off finished with chuckles and a pat on the arm.

“We’re not that terrible, are we?” Folcwyn asked, hand on belly and Morwen slipped an arm around her waist. To say that Folcwyn had been sensitive once she’d announced her condition was an understatement, but almost everyone agreed it was simply an affect of the pregnancy. Rapid mood swings were a fairly common symptom of breeding from what most of the women had seen. Of course Dreame insisted Folcwyn had always been nigh hysterical and no one had bothered to notice it before, but as winter had finally turned into spring, her complaints had become less passionate and therefore easier to ignore. There were still days, though, when Morwen daydreamed of plowing the little blonde into the mud in the inn yard on the off chance it would shock her into silence. Luckily the mud had mostly dried now that summer approached and temptation couldn’t turn into action. Walda didn’t deserve to handle the fighting.

As they hoisted and lowered the last ale cask into place, Morwen realized she worried about Walda quite a lot. The work was getting too hard for him and now that they knew his ailment wasn’t likely to go away, any task that could overwork him sent at least two of the women to his side, “getting in the way” as he put it. What they needed was another man to help with the heavy work Walda wouldn’t let the women do but couldn’t do much longer by himself, but finding someone both trustworthy and willing to work in a tavern full of whores would be difficult. So in the mean time they simply worked harder and for longer periods of time, bustling through the day to see that everything was done before night fell. With warm weather came more people, but the surprise of all surprises came that night when a familiar lanky lad came through the door, shielding someone else behind him.

Walda was the first to call out, as was his habit, but the stormy look on the young man’s face quieted the landlord again. It had been over a year since Gram had set foot in the tavern, and he seemed no more at ease in it than he had those many months before. It was only when Scarlet removed her shawl from over her head and stepped around him that his expression softened and he spared her a smile before he returned to scanning the room.

“Hello Walda,” she said as she approached the bar. “I thought you’d like to see her.”

“Well look at that,” Walda murmured, gazing down into the folds of Scarlet’s shawl. “Looks like her Da, if you don’t mind me saying.” The remark earned another slight smile, but still Gram said nothing. The group huddled around the bar drew Morwen’s curiosity and she paused when she recognized the man, then the girl.

“Here lads,” she said as she put her pitcher on a table at the back. “Have at it. I’ll be back before it’s empty.” Whatever the men said as she left didn’t register, for now she saw a patch of golden fluff poking out of Scarlet’s shawl and realized who else had come to visit.

Oh my gracious.

By the time Morwen reached the bar, followed swiftly by Rose, Walda had coerced the baby to take hold of his finger and she studied it with a scowl before opening her mouth wide and popping it in. Walda grinned.

“I’m sorry,” Scarlet said, trying to save Walda from a thorough chewing, “her teeth are growing in.”

“Tch, think naught of it Lassie,” he replied. “I’ve never minded being nibbled a bit by a pretty little lass. How’s things, Gram? Business picking up now that the weather’s broke?”

“Aye,” the farrier replied as the other girls arrived and pandemonium began, “doing well.” Nothing else the lad may have thought of saying could have been heard over the cooing and fuss raised by the other women, but Morwen stayed a little apart, almost as frightened of the baby as of frightening the baby by increasing the mob of strangers around the little family.

“We didn’t mean to disturb the entire place, truly,” Scarlet was saying. “I’ve wanted you to see her all winter but it was too horrible to risk the walk.”

“Has she been sickly?” Folcwyn asked.

“No, not at all,” Scarlet said.

“She wasn’t going out in that weather,” Gram replied, surprising most of the women into silence. It was the first time most of them had heard him speak so forcefully before. Folcwyn and Morwen exchanged glances. The young farrier was proving to be a protective father… and husband.

Ah well, Morwen mused. It’s not necessarily bad, nor surprising. And they seem happy.

“How was the birth?” Folcwyn asked quietly, passing a hand over the baby’s downy blonde hair.

“Taxing,” Scarlet said wryly. “But when are they not? Seems you’ll find that out soon enough yourself.”

“Aye, in autumn, a bit before.”

“Let me know when the time comes,” Scarlet said quietly, “I may have some clothing and such you can borrow.” The offer drew a snort from Gram and yet another surprised pause from the women that only extended when Scarlet turned toward her husband.

“I’ve already thanked you for bringing me to see my friends, haven’t I? I’ll not deny them the same sort of help they’ve given me.”

“There’s no need,” Walda said. “We’ll see that Folcwyn and the wee’un are taken care of. I do what’s best for all my girls. Always have. How about a pint then, Gram lad? No charge o’ course.”

“Let’s have a seat,” Morwen said, finally finding her voice. “It’s not right to leave a young mother standing while we all gape at her so. Find a place, sweet one; I’ll bring food and cups.”

“Thank you Morwen,” Scarlet said shifting the baby to her other hip. “She is getting awfully heavy these days.”

The trips to and from the kitchen for bread and cheese also let Morwen top up a few tankards, and gave her time to think. She felt rather like a weight was lifted from her chest, seeing Scarlet and her family thriving, but she also understood Gram’s foul mood. Were she in his position, the last place she would take her family is the tavern where her wife once worked. At the same time, though, he had to know Scarlet missed her friends, and those were hard to come by for a former whore— except among her own kind. Hopefully Morwen would get a chance to talk to Scarlet some time before they left, but why she felt the need to speak to the girl so much she couldn’t decide. Superficially at least it was to double check that she was actually happy, but there was something else drawing her attention back to the girl-mother with the little blonde infant in her lap as the night wore on.

Eventually the newness of their smallest visitor faded and the girls drifted off toward their other customers again. Scarlet had chosen a table close enough to the bar that she and Walda kept a fairly lively conversation running, with the others chiming in occasionally. The twins fell to a game of peek a boo with the baby by crouching behind the bar and popping up one at a time from opposite sides of Walda, making faces and noises until the little one laughed. The baby was entranced by their antics, as were half the customers of the tavern. Dreame even saw fit to spare them a smile. Scarlet seemed relieved to have adult conversation, and chattered for some time about her wedding and how she and Gram had passed the winter. Morwen felt a frizzle of pride when she overheard the girl mention embroidery, but came up short when Scarlet addressed her next.

“You can do more than stare, Morwen. She won’t bite if you don’t let her,” the young mother teased. “Come say hello.”

Morwen paused cautiously for a moment, but gave in and crouched next to the table before she rubbed the baby’s chubby fist with her finger. As before, the little girl scowled at the stranger before her and popped her hand into her mouth. Finally Walda’s comment about her resemblance to Gram registered and Morwen grinned.

“She does look like her Papa,” Morwen said. “What’s her name?”

“Sigrún,” Scarlet said. “After her grandmother. Here, take her. She likes you.” Morwen wondered what, exactly, gave Scarlet the idea that her daughter felt any differently about Morwen than she had any of the other women but couldn’t refuse before the child was settled into her lap, still clinging to Scarlet’s shawl. For a moment the two simply looked at each other, equally shocked, but thankfully the baby was the first to recover and let go of the familiar shawl in favor of something new to be studied—a fist full of Morwen’s hair.

Why is it always the hair?

“Oh, Sigrún, no. Don’t chew that,” Scarlet said, but the child seemed content to simply stare at the clump of curls in her hand, so Morwen let her continue. Truthfully she was a little afraid of the caterwaul reclaiming it could cause, and really, she told herself, it harmed very little. Her crouch on the floor, however, was another matter, and she stood up slowly to give her knees a rest. The baby had no objections to being shifted from Morwen’s lap to her hip, but merely looked up at the woman holding her with large blue eyes full of questions. With her back to the door, Morwen heard rather than saw it open and shielded the baby’s head from the draft of cool spring air that rushed in. A familiar grunt finally turned her around.

It was, she realized after a moment, quite an awkward thing to be standing between Gamling and his ale with a baby on her hip, though it seemed the prospect was still more startling to Gamling himself. But, striving for normality, Morwen simply smiled.

“Hello.”

Gamling nodded.

“This is Sigrún, Scarlet’s daughter. Your usual?”

Gamling grunted, cocking his head to the left as he studied first Morwen, then the baby and back again. Sigrún, in return, studied the Horse Lord with a comically matching scowl that both Morwen and Scarlet noticed.

“I’ll take her with me,” Morwen said as Scarlet reached for the baby again, “give you a chance to finish your food.”

“You don’t… well, it would be nice,” she said, relenting. “Thank you.” Morwen headed toward the kitchen, Sigrún on her hip studying the flowers around the collar of Morwen’s dress while Gamling remained in front of the door looking bewildered. After a moment more of staring, he grunted again and took his usual place near the windows, deep in thought.

“You let her take her?” Gram asked once Gamling was seated a short distance away.

“The worst that could happen to her with Morwen is that someone looks at them twice and Morwen either laughs in his face or brains him with a pitcher,” Scarlet replied, stretching her back and arms.

“I’d have taken her if you’re tired.”

“She needs to meet new people, Gram, or she’ll never learn how to behave with others. No one here will harm her.”

“And what if another fight starts up, like that one last fall? You think she’ll be safe then?”

“There’s a reason I let Morwen take her and none of the others,” Scarlet replied. “I trust her; upper level members of the Guard trust her. I wish you could at the very least trust our judgment, if not trust the woman herself.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust her,” Gram began.

“It’s that you don’t like what she reminds you of, I know,” Scarlet cut in, “but, darling, the only difference between me and any one of these women was finding the right man at the right time. Am I to throw up my nose at them because I’ve had a stroke of good fortune?”

“You don’t belong here any more,” Gram growled, clunking his tankard on the table.

“Nor do I belong to you,” his wife shot back, her jaw set. “You cannot and will not keep us locked away from the world forever. We should finish this discussion at home.”

“That can be arranged. Get her back here, we’re leaving.”

“No, we’re not,” Scarlet snorted, turning around again.

“You know why I’ve kept you ‘locked away from the world’ as you put it?” Gram replied, his voice rising. “No one will let their wives or daughters be seen with you, or for that matter with me, because you—”

“I’m beneath them,” Scarlet said after Gram stopped himself. “I know. But how do you expect Sigrún to be able to face those who will snub her for what her mother was if she doesn’t first know that there can be— and often is— good in people other than her family?”

“She’s right,” a voice rumbled unexpectedly. “Come have another drink lad. The baby will be along.” The young farrier seemed surprised that the guard would address him directly, but was awed just enough by Gamling’s presence to give Scarlet one last, hard look and change seats. They said nothing for a while, though Gram shifted nervously between swigs of ale and baleful glares at his young wife. Gamling, of course, was as composed as always, carefully weighing the speech he was about to make.

“That fight last fall started because of Grima’s men,” he began. “They won’t cross that threshold again or their lives will likely be forfeit, and everyone knows it. It’s the only place in Edoras I know those greasy hill rats don’t skulk around in the shadows. Probably the safest tavern in the city.”

“I’m glad to know the prince and his friends can drink and whore in peace,” Gram spat in reply. “But what about the rest of us? Have you even heard what’s happening outside the city?”

“We’ve heard it all,” Gamling said. “There’s little more to be done for it, and certainly nothing we can do from here. The danger likely won’t come this far south. They’re taking horses, not humans, and the stock is being kept closer this year so the Eored can help the herdsmen. The trouble is to the north. It’s not as dangerous in the city as you think.”

“For how long?” Gram asked. “They’ve been seen fifty leagues from here.”

“Over fifty leagues from your family,” Gamling said and took up his tankard again, “on the opposite side of thick walls and hundreds of soldiers. I think you’re a bit over worried, lad.”

“Orcs without aren’t the only danger.”

Gram’s pronouncement dropped most of the tavern into a hush and Gamling paused in thought again, his blue eyes shrewd.

“That’s not a threat here, after last autumn. Not with Walda up and about. Not with me here, and I usually am. Let your wife enjoy a night with her friends or she won’t be the same girl much longer.”

The farrier opened his mouth but shut it again when he saw Morwen sit next to Scarlet, still holding his daughter. The baby’s normal frown was gone, replaced by the wide eyes and slobbery smile that Gram had learned meant she was pleased with something. Scarlet too looked more peaceful than he was used to seeing her; the color that had left her cheeks through the winter had returned, slightly, and even from a distance he could see the light in her eyes again.

“They’ve been through enough,” Gram said, “your woman and mine both. Don’t you fear for them, with what’s coming for us?”

Gamling thought hard about his answer. To say that yes, he did fear for Morwen and for every woman and child in Rohan, would be disloyal to Théoden king and counter-productive to his reason for calling Gram over in the first place. Whatever he thought of what went on behind Théoden’s counsel chamber doors was not proper tavern talk, and the lad didn’t need to know how astute his implication really was.

“I wish I could do more, sometimes,” Gamling said. “But we’re well enough. Keeping them away from the entire world helps you feel better, but women aren’t like horses to be shut in a barn when the snow flies. They’re as thinking as you or me, more fragile yes, but stronger in some ways too. Think of what your girl saw and did before you met her, before she came here. Lost her Ma didn’t she?”

“Aye. Raised three younger brothers and a baby sister before her Pa died. Then the children went to an uncle that wouldn’t take her.” At Gamling’s raised eyebrow, Gram dropped his voice. “The aunt wouldn’t allow it. She was too pretty; apparently the uncle couldn’t be trusted. But letting her end up here… I wouldn’a stood for it were she kin of mine.”

“Nor I, but can’t be helped now. Can’t do anything beyond see that she’s safe and your weeun’ grows up with both of you. Don’t think I don’t understand your side.” Gamling paused. “I’ve seen what happens when a lass gets pent up. At least yours still has the spirit to try to make you understand.”

Gram frowned and looked up at the older man who studied their respective womenfolk with a squint in his eye.

“Who?”

“My Ma,” Gamling said softly, and drained his tankard in one long stretch. After a pregnant pause, he continued. “The other lads in the city, they think like you?”

“Are you saying we shouldn’t be worried?” Gram retorted.

“I’m asking,” Gamling replied.

“Some of us, aye, the ones with children and wives. Threats from both sides don’t make many folks comfortable.”

Gamling nodded. “And I didn’t say they should. I need another drink. Come with me.”

Morwen, of course, had seen Gamling and Gram talking in the corner, but did her best to pay it no mind. Hopefully he could make Gram see that Scarlet just needed a rest from the monotony of day after day with few adults to talk with. She felt a strange prickle up her scalp, though, when she realized he watched the baby as much as he looked at Morwen, or anyone else for that matter. For her part, Sigrún seemed content enough now that her mother was within arms reach. She’d fussed a bit when the kitchen door shut, but Morwen distracted her with a spoon and did her best to hurry back to the common room before the child grew anxious again. They sat now, Sigrún still gnawing her spoon, Scarlet seeming to enjoy simply being in the bustle and fuss of the tavern.

“I miss the noise,” Scarlet said finally. “Of all the things I left, I never thought I would miss the endless chatter.”

“I suppose it would be a startling change,” Morwen replied. “It took me a while to adjust from the racket of Minas Tirith. Believe it or not, this has always been what I consider quiet.”

“No offense meant, but I never mean to find out for myself,” Scarlet replied. “Some of the places you worked… I would never.”

“I don’t plan to return either. I know a good thing when I find it, and apparently so does your Gram. He’s good to you?”

“The best he knows how to be,” Scarlet sighed. “Unfortunately he’s a bit… nervous. I didn’t expect that from him, but we’re learning.”

Morwen smiled and looked down at the baby again. “I can understand why.”

“She’s lovely, though I’m a little partial. Frowns just like her father.”

Morwen laughed and Sigrún looked at her again. “You’re right to be partial. She is a dear. So quiet.”

“That’s not normal, then, for a little one?” Scarlet asked, fingering her daughter’s cornsilk hair. “My sister was always quiet and I don’t remember my brothers as infants. I hope it doesn’t mean something’s wrong.”

“I’ve heard a wise woman say that if you think it might not be normal for a babe, the chances are it is, but I wouldn’t know first hand,” Morwen replied.

“She’s as normal as any I’ve ever seen,” Bliss piped up, “and I’ve been to more birthings than most.”

“Our ma was a healer,” Blithe added, addressing the baby with wide eyes. “I think Sigrún’s just fine for a little lass, aren’t you? Why yes you are.”

“We’ve had the cavalry healer by to check on us,” Scarlet said, “but he seems a man of few words. Didn’t speak to me much when he came, which wasn’t often.”

Hearing that, Morwen frowned and looked at the twins for their reaction to Scarlet’s statement. The Léohthelm known in the tavern was, actually, quite talkative for a man, especially with the twins. Blithe frowned, ending yet another peek-a-boo session prematurely, but Bliss filled in her place and the baby, it seemed, couldn’t tell the difference. Whatever Blithe thought about the situation was left a mystery when Gamling and Gram joined the women a moment later.

“First I’ve seen the bottom of a tankard here in a long while,” Gamling muttered seating himself next to Morwen. “You’re a distraction, milady Sigrún.”

In a flash the baby’s frown was back and the spoon dropped, forgotten, to Morwen’s lap. The twins went about their business, hiding smiles behind their hands, as Gram sat and watched Gamling and the baby become acquainted. Morwen watched Gamling more than the child, not exactly surprised by his demeanor but not terribly comfortable with the situation either. Sigrún tried, it seemed, to instigate a staring contest with the redheaded Horse Lord and, when that failed, opted for taking a fist full of his tunic sleeve and shaking. When that didn’t work, Morwen felt her draw herself up and suddenly fling her entire body forward, straight for Gamling’s lap. Luckily he anticipated the move and caught her before she went headlong onto the floor, and stood her on his lap where they could see eye to eye. To Morwen it seemed like watching a great bear playing with a cub, or rather being played with by a cub as Sigrún had taken one handful of Gamling’s shirt and another of his beard in the attempt to steady herself. Gamling just laughed deep in his chest and made wide-eyed faces at her, smiling broadly... for Gamling.

“First she’s ever done that,” Gram muttered, resting a tentative hand on Scarlet’s shoulder.

“I’m not surprised,” Scarlet replied. “She has her father’s instincts for people. You gave me a very smart daughter, you know.” When Morwen chuckled, Gram flushed to the roots of his hair, but eventually grinned a bit sheepishly.

“And you’re right to be a proud papa,” Morwen said. “She’s a sweet little lass.”

“Thank you,” the farrier replied.

“Our next will be a boy,” Scarlet added with mischief in her eyes.

Gram looked at her, frowning. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

“Oh, not yet,” the girl said before reaching for her daughter. “But perhaps we should go home, Husband? I think I have wifely duties to attend.”

Hasn’t lost her sense of humor, Morwen thought. She’ll be all right.

Gamling seemed a little reluctant to return Sigrún to her mother, but once the baby released his beard she was happy enough to be wrapped in her mother’s shawl again, peeking out at Morwen with one eye. A few goodbyes and promises to visit again later, the little family headed into the rapidly chilling night and Morwen breathed a quiet sigh of relief. That relief, however, was short-lived as everyone in the tavern, it seemed, talked about the baby for the rest of the night. Then later in her room, when Morwen thought she could finally relax, Gamling startled her a second time.

“You don’t like children?”

Shite…

“Are you forgetting Feanreth and her rabbit last winter?” Morwen replied coyly.

“So it’s babies then?” he persisted.

“I did hold the child for several minutes, if you recall. Would I do that if I disliked babies?” she asked, turning toward the window and away from her inquisitor.

“Something had you rattled,” Gamling insisted, grasping her upper arms. “Still does. You’re dodging questions. You don’t do that.”

The sound of hooves in the street drifted faintly up to Morwen’s room where she stood looking up toward Meduseld. Below their feet a bench screeched over the floorboards and a minute later a door slammed. Someone going to the privy. Morwen mused. Do I tell him? How do I tell him? And what will I lose if I do?

“You don’t like babies,” Gamling said softly. “You have none of your own. You’ve shown no signs of breedin’ in over a year.” With every statement Morwen flinched beneath his hands, but it had to be out. He couldn’t stand not knowing anymore.

“Perhaps I’m not… mayhap I don’t work properly, but surely someone else you’ve been with in that time does. Are you barren?”

Stunned by the simplicity of his argument and the empathy in his voice, Morwen still stood mute, feeling everything that resembled a relationship with Gamling falling apart around her ears. She braced her elbows on the windowsill and dropped her head to her hands, surprised by how cold her fingers had grown. There was nothing for it now, she decided. He’d backed her into a corner and, already mourning what they’d had, she straightened up again. Best endure her punishment with dignity and what grace she could muster.

“Voluntarily,” she muttered, ashamed to hear her voice thick with tears.

“What?”

“I have chosen to never have a child.”

“But… how? Morwen, I… I don’t understand,” Gamling asked.

“There are ways, among women like me, to stop a babe from growing,” Morwen said and turned to the trunk at the foot of her bed. “There are also ways to… be shed of one, should it stick anyway.”

From the black maw before her knees, Morwen withdrew a bag and a small box, then closed the trunk and dropped them on top before returning to the window. She avoided Gamling’s eyes and looked back up at the Golden Hall instead, counting the lights in its long, narrow windows through misted eyes. Gamling first opened the box and sniffed, making a face at its pungency, then opened the nearly empty leathern bag. A dozen or more small brownish seeds rolled out onto his palm before he poured them back and tied it closed.

“Which does what?” he asked Morwen’s back, any sign of empathy gone.

“The seeds prevent it growing. The tea is for… accidents.”

“You’re nearly out of seeds,” Gamling said. “Have there been any ‘accidents’? Since you came here? Answer me!” Morwen trembled only once when he raised his voice, waiting any moment to feel a blow or hear a door slam. “That illness last spring? Was that one of these ‘accidents’?”

“No,” Morwen replied, subdued. “There’ve been no accidents since I moved north. My sickness last spring was just that— sickness. That bag was full when I came.”

Casting the bag back on the trunk with a snort, Gamling strode across the room, his boots ringing loudly enough to make Morwen jump again.

“And if there were?”

Puzzled, Morwen finally turned around. “Were what, milord?”

Her sudden use of a title snapped Gamling out of his temper long enough to look at her, closely. Eyes on the floor, pressed against the wall at her back as far from him as she could get, it was plain that pure willpower was all that kept her composed and upright. Gram’s words from before echoed in Gamling’s mind. They've been through enough...

Brutish or not, he wanted answers. I’ll make up for it later.

“An ‘accident’. If there were one, what would you do?”

“It… it would depend, milord, on the situation at the time.”

Again with that infernal ‘milord’, Gamling fumed. “And what situations could that be? If it was mine? What would you do, if the next ‘accident’ as you call them, was mine?”

“I would have no way of knowing, milord—”

“Stop it,” Gamling ordered. “You know my name. Use it.”

For a moment Morwen simply stared, first at the floor, then Gamling, then at her hands, completely stricken. This was most definitely not the way she had feared this conversation turning; it was much, much worse. Racket from the tavern drifted up from below but still Gamling stood and would likely stand until the end of time if he didn’t get an answer, and an honest one besides.

“I refuse to bring a child into this life,” Morwen replied, the merest hint of temper snapping in her eyes. “I am only here because my mother had no other choice. I have a choice, and I’ve used it. No daughter of mine will ever spend hours on her back with somebody else’s hands all over her. My son will never have to be locked in the cellar to keep the bum boys away from him.” Finally she drew her gaze from the floor, met Gamling’s eyes and held them fast. “I will never bring a child into a place like this! I’d sooner slit my own throat.”

“That explains what you’ve probably done before,” Gamling replied. “But what about in the future? Has nothing… you don’t think things have changed?”

“I learned long ago mi— Gamling, that the only person I can rely on fully is myself. I won’t repeat her mistakes.”

With that Gamling fell quiet, grinding one fist over and over again in the opposite palm. Surprisingly, though, Morwen continued.

“You didn’t expect that, did you?” she asked. “Suddenly ‘the happy whore’ is gone, and now you’re stuck with the truth: a three time baby killer used in ways you can’t begin to fathom because she needed the gold too much to refuse. What will you do now? Toss the damaged goods aside? Pick another tavern and pretend none of this happened? Find another favorite whore, a younger one who doesn’t know she doesn’t have to be a brood sow and keep up the family tradition? Who doesn’t mind cursing her children with all the glory of life as a harlot? That babe in Folcwyn’s belly downstairs? It’ll be the fourth generation of her family born in a brothel. But I…”

Gamling stepped forward when her voice broke, but Morwen jerked away before he could reach her.

“I wasn’t born for this. I wasn’t supposed to live hand to mouth, night to night under some hairy, sweaty sailor or lily-white scribe who couldn’t find a pretty boy and decided I’d do well enough instead. I was supposed to be better than all this, but I can’t be because of one shipwreck, one greedy man, one unchangeable decision. So,” she said, her head snapping up again, “my mother’s mistake ends with me, one way or another. You can save your speeches about ‘the blessing of giving life’ and ‘the duty of women’; I’ve heard it all before. It has no place here… not with me.”

“Don’t you realize, if there were a babe I could take you from here?” Gamling asked after silence fell. In spite of Morwen’s snort of derision, he continued. “I know you weren’t meant for this, it’s carved all over you. What drew me to you. If you wanted, we’d leave, go back to where I grew up—”

“And how is a farm a better alternative?” she replied.

“You’d be a freewoman, in charge of a house as nature intended it,” he continued. “With no fear of our children being use— seeing what you’ve seen, forced into this,” he finished with a wave at the common room below.

“That’s just a dream, Gamling,” Morwen said softly.

“It worked for Scarlet.”

“I’m not sixteen any more,” she replied, heated again, eyes filling. “I— focka!— I wish I had come to Rohan twelve years ago. It’s too late now, Gamling. I can’t be anything better than a three coin whore.” Tears streaked her cheeks freely, speckling her bodice, soaking into her hair. “It’s just a dream; a beautiful, tempting, torturous dream.”

“If you think I would cast you off so sudden, after all these months,” Gamling replied, going for his purse, “perhaps it was.”

A moment later, three coins rattled onto the trunk between the box of tea and the discarded bag of seeds and Gamling’s footsteps retreated from the room. The door closed behind him with barely a click from the latch, and only then did Morwen feel her heart break and fall, sobbing, to the floor.


Chapter 3 - Flare Up

“You need to come to the square,” a voice demanded behind her. Morwen looked up from the sheet she was wringing and glanced over her shoulder, surprised to be barked at so suddenly. Háma?

“What’s wrong?” she asked, drying her hands on her apron and unfolding herself from the floor.

“The ceremony begins at noon. You should be there,” the Door Guard replied with a nod, hands behind his back, feet and shoulders squared, every inch of him a military man.

“If I go, someone else will have to stay, and the twins have never seen the promotion ceremony,” Morwen replied. “I have no wish to—”

“If you’ll not come because you’ve been asked, I can send escorts,” Háma said calmly. It was a tone that didn’t stop at threatening; it practically promised action.

“You wouldn’t?” Morwen retorted, while Háma, ever calm, merely lifted an eyebrow.

“I will expect to see you in the square no later than ten minutes after the ceremony begins. You will be escorted there if I do not.” With that, the Door Guard turned on his heel and rattled away up the hill without a backward glance.

“Well!” Morwen humphed, pushing flyaway strands of hair out of her eyes. Thankfully they stuck where she pressed them. Midsummer day was proving to be uncomfortably hot. How the men would feel in their mail and armor she did not know, but rather than let that line of thinking continue, she turned and went back to scrubbing sheets. She couldn’t think of armor, or soldiers, or bright red hair in the sun; she’d only just managed to get herself out of bed, and only then because staying there every day would worry the others.

Morwen wasn’t stupid enough to think that no one noticed her sudden change in mood, or the distinct lack of Gamling in the tavern, but except for a few snide smiles from Dreame’s corner of the breakfast table now and then, nothing was said.

“What did he want?” Blithe asked over a pile of dry sheets she carried in from the back garden.

“I’ve been ordered to the advancement ceremony this afternoon,” Morwen replied sarcastically. “With an escort if I dawdle too long.”

Blithe’s indigo eyes looked ready to pop out of her head. “Could he do that?”

“I’ve no doubt he could,” Morwen said. “I just wonder if he would.”

“I wouldn’t chance it, personally,” Blithe said. “But then, I don’t generally defy men-folk much.”

“Now that’s not entirely true. What about that yelling match with Léohthelm a few weeks back? That was defiance if I’ve ever seen it.”

The little blonde had the grace to blush at Morwen’s comment but replied quite logically, “It was just a disagreement over medicine practice. I wasn’t disobeying him in anything.”

“What part of ‘Quit plaguing me you little harridan!’ marked you as compliant, sweet one?”

“Well he shouldn’t of just hiked up her skirts, prodded about a bit and walked out like that!” Blithe fumed. “I don’t care if she was one of you before that, she still deserves to know she’s all right.”

Morwen wasn’t quite sure what to address first, Blithe’s passionate assessment of Léothelm’s treatment of Scarlet or the fact that she’d distanced herself from the rest of the whores in the Dragon’s Hoard. Ultimately, the latter won out.

“You still don’t feel that you belong here, do you child?” Morwen said quietly over the splash of water and the tapping of a bumble bee trapped at the window beside the door.

“Some people seem cut for all this,” Blithe sighed. “Some just… never fit, no matter where they’re stitched in. You understand; you don’t belong here either.”

“Maybe once, long ago, I didn’t,” Morwen said. “But now, there’s not much else available to me. So, I do the best I can. The question is, do you think you can do the same?”

For a minute they looked at each other, then cast about for signs of the other women. Most, it seemed, were upstairs getting ready to go to the ceremony and the kitchen was quiet.

“Léothelm’s thought on it,” Blithe said finally. “He’s offered me a place as his apprentice.” As Morwen’s eyes lit up, though Blithe sighed. “I don’t know that I want it, though.”

“Well why ever not? You don’t want to be here, even Bliss has to admit that now,” Morwen asked.

“If he can’t show a former whore any kind of thoughtfulness when she's a first-time mother and needs his help, what’s he going to do with me?” Blithe replied.

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“If he thinks I’m lyin’ down for him, he’s sadly mistaken,” the girl continued with a healthy dose of venom. “I’m not payin’ for my place with my arse any longer than necessary.”

“Good, I’ll help you pack,” Dreame cut in, flouncing into the room with her bed sheets in her arms. “Piss-poor whore you’ve made anyway. You forgot something this morning Morwen. Too distracted being heartbroken, or just miss the coin from your cuckold up on the hill?”

That does it, Morwen fumed a split second before Blithe crossed the room in three long steps and cracked Dreame a sound slap across the face that snapped her head backwards. The yelling commenced at such a pace Morwen couldn’t understand it all, but the intent was obvious and a second later Dreame went for the younger one’s hair.

“Ablinnan ægþer þu! NU! This is ridiculous! Blithe, stop it! Ablinnan, nu. Ablinnan! Dreame, I swear by every Vala known to man, if you touch that girl one more time,” Morwen screamed when she finally pried them apart. Dreame, however, was lost to her rage and went for Morwen instead, aiming a long-nailed hand at her eyes. Instinct kicked in then and Morwen ducked, then jammed a doubled fist into the smaller woman’s jaw, sending her backwards into the wash tub with a shriek and a splash of soapy water.

Blithe’s laughter, followed quickly by Bliss’ and Weirthe’s, brought Morwen back to normal.

“Oh gods. Dreame? Are you…?”

“What’s all this now? Why’s Blithe bleedin’?” Walda barked. “And why is Dreame arse-first in the washing? It’s not that hot out there.”

The landlord’s comment, for once, wasn’t meant to garner laughter, but it succeeded any way… a moment before Dreame burst into tears. Stunned silence fell except for the sobs and sniffles from the woman on the floor and a steady drip from a few pieces of sheet sloshed over the edge of the washtub.

“It was my fault,” Blithe finally answered. “She started on me, then went for Morwen and…”

“Lost yer’ temper lass?” Walda asked, not unkindly. “Yer a good girl for telling me. Out to the tables wi’ ye until we can sort this mess out. Weirthe, go with her. Morwen? You all right?”

“Fine,” she said, still panting from the brief scuffle. “But… in the course of things, I… Oh gods, I’m so sorry. Dreame, are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t she be?” Walda asked.

“I punched her, rather hard.”

“Oh oh oh… I see. I see. Dreame, answer me lass. Are ye all right?”

The bee’s incessant tapping became nearly unbearable in the silence that followed, but eventually Dreame nodded, dabbing at her eyes with her hands. Morwen couldn’t remember feeling so horrid, like a naughty child caught doing something forbidden by her nurse, in a long time.

“Perhaps you should take a wee walk, Morwen,” Walda said before he knelt in front of the washtub. “I’ll take care of this here. Bliss, go out with her. Look for some dandelions while yer at it. That tea didn’t taste as foul as usual.”

The girl mumbled something by way of reply and took Morwen’s wrist, nearly dragging her toward the door. Before she left, though, Morwen stopped and watched the bumblebee at the window trying in vain to batter a way through the glass. Very gently she reached out a hand and gradually worked it beneath the little insect until, exhausted, it came to rest on her palm. With her other hand cupped slightly to shield it from any stray breezes, she followed Bliss outside toward the side of the tavern’s ramshackle barn where dandelions bobbed their golden heads by the dozen.

“She had that coming,” Bliss said as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Morwen replied, studying the little bee in her hands, the veins in its tiny wings, the yellow and black fuzz on its body.

“Somebody had to do it eventually,” Bliss retorted. “I’m just glad it was you. You’re the only one really a match for her.”

“Your sister started it,” Morwen said. “Granted, I was sorely tempted to dunk her before anything actually happened, but Blithe slapped her first. It was only when I pulled them apart that Dreame went for me.”

“She..? My sis— you’re serious?” Bliss stammered. At Morwen’s nod, Bliss whistled between her teeth. “She had to be right good and angry.”

“She’s…” Morwen started, then thought again and changed her tack. “I think the winter was harder on your sister than you may have thought.”

The bee walked slowly up Morwen’s index finger as she thought, feelers wiggling, abdomen pulsing gently as it crawled. Bliss reached down for a dandelion flower, pulling it stem and all from the nearly knee-high grass beside the barn. Carefully she lifted the bloom to Morwen’s hand and the bee sped up, sensing food. A moment later it reached the flower, rummaging between bright yellow petals with relish.

“I know,” Bliss murmured. “She’s not getting used to it here. She works but she doesn’t like it, only does it because… because it kept us together. Mama nearly lost us quite a few times, but… somehow she always kept us together.”

A sharp whistle from the tavern startled them both and, turning, they saw Wierthe at the kitchen door, waving them back. Smiling sadly, Bliss looked down at the flower and bee in her hand, then blew gently on the little animal until it took flight for parts unknown, the baskets on its legs full of food.

“Maybe… some folk just aren’t meant to be together all their lives,” Bliss mused before losing sight of the insect she’d just helped free. Morwen’s eyes wandered up the hill toward the great hall where a great platform had been raised early that morning so the herds of people in the square could see the proceedings better. A brief flash of red caught her eye, but she dismissed it as a reflection from armor or a shield. No use wondering if every single thing was him.

“Perhaps they aren’t,” Morwen replied as they turned toward the tavern again. “Perhaps cherishing what time there was is all we can truly do.”
……

“She’s being rewarded for punching me in the jaw?” Dreame fumed five minutes later. “She’s already prettier and paid more and you’re letting her rub it in my face by flouncing off to—”

“Woman, if you don’t silence that tongue o’ yourn, I’ll be the next one to strike ye’!” Walda bellowed and the entire room fell silent with shock.

“The facts are simply this: you’ve been an intolerable bitch since she came, with a few brief exceptions when you’ve been at least passably human. The only way I can get the two o’ ye away from each other is to send one to the ceremony whilst I deal with the other, and frankly you’d see the respite as a reward. Morwen don’ want to go, and trust me when I tell ye’ the wait’ll be as unpleasant for her as missing the chance to complain in public will be for you. Ye think, after workin’ here this long, I don’t know how to handle the lot o’ ya? I might be dyin’ wench, but I’m not addled. Now, down to the cellars where you’ll cool off and be out of my sight. Get them spider webs out while you’re down there. After that there’s other things to be done”

“Sending me away like a child now? Giving me chores like a common field hand?” Dreame retorted, split lip puffing already from the blow Morwen had dealt.

“Better than sending you off as a corpse,” Wierthe growled. “Just go on before you make his heart stop. Don’t be stupid!” She seemed to be the only one brave or frightened enough to speak. The rest of the women eyed each other silently while Walda drew a deep breath, most with eyes downcast and hands folded before them. Morwen, however, held her head up, ready for whatever came next, even if it meant that damned ceremony she was now twice compelled to attend. She’d already seen Walda this angry and knew he wouldn’t strike anyone, no matter what he said to the contrary, and met his eyes when he turned to her next.

“Well, you heard what I just said. You need to get out of this place, go play the grand lady for that puffed up little snipe of a mercer up the hill or somesuch. You’d not have struck her if she hadna’ started things, I know that, but your temper’s been soured and I won’t let you work like that. Get away from here for a time and get over it.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. And, I’m sorry,” Morwen replied as steadily as she could.

“Isn’t you should be apologizing to me. You didn’t start the fight. Now, speaking of: Blithe lass, you told me straight off it was you started the swinging. I don’t blame ye for bein’ angry, but lass, ye shoulda’ said something before now! I’d have done something long before had I known she was snipin’ at you an’ your sister all year. Ye dinna have to put up wi’ that from nobody, do ye’ understand me?”

Eyes on her toes, Blithe nodded, as did Bliss who stood beside her sister like a bulwark. “We’ve more to talk on later, you an’ your sister an’ me, and we’ll do it during the ceremony while there’s nobody around to interrupt.”

“But you can’t keep Bliss from the party! That’s not fair!” Blithe yelped.

“I don’t mind,” Bliss said softly. “I’d rather be here for you anyways. Don’t make it any worse than it already is.”

“No!” Blithe replied. “That isn’t right. Walda, surely you see it’s not her doing? Why must you punish her for my mistake? She shouldn’t have to stay and miss the excitement because of my stupidity; it’s not fair.”

“Truly, I didn’t think one would stand being separated from the other,” Walda said, genuinely surprised. “I’ll leave it to you then Bliss. If ye want to go to the square ye can. If ye want to stay wi’ your sister, that’s all right as well. The rest o’ ye, get ready and get out. Go have yer fun, spend yer money, whatever it is ye’ll be doin’ and leave me in peace.” Pressing a hand over his heart, Walda drew in another breath and walked slowly into the common room, letting the door drift closed behind him.

Immediately a whispered argument broke out between the twins over whether both would stay or Bliss would go. The other women, wisely, kept out of it. By the time Morwen, resigned to the fact that she was going to the dreaded ceremony, finished clearing up the washing and went to her room, the twins had taken their discussion to the barn and Folcwyn had lain down with a sore back. Wierthe and Rose, always close, had sequestered themselves in Rose’s room pawing through each other’s clothes and jewelry, intent to look their best at their first opportunity to be seen by the newly promoted soldiers and visiting gentry, but with Folcwyn napping and the twins otherwise occupied, Morwen had to rely on her own best guesses for an outfit. She settled on one of her new dresses, a vivid purple with pansies embroidered so that they popped up from the ground around the skirt, but drew up short at what to do with her hair.

Frowning, she left her room and looked in the mirror in the hall, studying how it lay around her face and over her shoulders. For some reason she couldn’t name, she couldn’t leave it free. There was no reason and, more importantly, it probably wasn’t a risk she could afford to take any more. Returning to her room she fished a purple scarf from her trunk and tied it, Gondorian-style, over her head. The decision rankled her, but she knew it was likely necessary. Dark hair now meant an enemy in Edoras and most would judge first, listen later, if they listened at all. More importantly, the hill people of the west apparently wore no head coverings. The scarf would mark her as a woman of Gondor to those who knew enough to tell the difference, and hopefully make her safer among the throng of Rohirrim filling the square under the near midday sun. There was no sense in making herself a target for misplaced political animosity; yet still, she felt ready to cry, already missing the days when her fears of this still sometimes strange people she lived among had been both unjustified and unnecessary. Then as she piled things back into the trunk, her eyes fell on her bag of seeds, and the tears almost broke free. Instead she scooped it up and flung it hard against the wall where it struck with a great crack above the bed and the seeds scattered like gleaming drops of ale over the blanket and floor.

“Morwen?”

“I’m fine,” she said, not even bothering to look up from the coverlet.

“Ready then?” Rose asked, stepping tentatively into the room.

“Shortly. Go on. I’ll be along.”

“Bliss is staying,” she said. “So’s Folcwyn. You’ll be walking alone?”

“That’s fine,” Morwen replied. “I’m not fit company yet. Go and be admired. I’ll be along.”

When Rose’s steps retreated and the front door closed below her, Morwen raised her head, battling back tears once again. Her options were simple: either pull herself together and retain some dignity out of the mess this day had become or dawdle until Háma’s escort showed up and send Walda into another tizzy, possibly upsetting his heart as well.

That settles that, Morwen decided. She’d caused him enough troubles for one day already; she would not let cowardice cause still more and, after a deep breath for fortitude, shut her chamber door and descended the back stairs. Had she hesitated only a few moments longer, she likely would have heard Folcwyn’s yelp, but with Dreame in the cellar and the twins far below in Walda’s chambers, no one realized that the pregnant woman’s back ache had just become much, much more.
~*~

Author’s Note:
Ablinnan ægþer þu! NU!- Roughly, “Stop it, both of you. Now!”

Also, any suggestions for a better chapter title appreciated. Thank you.


Chapter 4 - Melt Down

If the square itself was as packed as the streets leading up to it, Morwen knew Walda understood his punishments better than any landlord she’d ever worked for. On her way up the hill, she couldn’t move more than a step or two before someone walked into her, most of them turning to apologize but throwing up their noses and walking away once she was recognized. To distract herself from the discomfort, she studied the barrows making the road narrower than usual, surprised to recognize fruits and things from not just Gondor, but even her childhood home in Near Harad. Even more thrilling was the friendly competition going on between two vendors— a fruit seller and a jeweler— who had set up across from each other near the chandler’s shop. Each tried to coerce customers away from the other, touting the quality and exotic nature of their wares in heavily accented Common, and when the jeweler succeeded in drawing a group of teenaged girls from the coconut display, the fruit seller lapsed into their native tongue for a string of epithets that finally brought a smile to Morwen’s face. It had been quite a while indeed since she’d heard someone christened a pox-ridden baboon’s arse and upon hearing her laugh, the fruit seller looked up in surprise.

“I suppose I should have told him his mother looked like the southern end of a goat walking north?” the man asked, flashing brilliant white teeth out of a heavy black beard.

“I see no pox at this distance,” Morwen replied, “so your second attempt is perhaps more accurate. How much does this partnership bring you on a day like today?”

“Partnership?” the merchant spluttered, indignant. “Partnership with that buffoon? That mud-drowned tick escaped from a pig pen?!” he shouted, then paused long enough to grin. “You would be amazed, most beauteous one. You are from the south?”

“I was, years ago,” Morwen answered and untied the purse from her belt. “I suppose in payment for your performance I shall have to browse both of your stands, and it has been longer than I care to recall since I’ve enjoyed a mango.”

While Morwen paused on her reluctant way toward the square, a solemn-faced redhead studied the gathering crowd with a more menacing than usual squint. There were a lot of people milling about the side streets and square, but an alarming number of them were dark haired and dark liveried. Gríma Wormtongue’s liegemen, it seemed, were everywhere, most making no effort to hide their weaponry beneath their jackets or cloaks. Traditionally no one came armed to the ceremony; it was the one day of the year when most of the men had a chance to relax a bit. Not so this year, and Déorwine and Háma had required they go be armed as well. Gamling laid a hand on Numolíeg’s hilt, circling the pommel with his thumb. While the past months— two months and three days, exactly— had been miserable, this day could prove to be even worse, particularly since every way he turned a dark head popped into view, often curly, but thankfully none of them female. Gamling wasn’t entirely sure what would happen if he came into contact with her now, and combining that concern with the frisson of tension in the crowd made him jumpy, and soured his temper. Háma, too, seemed distracted, even more so than had become the norm in the past year. As though the thought of him conjured his friend, Háma nodded as he passed and stood at the corner of the staging scanning the crowd as Gamling had, offering a faint smile when someone chanced to make eye contact.

“Have you seen Haleth?” he asked quietly, barely audible over the clamor of the crowd. Gamling shook his head in reply and turned to the left of the square looking specifically for the lad now, or even his sister. The chances of seeing Fyrene, he knew, were slim and he decided not to ask Háma about his wife. After his visits with the family in the past weeks, he decided the less said about her, the better.

Eventually Háma’s eyes fell on a reddish blond head and he whistled sharply between his teeth, startling several people within earshot. Fortunately, Haleth was one of those and came running to the platform with wide eyes. He spared a quick smile for Gamling, who turned away a moment later, and waited while his father knelt at the edge of the staging to speak to him quietly.

“I need you to do something for me lad,” Háma muttered. “Run down to the Dragon’s Hoard and get your uncle’s friend, Morwen. Remember her, the tall lady? Dark hair?”

“Oh aye Da, I remember,” Haleth replied. “But… what’s she doing there?”

The question unsettled Háma a bit, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected either. The lad was twelve now; he knew enough of such things to be surprised by his father’s request, and Háma could only answer him honestly. “She lives there.”

“But…” Haleth started, but stopped uncertainly.

“Go on, boy,” Háma prompted.

“But I thought the only women that lived there were… that they work there too?”

“She does. Now, take to your heels, lad. I need you to hurry and be back before the ceremony begins.”

Haleth’s face, bright red thanks to their topic of discussion, paled at Háma’s order and after a nod he sprinted away, wriggling through the crowd like a mouse fleeing the cat.

I’ll hear more about that later, Háma mused with fond sadness. When did he get so old? When did I get so old, for that matter? And where in the void is that woman?

Morwen left the fruit seller’s stall, after five minutes of haggling, with several of the hand-sized, red-and-yellow-skinned mango fruits nestled inside her basket beside a coconut. True to her word, however, she made her way carefully across the street to the jeweler’s stand, surprised by the memories that struck her when she saw the green and gold sash at his waist and the jeweled hilt of his dagger peering over it. Like Father’s, she mused, but smaller.

“Ah, now here you are, after being swindled by that foul-mouthed son of a pig farmer across the way. I assure you, lady, you will find a much better bargain here,” the jeweler said in Common, smiling winningly. Morwen replied in his mother tongue and surprised him into silence while she looked over the trinkets on the blanket between them. The fruit seller’s laughter carried easily over the heads of the crowd and Morwen found it hard to keep from joining in when the jeweler yelped, “You did that on purpose! He put you up to that, didn’t he, the flea-infested offspring of a dog and a rat?”

“I noticed no fleas when I spoke to him, though there was a bit of a smell,” Morwen replied. “And my ability in your tongue was learned as a child. How much for the bells?”

“For you,” the merchant replied, “three silvers.” Falling rapidly into the marketplace practice of haggling over price, Morwen hesitated a moment before replacing the bracelet she held and turning away.

“Perhaps,” the man added quickly, “I could take two.” With her back still turned, Morwen grinned, but composed herself quickly before she turned around again.
……

It felt good to run, Haleth noticed on his way down from the square. It didn’t feel as good to be going to the place he was, but there was no helping it. His father had sent him instead of a palace page or new Rider. The responsibility gave him more than a small feeling of pride and that overrode his confusion long enough to make a good start on the trip into the lower levels of the city, where he was hardly ever allowed to go even with his father or one of his uncles. But going there? Without an adult? He’d never imagined such a thing, and truly wasn’t sure he should do it even now. Shouldn’t Uncle Gamling go and fetch her himself? Haleth wondered, skidding around a corner into the scents of strange fruits and spices brought north by dark skinned and dark haired traders from somewhere far to the south. A burst of laughter slowed him down and he nearly ran into Wulfwyn and Mathilda Offadottir when he looked off to his left and saw a familiar tall woman talking to a jewelry seller.

“Watch out!” Wulfwyn snapped, but Mathilda only giggled and stepped away before Haleth bowled her over completely. Luckily he missed them both and recovered his balance, but then he looked up and caught Mathilda’s smile and flushed as red as his hair for the second time that day.

“I—that’s—I mean…” he stammered. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Wulfwyn replied and turned back toward the stand she was studying, but Mathilda kept smiling and looked quickly at the ground near her toes, her wheat colored hair falling over her shoulder and obscuring her face.

“It’s all right. You look like you’re in a hurry,” she said.

“I’m on an errand for my father,” Haleth answered, finally in control of his tongue again and gradually finding his breath. “But I think I’ve found who I’m looking for. I’m sorry I nearly ran into you, Mathilda.”

“It’s all right,” she repeated, twiddling a curl between her fingers. “But… I wish we could talk longer. I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“I’m needed at home,” he said. “My mother, she’s… she hasn’t been feeling well since the new baby came.” Mathilda nodded, looking at the ground again. “But,” Haleth said in a flash of bravery, “perhaps after the ceremony tonight we could… Do you remember where we buried the toy horse? The broken one?”

“Yes?”

“Can you go there? Tonight?” Haleth asked, cutting a look at Wulfwyn out of the corner of his eye.

“I think so,” Mathilda said.

“I’ll try to be there too, but I have to go talk to that woman right now,” he said, jerking his head toward Morwen.

“All right. I will do my best to be there tonight.”

“Tonight then,” Haleth said, grinning, and the two youngsters stood looking at each other awkwardly for a moment before she cleared her throat and pushed her hair over her shoulder again. “I—I should…”

“Your errand,” Mathilda said, nodding.

“Aye. I should… I should go.”

“Then go, you goose!” Mathilda giggled, and Haleth grinned as he started backing away, smack into a smiling farmer’s wife on her way into the square. Mathilda giggled again and this time the woman he’d run into joined in, patting him on the shoulder as he passed and approached Morwen from behind.
……

A silver and three copper coins finally crossed the jeweler’s palm and the belled bracelets and anklets were laid in Morwen’s basket, wrapped gently in a strip of cotton.

“Come in for tea,” the merchant said cajolingly. “There are many more beautiful things inside; something, worthy even to grace your fair frame, perhaps.”

At this Morwen laughed out loud but declined, noticing how the Rohirrim around her had begun to move more purposefully up the hill.

“Perhaps after, my friend, but fare well and safe journey home should I miss that appointment.”

“I will wait for you,” the jeweler called, waving a darkly tanned finger at Morwen’s back. “If I must freeze my beard off in a harsh northern winter, still I will wait!”

Morwen laughed again but turned up the hill shaking her head, charmed by the jeweler’s attentiveness. She was surprised, then, to be joined by a red haired youth and it took a moment for her to realize that the lad at her elbow was Haleth, Háma’s son.

“Da asked me to bring you to the ceremony,” the lad said by way of greeting. “I saw you on the way down to the… to get you.”

“So you are the escort he warned me of, are you?” she asked as they turned the last corner before the square.

“I don’t know about an escort,” he replied, “just that I was sent to bring you here.”

“Well, be sure to thank him for me,” Morwen said, “though I don’t see much point in staying. It doesn’t appear either of us will be able to see much of anything.”

People had filled the square so tightly that there was hardly standing space left, let alone a way to see over the heads and shoulders of the crowd. Morwen stretched and craned, seeking an open area in all the hubbub, but a solid wall of people stood between her and the staging area and reflexively she put a hand on Haleth’s shoulder so they wouldn’t be separated. The only possible positive in the situation was that, crushed in amongst so many people, the ever-present wind at the top of the hill was kept mostly at bay, though here and there someone’s hair tossed with a strong gust. Faintly, she made out a few gleaming blond heads in the distance, one of them slightly grey and wearing a circlet. Théoden King. The rest of the people on the platform were gathered around him in a semicircle, including every member of the guard she recognized from the inn, looking serious and uncomfortable. For the second time that day, Morwen felt a pang of sympathy for the fully-armed soldiers trapped in the blaring midday sun.

“Here,” Haleth said suddenly, squirting away through a gap in the crowd. “Da will be able to see us from up there.”

“There” was beside a building facing onto the square but farther up the hill, letting them look down onto the gathering from a bit of an angle and a few feet higher than most people’s heads. After checking to see if the building was occupied, Haleth dropped onto the grass with a sigh and stretched his legs out in front of him.

“You’re staying with me?” Morwen asked, genuinely surprised that the lad bore her no hard feelings for what had happened with Gamling. It was entirely possible, however, that he simply didn’t know, and Morwen was somewhat comforted by this idea.

“At least until Da knows I brought you here,” he replied.

“Then I should invite you to join me for a small repast,” she said reaching into her basket. “This is a mango,” she continued when the boy studied it skeptically. “It’s a fruit from the south, where I grew up, and it’s very sweet. Good on a hot day like today.”

The smell, it seemed, was the deciding factor and once Morwen had bitten into her slice, Haleth tried it as well.

“You like it?” she asked over a strong gust of wind.

“Yes my lady, very much.”

“Do you think your sister would like some? She’s coming up the hill with the baby.”

They didn’t get a chance to offer Feanreth a taste, however, before the girl fixed her brother with an angry glare over the curly red head of their younger sister.

“What are you doing with her?”

“Da told me to bring her to the ceremony. Who are you to question it?” Haleth retorted, stuffing the piece of mango he’d cut for Feanreth into his own mouth.

“Uncle Gamling’s been sad for weeks now,” the little redhead said glaring at Morwen, “and it’s all your fault.”

“Feanreth, stop it. She’s an adult Lady, and you’re being a snot,” Haleth snapped. “Besides, the ceremony’s starting.”

True enough, Déorwine had stepped forward from his position behind the King and his family and a gradual hush fell over the crowd. Morwen found it a bit odd that Théoden sat attended only by Gríma with his family, his niece and some other women, behind him. It was also odd in her experience that a ring of armed men— most in the sable and silver livery of Gríma son of Gálmód— had surrounded the main part of the square.

Shouldn’t those men be in armor? And blond? Morwen wondered, but held her tongue to avoid alarming the children in case something was indeed wrong.

Once the crowd had settled, two lines of young men, hardly more than children in Morwen’s thinking, entered the square and stood in a double row before the stage. A hissed argument had continued between the two youngsters while the boys filed in, but as Déorwine began to speak, Haleth and Feanreth fell quiet, watching intently. The baby quickly grew bored, however, and started playing with her sister’s hair, her own fiery curls tossed now and again by the wind. Morwen couldn’t understand everything that was said, but it seemed that the man read a list of duties of soldiers, including such admonitions as proper care of horses and armor, treating training exercises with importance, and obeying without question orders from those of higher rank. It was only when the boys answered “aye” one after the other that she realized they’d just been sworn into the military, and here and there a woman— and more than a few men— stood with tears in their eyes and proud smiles on their faces. A moment later, Déorwine asked the other men to renew their pledge to serve the King of Rohan and his chosen representatives, to which every armored man present assented, their voices rattling off the buildings like a rain of stones.

While they spoke, and to keep her from looking for someone she knew she shouldn’t, Morwen watched Gríma’s men. None of them swore the oath, and most of them hadn’t moved from their positions around the square, but those who had were bunched together at the back of the group. It was then a flash of red on the platform caught her eye and she realized with a mixture of relief and chagrin that Háma had seen her. He had also noticed where she’d been looking, and did not look pleased. With a hand on her head to keep her scarf from flying away on the wind, Morwen nodded to him once, then returned to studying the crowd, afraid of seeing whom else was with him on the stage. It was just as well she looked away at that point or she wouldn’t have seen the boys file behind the platform and join the ranks of men already standing there, taking their place among their comrades and commanders. Their adult lives were about to begin and she snuck a glance at Haleth, who looked on with envious eyes.

Don’t rush these days, lad, she thought sadly, handing him another piece of fruit. Soon enough they’ll be gone and you will wish them back.

Back on the platform the highest ranked officers took seats on stools or folding chairs. They were tense, and more than one kept a hand near his belt and his eyes on the crowd, all very bad signs in Morwen’s mind.

“Will the King speak, or will the Counselor do it?” Feanreth whispered over Gytha’s head.

“I don’t know,” Haleth replied, handing Gytha a bite of mango. “Hush.”

What Morwen didn’t notice as Gríma stood to address the assembly did not escape Feanreth. Gamling, sitting taller than most of the men on the stage, scanned the crowd continuously, though he didn’t look happy. He never did, these days, and Feanreth knew why. It was Morwen, her mother said, the strumpet that Uncle Gamling had let himself be drawn in by. Feanreth wasn’t sure what exactly a strumpet was, but apparently it wasn’t good and Morwen was one. She seemed nice, but that didn’t change the fact that when they were friends, Gamling had been much happier than he was now that they weren’t, and since Morwen was a strumpet, she was probably to blame. It was a simple situation in Feanreth’s mind, and she didn’t much care who knew it, unless of course Gamling found out. She would no sooner hurt him than she would her father, or Gytha.

Morwen found she hadn’t the attention span to listen to the Counselor’s speech and quickly fell to studying the people around her, making sure to avoid eye contact with Feanreth in the event the lass had more to say. She kept small slices of mango going, however, since both Haleth and the baby seemed to enjoy them very much. At one point she even offered Feanreth a piece, but the girl either didn’t notice or did a very good job of ignoring her and Morwen gave up. The longer Gríma spoke, the more tense the crowd grew and even the Captains and Marshals on the stage seemed affected by his words.

When he finally said, “With great honor and humility will I assist His Highness with the stewardship of this kingdom, using even my own men to see that the will of the King is carried out,” Morwen snapped out of her daze. If she had heard his statement correctly, Gríma had just named himself steward of the Riddermark… and Théoden King had smiled blandly while he did it, saying nothing.

“What does that mean?” Feanreth asked, putting Gytha on the grass near their feet.

“Gríma is in charge now, isn’t he?” Haleth asked, looking over his shoulder at Morwen.

“I think so,” she replied, catching her slipping scarf once again. A quick look around the square confirmed her suspicions and a whisper passed through the crowd as Gríma’s men stood straighter, some even smiling at those near them as though nothing unexpected had happened. The hue in Déorwine’s cheek, even from so great a distance, was startling, but by and large the men on the stage managed to remain calm, though many hands rested openly on sword hilts as Gríma finished speaking and sat, triumphantly, at the King’s side. Another hush fell while the people waited for Théoden to speak, to explain what they had just seen, but when nothing happened the King waved to Déorwine again and he stood, reluctantly, to continue proceedings.

“What’s next?” Morwen asked quietly.

“Promotions of men already within the ranks,” Haleth replied. “This will take a while, Da said, probably most of the afternoon.”

As the first name was called and a single dark head split off from the mob of Dunlendings at the back of the square, Feanreth let loose a disgusted sigh and plopped into the grass, pushing her hair away from her face. Morwen remained standing, counting heads in the square and eying possible escape routes while the atmosphere grew ever more sultry and tense. It was cooler on the hill with the breeze whipping by, but in the square, stuffed in like so many cattle, people grew restless and children fretty while the ring of dark liveried men remained, the very pictures of menace and arrogance.

“I want you both to listen to me,” Morwen said quietly, watching yet another dark jacketed man pass through the crowd and kneel before the platform. “Stay away from Gríma’s men unless you’re with your father or your uncle from this point on.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Feanreth spat, but Morwen anticipated her and, fed up with her attitude, gave back as good as she got.

“Yes, Feanreth, I can, and I will because it means your safety. Your father and Gam— your uncle would slit throats in the street if one of you were injured, and Gríma’s men are too happy with their promotions to have any sense. If you see one of them, especially you Feanreth, you must walk in the opposite direction and go straight to your father or someone he trusts. Is this understood?”

Haleth muttered an affirmative reply while Morwen stood staring at his sister with a set jaw. At first Feanreth tried to stare Morwen down, but the girl looked away first, then nodded.

“You think they’ll start fighting, don’t you?” Haleth asked, pushing stray strands of hair out of his eyes.

“The chances seem good to me,” Morwen said. “And the square won’t be a fit place for anyone without a sword once night falls.”

Haleth’s face fell at her reply, but they all turned quickly when Déorwine called the next name over a blast of wind.

“Gamling son of Geareþ, will you serve your King as Keeper of the Helm?”

A stunned Gamling rose at the sound of his name and came forward to kneel before Théoden King. To the surprise of most of the crowd, Théoden smiled and reached for the helmet at his knee while a sour-looking Gríma said nothing, the first time the entire afternoon that the King had done something himself. Morwen’s eyes flicked to Háma briefly and the merest hint of a smile played around his eyes when he nodded to her once and returned his attention to his friend.

He wanted me to see this, Morwen sighed. He knew it would happen and wanted to show me what I’ve damaged beyond repair.

As the hurt and grief set in, the wind came once again and this time won the tug-of-war over Morwen’s scarf, snatching it away for a game of tag with the long inky curls of her hair. The movement caught many eyes and to Morwen’s shame even Théoden King watched her futile chase of her head cover. It was over as quickly as it began, but too late, for where Théoden’s eyes went Gamling’s followed and as Morwen turned around again, they were the first and only thing she saw, and her heart broke all over again. How long they looked neither could later say, but as each pair of eyes struck their blows, the hurt was renewed so forcefully Gamling actually winced and sent tears to Morwen’s eyes. The moment passed when Théoden lowered the helmet into Gamling’s waiting hands, murmuring something only those on the dias could hear… and then it was done. Gamling was suddenly back in his place, his face set like stone and another dark head approached the platform to kneel before Gríma son of Gálmód, not the rightful King.

“What happens now?” Morwen asked, more herself than anyone else, and was surprised to get an answer.

“He’ll guard the King’s armor. Sleep with it even,” Feanreth said.

“In the room with it at least,” Haleth added. “So that nothing harms it and it’s ready if the King should need it.”

“And what of his house?” Morwen asked, but the children just shrugged in reply.

“Would you like my handkerchief?” Feanreth whispered as another of Gríma’s men approached the stage.

“What?”

“My handkerchief,” the girl repeated. “You’re crying.” A small piece of linen found its way into Morwen’s frigid hand a moment later.

“Why now?” Morwen asked, dabbing at her eyes anyway.

“I think maybe it’s not all your fault after all,” Feanreth said. “And even if it is, I don’t think you did whatever made him so sad just to be mean, or you wouldn’t be sad too. I’m sorry I was such a snot.”

“You love your uncle,” Morwen said. “I can understand it.” Because I do too. Then, silently, her scarf forgotten, she reached into her basket and pressed a mango into Feanreth’s hand. “For later,” she muttered, then turned and quietly left, slipping almost unnoticed around the building and down the hill.

Once Morwen had gone and several more men had taken their oaths before the King, Feanreth looked at her brother again. “Will you watch Gytha for a while?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’m going to find Morwen’s scarf,” she replied, handing the baby to her brother.

“I thought you were mad at her?” Haleth called, confused.

“I was,” Feanreth replied. “Now I’m not. I’ll be back soon.”

Haleth watched his sister run down the opposite side of the hill in the direction the wind had been blowing and sighed. Sitting Gytha in his lap, he muttered, “Don’t grow up and become a girl, Gytha. They’re too strange.”
~*~

A.N.:
Translations-
Numolíeg = biting flame or snappish flame (Yes, inspired by Beater and Biter[i] and [i]Andúril. I'm really not all that original. :D )

Wulfwyn and Mathilda Offadottir = Wolf Maiden and Powerful Fighter. Their surname “Offadottir” is based on the Norse tradition of suffixing “son” or “daughter” to a first name to get a “surname” and establish family ties. Wulfwyn and Mathilda, then, are each the dottir of someone named Offa. Their brother Pedro would be Pedro Offason in the same system. :D However, while many contemporary surnames exist that end with –son or –sen, many of those with the –dottir suffix have died out.

Gytha- Literally “gift”; Dora or Dory in a more modern context.

Geareþ- Gareth or Jared in a more modern context.

A note on fruit:
To the best of my knowledge there is no record of mangoes- or any other tropical fruit for that matter- in canon; however, I’ve taken the liberty with careful thought. The argument I’ve heard in favor of most of this sort of inclusion is that many plants that were necessary or useful in Middle-earth came at one point or another from Númenor, and we really have no way of telling how many or what types of plants those were. Additionally, many plants that appear in the books like potatoes and tomatoes (and arguably tobacco) originated in the New World, so referencing a fruit that appears in Africa and Asia in our world as an import to “mainland” Middle-earth from the more southerly reaches of the known areas of Arda seems less of a stretch to me than assuming mango trees flourish in Gondor, or assuming that a northern location wouldn’t see any foreign goods at all in a midsummer fair market. With this explanation in mind I’ve included mangoes and coconut and will probably do something similar in the future as necessary. I hope it has brought you all a taste of the quickly approaching summer!


Chapter 5 - Shiver

“Congratulations, Brother,” Háma said later over the pile of armor in Gamling’s new chamber. “You’re finally where you belong.”

The king’s armor lay carefully arranged on the bed that a few of the young lads carried it into the Hall and reassembled— just one of the perks of having new recruits ready to work and freshly reminded to obey their superiors or else. Gamling’s armor lay in a heap on the floor beside the bed while he changed out of his sweat-soaked clothes in favor of clean trews, shirt and his weapon belt. He would not go unarmed again, save in sleep, until such time as he was called to other duties.

Keeper of the Helm… how did this happen? he wondered.

Distracted by that thought, and a dozen more that he couldn’t pin down, Gamling just nodded and removed polish and cloths from a box in the wardrobe to start cleaning Théoden King’s armor. Sweat drying inside the mail and leather would ruin it if it were not cleaned quickly, and Háma took up a cloth to assist as he spoke.

“Shame your family couldn’t come in. Your ma would have been pleased.”

“What do you want to say, Háma?” Gamling asked, cutting straight to the point his friend was hedging about.

“Why don’t you speak to her?”

“Whom?”

“You know whom. She was there today, that should count for something.”

Gamling set his jaw and sat on the bed, the largest piece of his home he’d brought with him into Meduseld. The house itself now stood relatively empty, though there was no need for a table and chairs in the chamber adjacent to the king’s quarters. His meals would be taken in the hall with the rest of the guards and servants, so his kitchen was cleared of any perishables and the hearth fire put out, but the rest of his meager furniture remained in the cottage. There’d been no discussion of its sale or loan, but Gamling hadn’t asked, and likely never would. Things changed; that was behind him now.

“I don’t know what caused you to stop speaking,” Háma began, then paused when Gamling took a breath. When he didn’t speak, however, Háma continued. “I’m about to say what I’m thinking because you know I love you as my brother. I don’t want to see you in misery similar to mine, you know this?”

“Aye.” It was only one word, but at least he had the other man’s attention.

“Whatever she said or did, it can’t be unforgivable. And whatever you did or didn’t do, or said and regret, shouldn’t you be able to forgive yourself by now? Over two months is long enough to beat yourself up with no sure reason. How do you even know she’s still upset, for that matter?”

“She’d have come to me,” Gamling replied, trading the King’s right greave for the elbow cop.

“We’re talking of the same woman? Hair like spilled ink, eyes like fresh hay, stubborn streak at least as broad as your own?” Háma retorted. “There’s not a sinew in her willing to beg for anything, and well we both know it.”

But I’ve made her beg, Gamling thought with a pang in his heart.And I’ve made her cry.

“She’s not going to come to you first, at least not without some sign she’s welcome,” Háma said, laying aside a vambrance. “And if I know that, when I haven’t spent even an hour conversing with her, you shouldn’t need reminding.”

“Why should I?” Gamling asked as lightly as he could, holding the cop into the light and inspecting it closely.

“Because, you hard-headed excuse for a horse’s arse, she got you where you sit right now!” Háma spat. “Déorwine and I put you forward because of all she taught you, and it was still a near thing over yet another of Gríma’s buffoons. Your appointment came down to you being here longer, and the fact that you can read written Common keeping one of those inbred Hillman swine from sleeping not ten steps from Théoden King every night! You owe her thanks for that, to say nothing of the fact you’ve spent eight miserable weeks pretending she never existed and failing so totally even my children have noticed. Don’t be such a clod that you’ll take the benefits of knowing her and give no credit where it’s due! I thought you were a better man than that or I wouldn’t have bothered staking my reputation on yours.”

“Calm down,” Gamling sighed, shaking his head.

“Only when you wisen up,” Háma retorted. “Distracted is no way to be, not now. You know I’d fight beside you proudly with naught more than our skins on if we faced ten thousand orcs, but not when you’ve got your head so far up your arse you can chew your food twice!” Laying the buffing cloth aside, Háma stood. “Or, keep your head buried in the manure pile, and prove the Worm right when he thinks you stupid and useless. It’ll be just a matter of time until he truly is right.”

“You don’t know a damned thing about it!” Gamling shot at Háma’s back before the latter man reached the door.

“The fact you needed to tell me I don’t says I’m closer to correct than you like,” Háma replied. “But I’m also not going to ask. You had the decency to let me handle my affairs quietly, and I’m trying to do the same for you. But you can tell me if you choose, and know it’ll go no farther.”

Gamling thought, and thought hard, about telling Háma what they’d said in that room over the inn, but found himself unable to speak.

“Well, I’ve said my piece,” Háma said finally. “I’ll leave you to your new duties.”

His boot steps echoed faintly on the planks in the corridor, then rattled on the stairs down to the main level of the hall, and still Gamling sat with cloth in hand. Did he owe her thanks? An apology, even? He’d been so angry for so long he couldn’t exactly recall who had done what. All he remembered were the snap of angry tears in her eyes and the stench of that tea she said would remove any accidents, then the feeling of ice in his gut when she all but told him to find someone else to warm his bed, as though it were as simple as walking into a tavern and waiting a moment to replace over a year’s worth of time. How could she not have known, he wondered, that only something as wrenching as that dismissal would make him leave? The longer he sat in thought, the more he realized that, given what she’d been forced to do to stay alive and in one piece, a little anger was expected. Fear would get a lass killed as quick— or quicker— than it would send a man to his ancestors, and that was plenty fast enough. Anger, he knew, masked feelings very, very well, and fear was just one of those.

Half-wit, he cursed himself. Numbskull. You should have realized. And now you’ve let it grow too big, run wild feeding on itself like that spider in her stories. You colossal idiot.

The question became, the longer Gamling sat thinking and polishing, how was he to even begin to mend the rift between them now? Were he dealing with Háma, or even one of his blood-related brothers, a simple apology and slap on the back would solve much of the problem, but women… women weren’t like that, as Háma’s troubles with Fyrene had proven well. It wasn’t a matter of winning her back, because though the thought pained him, his answer to the question Has she replaced me as easily as she thought I could her? was an emphatic no. It had taken months for her to trust him properly—truly, it seemed she never had— but the hurt in her eyes had been real, and that wouldn’t go away simply through distraction. So, with no competition other than her likely vivid memory of their fight, there was no man to intimidate, work into exhaustion or beat senseless… except himself. It became, then, a matter of apology and erasing the past.

Well, he mused. Part of that is difficult to say the least, and part of that is impossible. Frustrated, he looked over Théoden King’s armor one last time before putting it carefully into the chest against the far wall of his new chamber. That task finished, though, he had the opportunity to argue with himself again.

Didn’t you tell yourself for years that anything other than horses, whores, and wars was so far from your reach it didn’t matter? he asked himself. That’s been proved wrong now. So maybe the impossible isn’t so impossible if you’re willing to work at it.

Across the room, just inside the chamber door, a small wooden table stood, laid out with quills, ink and a case full of sheets of stiff parchment. Ten years, five years, even two years before, they would have meant only a way someone else communicated or a waste of time and money; but now…

After checking one last time that the King’s armor chest was secured, Gamling reached for his own polishing kit, glancing now and again at the table and quills.

But now…

……

It’s funny, Morwen mused as she gulped down some food between filling tankards, how fate has a way of making a bad day truly horrid.

Folcwyn’s groans had reached Morwen through the upstairs windows while she was still in the inn yard, attempting to calm down before facing her employer again. When she got inside, though, she was relieved to find Bliss and Blithe already in Folcwyn’s chamber and the linen closet a shambles of rumpled bedding. The girls, she knew, had Folcwyn’s labor well in hand, and the linen closet gave her something to tidy while she settled down. The most disturbing discovery of the brief afternoon came when she found Walda and Dreame inspecting every cask and barrel in the cellar in minute detail. Hiding? Surprisingly enough, Dreame at least admitted her fear.

“I’ve seen enough girls I worked with go down in child bed,” she grumbled. “At least I don’t have to hear the screamin’ down here.”

“We can’t stay down here all day,” Morwen replied. “And what are we to do with the customers?”

“Think any of them will feel like drinkin’ with that caterwaul going on?” Dreame wondered aloud.

“I think a good number of those who come here regularly will feel like drinking quite hard after what I saw in that square,” Morwen replied, and continued with the brief version of the promotion ceremony, excluding her mishap with the wind and why she’d left it so early.

“How many?” Walda rumbled from the drying racks near the cellar’s door to the garden. “How many of Gríma’s goons are in the guard now?”

“I counted 8 of 15 promoted into service in the Hall itself,” Morwen said. “I’m not sure about additions to the Eored.”

“Rose and Weirthe will know better when they get in,” Dreame added. “They actually know the tongue.”

“Don’t start,” Walda sighed. “Just shut your mouth of that kind of talk before I decide to send you packing for good and for all.”

“In any case,” Morwen said as though Dreame hadn’t spoken, “there are probably some Riders out there in the square looking forward to a reprieve from Gríma’s influence, and this is probably one of the few places in the city they might get it.”

“Let’s hope, at any rate. There’s naught to say that he ain’t bought someone’s loyalty who looks pure bred and uses him to spy here anyway. But we can’t worry about that; it ain’t our place. Our worry is upstairs in that bedroom givin’ me a grandchild.”

“Grandchild!?” Morwen yelped, surprised.

“In a manner o’ speakin’,” Walda added. “She ain’t mine, o’ course, Folcwyn’s not, but… I’m not like to have any wee’uns o’ my own at this age, and even if I did, I wouldn’t see no grandlings out of it. So, I’ll see to what I’m given best as I can. How is she?”

“Well enough, considering,” Morwen said as she picked a cobweb from Walda’s shirt sleeve. “The hard part is a while off if my past experiences tell any truth. When did it start?”

“You couldna’ been out of sight,” Walda said, ascending the stairs into the yard. “She was up there a while on her own before wee Blithe went to check on her. It’ll take a long time then?”

“At least all night is my guess, but I’m no midwife. Seen a few births, but never been in one since I was the new arrival.”

“And you’re lucky for that,” Walda added. “Helped you keep your looks.” Morwen smiled faintly, but gave no other reply. After a moment of quiet the landlord continued. “Well, this being a first in a long while, I’m not sure quite what to do about later on. Got the casks up and vented. Got plenty of wood in. Beds are all done. Rentable rooms are all made up. Plenty o’ bread and a new load of cheeses just come two days past.”

“Run out of ways to distract yourself, have you?” Morwen teased gently. Walda nodded, looking more than a little sheepish.

“But we’ll manage,” he said looking down the hill toward the plain below Edoras. “Always do.”

Manage they did, surprisingly well, for the rest of the afternoon. The rush began a bit earlier than usual and the number of young lads in the place was negligible. Nearly every man through the door had a full beard and at least a bit of grey on his head, except for Léohthelm who had no hair to speak of apart from his eyebrows. Morwen found it a great relief that the crowd was considerably older and more serious than usual; she wasn’t sure how she’d feel about going upstairs with someone while Folcwyn labored in the next room. The usual noises of customers were something she was quite used to by now, but the panting and groans of a delivery… those were something else entirely.

Business for the rest of the girls was slow as well, but the ale flowed fast, so none of them could really be spared from the Common room any way. With three fewer sets of hands than normally, even a subdued crowd kept them all running. It was the least cheer she’d seen on a Midsummer’s night since she’d moved north, and the knowledge that she’d spent three such days in Edoras brought her up short.

Longest I’ve spent in any one place since Mama passed, she mused while Rose pulled a pitcher for her. What a way to celebrate it.

A short while later, muffled whispers passed through the crowd when a red head appeared at the door and as Morwen worked her way back to the bar, pitcher empty again.

“There she is, Lad,” Háma said with a hand on Haleth’s shoulder. “Thought we’d find her here.” Addressing Morwen then, Háma looked up with a short nod to a brace of tables in the back where armor still glittered under the candle and lamp light. “My son and I are just in for a drink. Will you bring us each a bowl back, my lady?”

“Of course,” she replied, eying Haleth a little skeptically. “What will you have?”

“Winter ale for me. Haleth, lad, what’ll you drink?”

“I- I don’t… what is there? I--”

Morwen smiled over Háma’s near chuckle and set her pitcher down on the bar. “Light ale, dark ale, cider and some wines, though I don’t suppose you’ll have had those, have you?”

“Wine?” Haleth asked. “No my lady, but I’ve had ale before.”

“This is a little different than your Ma’s ale,” Háma added. “I’d start with cider, were it me.” After a nod from Haleth, Morwen headed into the cellar to pull the lad’s pint from the newest barrel and hurried to the table where Déorwine and the rest of the ranked guard had holed up for the evening. Room had been made for both Háma and his son and the sight warmed Morwen’s heart a little. She stayed and watched while Haleth tried his cider, and topped up a few tankards, trying not to listen to the conversation going on around her. A usually difficult task, it proved impossible when a shout from overhead dropped most of the tavern into uneasy silence.

“What’s going on up there?” Déorwine asked with a hand on Morwen’s arm.

“Folcwyn, the short one, big chest? Having her baby,” Morwen replied. The marshal grunted and buried his face in his tankard until conversation started again, with words Morwen had hoped not to hear.

“Where’s Gamling, Háma? He should be here celebrating.”

“He won’t leave that place now,” another man answered. “He’s the last trustworthy defense between Théoden King and what ales him, and well he knows it. Won’t even come after her, I shouldn’t think.”

“How’s your cider, milord Haleth?” Morwen asked, blatantly ignoring the undermarshal’s comment.

“S’good,” the lad said, but soon he spoke again. “Milady, why— that is… oh never mind.”

“Go on, lad,” Háma muttered, then turned a little away from his son, giving him what privacy he could. Morwen’s heart sank when she realized what was coming next.

“You’re wondering why I work here, Haleth?” Flushing instantly to the roots of his hair, Morwen couldn’t help but smile a bit. The poor lad. Shooting daggers at Háma over Haleth’s head, she set her now empty pitcher aside and squatted beside the bench where Haleth sat, thinking. Finally, she said, “How old are you?”

“Twelve, two weeks ago,” he answered, still blushing furiously.

“Then you’re not too young to understand,” Morwen replied and patted his hand fondly before she continued. “When I was almost exactly your age, my father and older brother were both killed. My mother and I were left without anyone to help us, and my father had owed people money when he died. We were forced to pay that debt by taking whatever work we could get, so I started working in inns and taverns then, to help take care of her.”

“But what do you do?” Haleth blurted, startling a few of his father’s companions and earning more than a few chuckles for his confusion. They went back to their discussion of the ceremony while Morwen thought of a way to answer that wouldn’t degrade her any further in the lad’s esteem, promising to rain brimstone on Háma’s ears if she ever spoke to him alone again.

“Everyone needs company sometimes, lad, but a lot of men— especially men in the cavalry— aren’t married. So, they give me money to be their wife for a while, so they don’t have to be lonely all the time.”

Morwen waited a long, breathless moment before she looked Haleth in the eyes again. Had it worked? Was he going to ask for more details, or did her memory of what she had known at his age been close enough to let him fill in the gaps on his own? It seemed that it was for Haleth looked at her and nodded, then picked up his pint.

“The cider is very good,” Haleth said. “Thank you for bringing it to me.”

“You’re welcome, lad. It’s my job. Now then, I’ll be back in a bit with more ale for the Marshals, and I think we have a few late strawberries in the kitchen I could bring out as well?” If all else fails, Morwen sighed, at least one can always win hearts with food.

Haleth and Háma both remained silent on Morwen’s return to the table and for a short while she was left in relative peace to fill tankards and otherwise remain inconspicuous. Eventually, their mutual grievance chewed over thoroughly, the marshals fell into a brooding, gloomy funk that gradually permeated the entire common room, punctuated only a few times by a groan from Folcwyn’s chamber. Several men, including Walda, looked ready to jump out of their skins and many of those downed their ales quickly and left for other taverns or their homes. Worry was evident on even Wierthe’s usually cheerful face as the night wore on and Morwen was surprised to see the sun just barely set when she stopped for a bite and a rest near the bar. Such a long night ahead of them, but the day felt as though it had dragged on for eternity. A whistle snapped her out of her musings and she sighed before hefting a pitcher and heading for Háma’s table again.

“Been a long day for you lasses, hasn’t it?” Háma said as she poured his drink.

“Longer for some than others,” she replied with a slight twist of the lip and a nod toward the ceiling. “Do you want some more cider, milord Haleth?”

“No, my lady, thank you,” he replied, shifting uncomfortably. “But where’s… is there a privy somewhere?”

“Through the back door there, slightly to the left,” Morwen said while Háma hid another chuckle in his drink and Haleth scooted out into the night.

“Didn’t see you at the end of the festivities this afternoon,” Háma continued before Morwen could turn away. “I’d thought you would stay and congratulate—”

“Stop right there,” Morwen hissed, slamming her pitcher onto the table and paying no heed to Háma’s tankard rattling to the floor. She was beginning to see where Feanreth got her temper, and enough was most definitely enough. “You knew what would happen, and ordered me there to see that even he has decided I’m beneath him now. I can accept that you think I hurt your friend, but Guard or no, I will not have my nose rubbed in it! Not now, not after a day like today with the night I have ahead of me, and not by you. You got your wish, I was there and roundly humiliated besides. You’ve won; can’t that be enough?”

“I wanted you there,” Háma replied hotly, drawing her into the farthest corner of the room by the arm, “so you could see what you and he did together to benefit the Mark! I don’t know what kind of callous bastard you think me to be, but Déorwine and I could only put him forward for the position now that you’ve taught him to read. He wouldn’t have taken the teaching from anyone else; we’d tried for twenty years to get him to study something, but for whatever reason he wouldn’t have it from us. You know what’s going on up there, and you should know that now more than ever, keeping good men around the King is our first priority. Indirectly at least, you helped us do that, and when you reconcile with Gamling, you’ll both be glad you were there.”

At the word “reconcile” Morwen snorted but Háma continued before she could reply. “I said what I meant. I’ve not seen anyone as right for each other as you two not have a fight now and then. But, as I told him this afternoon, that damned hard head of his might be the end of more good than bad, the way you two are carrying on. I don’t think he’s entirely the problem, though. You don’t trust anybody willingly, and that’s understandable. But don’t you think you should find a way around that? For your own sake, if not his too?”

“Taking the place of my father now?” Morwen asked, sounding more like a sullen child than she’d ever thought possible.

“I’m not that old,” he replied with a smirk. “But I’ve known Gamling since he joined up, and I’ve had my share of problems with women. Couldn’t see a way out of them at the time I had most of them, but I’m not tangled up in this one. I’m just looking on from the outside and tired of seeing someone I care about hurting himself instead of risking being hurt by someone else again. So, stop being so damned stubborn yourself and just talk to the man. That’s all I intended this afternoon; making you two see that the other one isn’t right without you and start getting over whatever it was that started this mess in the first place. We’ve no time or energy to spare for it now. There are more important problems at hand than a lovers’ spat.”

“And what, exactly, are those?” Morwen replied archly.

“My tankard’s empty again, for starters,” Háma replied with the beginnings of a smile. “But more importantly, I’ve no earthly idea where my son’s gone off to.”
……

On the surprisingly scary trip from the Dragon’s Hoard to the spot he’d told Mathilde to meet him, Haleth’s only hope was that the girl was actually there. He didn’t, however, understand why that was, only that he wanted to see her, to talk to her without anyone else around. Truthfully he probably should have talked to his father about it first, but he was tired of being laughed at for what seemed to him complex questions that adults obviously knew the answers too and either wouldn’t answer or expected him to know all on his own. So, he’d decided to simply obey his first instinct, which was to get to Mathilde and then see that she got home safely. The meaning of Morwen’s worries earlier in the day had not escaped him, and when his father decided to take him to the tavern with him that night— what should have been an exciting new adventure—he grew worried that he would miss Mathilde entirely or she would be caught and unable to come. Then he worried that, if she weren’t caught or tattled on by Wulfwyn, perhaps men with a bit too much drink in them would find her before he did. Haleth wasn’t sure which outcome would be worse, but as he ran through alleys and door yards up toward the edge of the training grounds, he saw a shiny blonde head and felt immensely relieved. She was there.

“Did you run all the way?” Mathilde asked when he reached the lee of the wood pile where they’d dug a grave for his broken toy horse years before.

“Most of it,” he replied, suddenly nervous. “Da took me to the tavern with him, to see someone.”

“Oh,” she said, then studied her hands. “I’ve never been into a tavern before. Is it as dirty and noisy as they say?”

“Not really,” Haleth said, dropping to the grass beside her. “At least, not today. One of the women that works there was having a baby, so I think they kept it quiet for her sake. The cider was good though.”

“They have cider? At this time of year?” Mathilde asked, eyes wide. “It’s too early.”

“I think they store it somewhere. Morwen, that is, the serving woman, went into the cellar to get it and it was cool when she brought it to me. It was a little sour, so it must have been from last fall.”

After another muttered, “oh” Mathilde fell quiet and this time Haleth did too. What should he say? What was there to talk about with this girl he used to see every day but suddenly didn’t and felt so slow-witted around? Maybe…

“How is—” Haleth began, just as Mathilde spoke.

“The other lads—”

“Go ahead,” Haleth said, feeling his cheeks go red.

“No, please, what were you going to say?”

“Nothing important,” he replied. “What about the other lads?”

“They wonder about you, I think,” Mathilde finally replied. “I’m sorry your ma has been so sickly.”

“She’s not sickly, exactly,” Haleth said finally. “It’s strange; she simply sleeps, a lot. Hardly stirs from the bed except to go to the privy now and then. But she doesn’t talk, or laugh, or sing to us, or do anything that she used to. Feanreth and I do almost everything, unless father’s home, then he does it. She doesn’t talk to him either. I… I don’t understand it. Do you…?”

“I’ve never heard of something like that either,” Mathilde said, then leaned her head tentatively on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Haleth felt his hands start to shake when he looked toward her, and waves of prickles tickled his skin. He could only see the top of her head and a few individual strands of hair that stood up and gleamed in the moonlight, but he felt so much more, including a vaguely sick, fluttery feeling in his stomach that was entirely new and a little scary. Exciting, but scary too.

“It isn’t your fault,” he said, breathless, confused, elated, and ever so gently reached for her hand. “Noth- nothing you can do.”

“That isn’t so,” Mathilde said sharply. “I can come and help with things. My mother won’t miss me; Wulfwyn does most of the chores around our house anyway.”

“She wouldn’t let you,” Haleth sighed. “My mother, I mean. She doesn’t want visitors, not even Uncle Gamling, though she won’t say so when he comes over.” When Mathilde sat up suddenly, he hurried on. “It’s not that I don’t want to see you, or that the help isn’t needed, truly. I just… I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. But… but maybe if, if you have time and… and would like to say hello, I could… I could find a way to come out sometimes, at least while summer’s here?”

“I’d like that,” Mathilde said, squeezing his hand.

“I would too.”

“Well of course you would or you wouldn’t have said it, goose!” she retorted with a giggle. Haleth couldn’t think of a retort to that logic and looked down at their hands instead. The sick-excited feeling hit again but passed on when he realized that he rather liked sitting in the dark with her this way, and that Mathilde didn’t seem to mind it either. So they sat and didn’t say anything for a long time until their hands got clammy and Haleth knew at least one of them was going to be missed if they stayed any longer.

“I should walk you home soon,” he said, daring to look at Mathilde again.

“But aren’t you going home too? It’s almost the same way.”

“I should go back to the tavern first, to see if my father’s still there,” he replied.

“Then you don’t have to retrace your steps just to take me home,” Mathilde said, standing. “It’s not half so far as the tavern.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Haleth replied dusting leaves and grass off of his seat.

“Why not?” Mathilde asked.

“Because it’s not good for a girl to walk alone at night, especially when Gríma’s men might be about. There’s no telling what mischief they might get into.”

“They could hurt you too you know,” Mathilde retorted, hands on hips.

“They could, but girls are much easier to beat up than boys.”

“We are not!” the lass snapped. “I blacked your eye a few summers ago, remember?”

“Of course I remember that,” Haleth sighed, secretly glad the light was dim enough that his bright red face wouldn’t show too badly. “But I wasn’t grown then, and anybody we might meet out here will be, and my father says there are a lot of people in the city that we can’t trust now. It was probably not too smart to meet out here, even, but… oh never mind. Come on!”

“No,” Mathilde said. “Finish what you were saying. But what?”

“Nothing. It’s not imp—” Haleth began, but cut himself off when he saw the set of Mathilde’s jaw. She’d had the same look on her face just before the fight when she’d blackened his eye. “But I miss you, all right? Now will you let me walk you home? Please?”

Somewhere off to his right a tree frog peeped while Haleth and Mathilde stared at each other. Mathilde looked… strange, had a funny little smile on her face, but kept looking at her hands or her shoes and pushing her hair behind her ears. The sick-excited feeling was back in his stomach and stronger than ever. What was going on?

“All right,” Mathilde said after so much time had passed Haleth began to wonder if she’d turned to stone. They started down the path behind the cavalry barns side by side, not speaking, not even looking at each other, going as quietly as they could so if someone else were wandering about in the dark, they might go undetected. Somewhere along the trip, though, his hand brushed hers and a moment later her hand brushed his. This time Mathilde slipped her icy fingers between Haleth’s. She too was shaking. At the back of her father’s shop they stopped, still hand in hand, still shaking and, Haleth at least, still fighting the sick feeling in his gut. He wanted to ask his father why he felt so strangely, but then thought better of it. He’d just get laughed at again, and scolded roundly for sneaking off in the dark alone.

“Thank you,” Mathilde said so quietly Haleth almost didn’t hear her at first.

“Of course,” he replied. “Least I could do.”

“There’s… there’s one more thing,” Mathilde said, still almost too softly to hear, and Haleth stepped closer, thinking it was perhaps a secret or… but it was something else entirely and he jolted in surprise when she leaned over and kissed him, really kissed him. On the mouth! Shock kept him immobile for a moment and he didn’t know what to do or if he should breathe or where to put his hands or—and then she backed away, breathing like she’d just been running.

Now wait a minute. It’s supposed to be longer than that, he thought and remembered suddenly seeing the farrier and his wife one day near his shop. Well, at least he’d figured out where to put his hands.

“I- I- I shouldn’t… oh Béma…” Mathilde stuttered and backed up, turning away.

“Wait!” Haleth didn’t believe the voice was his at first, but she turned back around so it must have been. He took another step closer, looked at her pale and pretty and bluish in the moonlight and decided to try again almost after he leaned toward her and reached toward her face. The second time was easier, he thought, and her cheek was so soft under his hand he didn’t want to let go. It was strange, this kissing stuff, and at first when the sick-excited feeling got stronger and stronger he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t make him throw up, but he didn’t. He just grew warm, then warmer when Mathilde turned her head a little to one side and made a noise in her throat. It was nice, this kissing stuff… but in a blink she was gone, turned and running back toward the house.

“Goodnight,” came whispered through the dark. Haleth couldn’t reply. He was smiling too hard, shaking too hard, already running toward the tavern and trying not to laugh out loud at the wind rushing by, the moon and clouds over his head, even the blood that was slowly filtering back into his head. He’d just kissed a girl. He’d just kissed Mathilde! and he felt… he felt full of stars, like he’d just been given a Meara by the king or Prince Théodred himself and suddenly, he understood how bad it must be to be lonely all the time. And as he skirted the carpenter’s shop yard, almost back to the tavern again, he decided that even though they were strange sometimes… girls were pretty wonderful too.


Chapter 6 - Kindled and Thawed

It was a boy. Long after everyone that didn’t live at the Dragon’s Hoard left for the night, the excruciating noise in the upstairs finally stopped and a large, healthy, squalling baby boy was welcomed to the family.

“I musta figured wrongly,” Folcwyn said looking up at the baby in Walda’s arms. “There’s naught wrong with him, except he won’t stop screamin’. Early babies don’t do so well as him, Bliss says.”

“I’d likely scream too, had I had a day like his has been,” Blithe replied from a pile of linen on the floor.

“Thank the gods, it’s here and we can finally get to sleep,” Dreame said looking down at the exhausted new mother on the bed. “And that includes you. Feelin’ well, considering?”

“Enough, I guess,” Folcwyn said, eyes already closing.

“Take water before you sleep,” Blithe replied. “You’ve been too hot for too long: we don’t need you taking sick now.”

While the women chattered and shuffled around them, Walda stood beside Folcwyn’s bed studying the screaming bundle of baby he held. He wouldn’t admit it to Folcwyn of course— he wasn’t the cruel sort except when necessary— but he had an idea based on looks alone who the father might have been. Not that it mattered one way or a second. The laddie was there now, and there is where he’d stay. But this crying business would need to be discussed and Walda took the infant nearer the window for a man to man chat.

Morwen smiled at the scene of what passed for domestic tranquility in Folcwyn’s room and returned to her own chamber. She was relieved that both Folcwyn and the baby seemed well, but the next few days would tell whether that relief was premature. With all the windows in the building open, the smell of the procedure was on its way out, and every available wash tub already held vinegar and water to soak the sheets clean overnight. Bliss pattered up the steps to get the last of the dirty linens a moment after Morwen shut her door and stripped down to her binding and underdrawers to try to sleep again, not the usual end to her day, but a welcome change. A slight breeze scented with flowers and plants from the garden passed through her window, and a half moon lit the foot of her bed and the floor. Once everyone settled down, though, Morwen thought she would sleep soundly and not stir until late morning the next day. It was now the twins turn to deal with washing and they were welcome to the task. Morwen had other things to figure out.

Her dreams, however, had other plans. She woke from the first before the baby had stopped crying, jolting awake flailing at dark jerkined attackers that weren’t there and tempted to go for the knife beneath her mattress. That irrational fear dispelled, she dozed again, and woke once more to the hemmed in feeling of a hart in the hunt, hounds baying for her blood and a faceless, dark keeper at their backs, the women and children behind her already pale with fear and hopelessness. This dream was harder to shake and, after catching her breath again she rose for a drink of water and a poke about the darkened tavern to settle her mind. Her worries assuaged, she returned to her room and slept again, lulled by the distant sound of Folcwyn humming through the wall behind her head.

In the morning when she woke again, puffy eyed and dry mouthed, Morwen cursed her final dream to the deepest parts of every pile of balrog leavings to ever infect the earth. In the third dream, she saw Gamling, and worse than simply seeing him, she smelt him, felt his hand on hers, his lips across her sweaty brow as real as if he’d been in her chamber. The longing, the guilt and most painfully, her shame, wrenched her awake as the sky outside her window turned faintly blue with the first signs of dawn… her signal to crawl away from Gamling’s bed in the house he no longer called home and sneak back to the Dragon’s Hoard, pretending to be a happy little emerald in the pile of treasures she’d let herself think Walda tended with such care and love.

What a steaming pile of horse shite that was, she fumed.

And then the paper fluttered, skittering across the floor into the bed post.
~*~

“I trust you don’t find your duties too difficult, Keeper?”

The gravely voice rattling out of the shadows around the hall surprised Gamling very little. He hadn’t expected to complete his errand completely undetected, but seeing a dark head at the doors of Meduseld was a sight that would take some time to call ‘normal’.

“Why do you ask, guard?” Gamling replied, ignoring the fact that he was being challenged by someone who was his inferior in all possible ways.

“Odd for an unmarried officer to be arriving at the Hall first thing in the morning,” the half Dunlending replied. “Particularly when he should be dressing his King.”

“The King doesn’t wear armor daily. Even you should know that,” Gamling said with as much of Háma’s trademark boredom as he could manage. “Your duties revolve around this door, no others. Since we both know I left by the rear gate, I would caution you against speaking before thinking. Dereliction of duty is not something Déorwine overlooks.” The Dunlending looked up at Gamling with a sneer but his eyes shifted in the way of a man caught by his own idiocy. He said no more before Gamling went around the side of the Hall and slipped into the kitchen, hauling a bucket of fresh water as he went.

“Might as well be useful somehow,” he grumbled to himself. “It’s not as though Théoden will be using that helm I’m supposed to be guarding any time soon.”

He shouldn’t have touched her: it was a risk he regretted taking. No, that wasn’t exactly true. Touching Morwen when he left his letter had been necessary. Háma had been right about two months being far too long without even a whiff of her. He’d needed to feel her skin under his fingers again. It was fear, now, that made Gamling’s stomach knot and brought self-doubt to the surface. Had she awakened and seen him there, what would have happened? Should he have woken her intentionally and not snuck in and out of the building like some thief? As he put the water bucket near the wash basins in the kitchen, he couldn’t even spare the serving girls a smile, and his thoughts continued to race as he went into the main part of the hall to break his fast.

The sensible thing would be to let the letter do its work, but worrying about the outcome of it was too hard not to do. It was almost as though, now that his folly had been pointed out to him, he would have no way to make amends. Perhaps it was too late for whatever he’d had with Morwen. Forgiveness for her past was, in his mind at least, a moot point. He wasn’t part of her past, and it was none of his affair what she did to survive then. Now, however, he wanted to help her, to take care of her like no one else had until she came to Edoras. The only way he saw of doing that was to buy her away like the farrier had the little blonde lass, and the only way Morwen would accept that was if she were pregnant, because then the action would be taken for the sake of the child, not herself. With that option removed, though, there were few other choices left to him except to try it without the chance of a child as an excuse, but both Morwen and Walda were too experienced at their professions to see much worth in that plan. The only other option Gamling could see, then, was simply to wait for Morwen to grow so tired of her station that she left of her own accord and hope that she came to him. He saw no way to speed that process along, though, and it bothered him immensely to sit on his hands and wait, being as useless as so many seemed to think him to be.

A flutter of black caught his eye as Gamling paused both his brooding and his meal. Wormtongue slithered around the edge of the hall, blinking at the light in the center of the room before crossing it for the stairs to Théoden King’s chamber. The weight of his new keys felt reassuring against Gamling’s thigh, but something else troubled him and he made a mental note to speak with Offa the blacksmith as soon as he could. There was no telling who had keys to both his chamber and the king’s armor chest, and his first duty as the Keeper of the Helm would be to see the lock changed… discreetly. The slightest noticeable difference could bring the hissing wrath of the Worm down on his ears, and while simply breaking the counselor’s neck barehanded would be immensely satisfying, Gamling knew he would have to outthink the counselor first. No easy task, that, but luck was on Gamling’s side. While Gríma was mistrustful of any but his own men, of his own judgments he was overbearingly sure. Wormtongue was convinced that Gamling was big, slow, and stupid; anyone challenging the man’s assessments would, face a lengthy argument at the very least, if not an out-and-out fight. The advantage, then, lay with Gamling and those who knew him well enough to trust him, as long as Gríma believed that the new Keeper of the Helm was a half-wit, and a violent one at that.

The difficult part of changing those locks came because of the king, who carried a ring of iron keys on his belt at all hours. Two of them would no longer work once Gamling saw the locks changed, and getting to the ring without telling Théoden could be challenging. As the female head of the household, Éowyn carried keys for the chamber and chest as well, but hers would be far easier to switch as long as someone could speak to her alone. Perhaps she was the key to that puzzle, then, for Gamling was sure she would see the wisdom in changing the keys, and better still, Théoden was as besotted with his niece as he had ever been, as hard as Gríma worked to ingratiate himself into their family with his dotage on the princess. Éowyn would have more and better chances to change her uncle’s keys than Gamling ever would, and would likely enjoy duping the counselor right under his nose. She was a crafty, brave girl, the princess, and loyal to her uncle to a fault. Asking her would certainly do no harm, Gamling decided, if done discreetly.

It was a simple enough task to start off this plan with many thanks to Éowyn’s habit of rising early for a ride, walk, or a swim. This day it had been a swim, and when the Lily of the Mark entered the hall with hair still damp with river water, Gamling thought briefly of her childhood, when such a morning would have seen her following her brother to as many places as she possibly could, pestering him all the while. Apparently his moment of nostalgia went undetected and it took Éowyn quite a while to notice that she was being watched. Wisely, they said nothing aloud, even when the Lady noticed Gamling’s patient stare, but a slight tilt of the head told her all she needed to know and twenty minutes after, the guard and the Lady happened to meet as they wandered nonchalantly around the kitchen garden.

“A wise decision. The difficulty is the switch,” she mused to the top of a mountainous asparagus bush while Gamling marveled at the emerging fruits of a tomato plant half a row away.

“I had hoped you could be of assistance there, my lady.”

“Of course. When will they be ready?” she asked more loudly, dropping her gaze to the trailing vines of the tomato plant.

“Some time yet, I should think,” he replied, coming to attention again as Éowyn neared and flicked her eyes to the side of the building. A shadow crept behind the corner as Gamling finished. “All the conditions must be right for proper fruiting. Hope never goes amiss either.”

“Aye,” the White Lady replied, trailing her fingers gently over the tomato’s leaves. A spicy, green scent rose up in their wake. “This is true, but I shall wait impatiently anyway. It would be a shame if some worm or grub took the root before the harvest comes.”

“A careful gardener would see a sign of such well before the harvest is ruined,” Gamling replied with a deferential nod. “My lady’s attention is surely appreciated as well.”

Gamling nodded again as Éowyn smiled and turned away to make quick work of the rest of her pass through the gardens, but he lingered, enjoying the plant and flower smell of the place for a while. It was, perhaps, the only peaceful part of the Hall, this plot of used and reused earth, the realm of more women than men. That’s what was missing, he realized then, tossing a slug onto the garden path and crushing it beneath his boot. He’d felt not a moment’s peace since he’d stormed from Morwen’s room that night. Gamling was back to his old self, cautious, stone-faced, and impenetrable; the only positive change in himself he’d noticed in years had been his sudden ability to enjoy his surroundings even when those places and people had been distracted or melancholy. Perhaps it was true what his father had always said and women weaken a man with just their presence, but it was a weakness Gamling thought he could endure if it meant color returned to his world again. Perhaps it was even a special sort of strength, having someone like Morwen about, he mused, for a woman of her experience and intelligence would certainly not choose the company of an idiot. With that thought, Gamling snorted.

Well, she’s certainly not choosing my company now, he chuckled. Guess that proves what an arse I’ve been. But, arse or not, there were plans to be made, and with part of his mind on Morwen and part on changing locks, Gamling turned and entered through the kitchens again, sneaking a meat pastry on his way through.

~*~

Morwen did something after reading the letter that she’d not done in many years. She went back to sleep, or rather, she lay back down and pulled the sheet over her head and tried to sleep. It didn’t work. So, she lay awake staring at the wall for quite some time, trying hard not to think of what she’d just read and who had said it, trying even harder not to cry.

Just when I’d started to grow used to the idea of being discarded, he had to write that, she fumed. He had to… to write, the bastard.

It was terribly hard to stay angry at someone who had just for all intents and purposes beaten himself bloody in writing, and anger was all that would help Morwen keep the guilt away. If she couldn’t be angry, she would have to be sad, or remorseful, or repentant, and none of those were affordable now. If she slipped even the smallest bit out of the cocoon of anger and boredom she kept around herself, she knew she would run straight to the Golden Hall and into his lap were he waiting on the king or tupping a washer wench at the time.

“I can’t,” she said into her pillow. “I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t.”

“Of course you can.”

Morwen looked toward the door where one of the twins stood looking in.

“I just stopped to say goodbye. Well, until we meet again, at least. I’ll be back to check on Folcwyn and the baby as soon as I can. Bliss is here, though, so it won’t be terribly soon. A week or two, perhaps… But you can do just about anything you want to, Morwen. I’m well convinced of that.”

“I don’t suppose you read, do you child?” Morwen asked sitting up and pulling the sheet around her.

“Yes. Mama taught us both, but Bliss doesn’t like sitting still for that long. Do you need something read to you?”

“I’ve already read it,” Morwen said. “But feel free to do so for yourself. It’s there on the floor.”

“It’s from your redhead then?” Blithe asked, her face alight. “Is it his pledge of undying sorrow for leaving the way he did? Page upon page begging you to forgive him and take him back into your arms, never to leave again?”

“Something worse,” Morwen grumbled going for her shift. “Just read.”

“He wants to save you,” the girl said after a while, thoughtfully skimming the page a second time.

“Do I appear to need saving?”

“I surely do,” Blithe replied with wisdom beyond her years, and an uncharacteristic air of relief. “And you don’t belong here any more than I; though you’ve forced yourself into it for so long I’d have likely killed myself with the effort. Perhaps just faded away like they say the elves did. Or do.”

“Humans can’t fade away,” Morwen replied. “Gods know I’ve tried often enough and wished enough that I should have by now.”

“Well then there’s a hope isn’t it? If you can’t simply wish yourself gone, you must have some reason to keep going. Perhaps he’s it, or at least the means of finding it.”

“I’m afraid hope has never been kind to me. I find it difficult to trust,” Morwen said, her gaze fixed on the wall over the girl’s shoulder.

“Truthfully,” Blithe replied, “hope is all that has kept me getting out of bed every day. But, I told Léohthelm I would be there before noon. I should be going, and you should be dressing, before someone else starts nosing into business you don’t wish them in.”

Morwen got the impression the girl’s warning was a veiled mention of Dreame and offered Blithe what passed for a smile. For a moment they looked at each other silently, but the moment ended as quickly as it came when Morwen noticed tears in the girl’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Blithe whispered thickly. “For the clothes and… and being welcoming and… well, everything. You made it much easier to be here, for both of us, than I think it would have been otherwise.”

“You’re welcome, child,” Morwen replied from a tight hug she suddenly realized they had both needed. “And it’s not as though this is goodbye forever. You’ll be right across the city.”

“Now it feels like I’ll finally live in the city, if you take my meaning. This place… it’s like a world all its own.”

“It is that,” Morwen agreed and patted the little blonde’s shoulder one last time before she slipped through the door. But was it a world she needed to leave? A world that, as Gamling seemed to think, would end her life too soon and with no happiness to make the last years bearable? Crossing to the window, Morwen leaned on the sill, heedless of the fact that she was nearly naked and clearly visible from the carpentry up the hill should someone care to look. The air outdoors was blessedly fresh and cool compared to the sauna the inn became during the day, and was probably even cooler and sweeter in the glade up the valley where she and Gamling had gone when their lives had seemed so much simpler than they did now. She turned back toward the bed and carried the letter to the window to read it again, ignoring the anger and hurt she felt at knowing he’d been there to try to take his words to heart.

You’re like a horse when spring finaly comes, he’d written. Trapped so long in a barn stall where you’re fed and warm, but not happy. Bored. Tired of walls. Tired of wood. Tired of stale straw and sweaty men and living the same day time and time again. Desprate for the sun and the wind and time to run flat out over the hills. It’s writtin all over your face when I enter a room, though I suppoze you don’t see it. Others do.

How can I stand by and watch you, the most beeutiful and graceful and intiligent creature to ever pay me a moment’s mind, who has done more good for me than you will probably ever realize, founder in a pen that’s too small for you when I can’t bear the same with a mere animal? When I’m abel and wiling to set you free? Purhaps Walda doesn’t see it, or sees it but thinks he needs you too much to change, but shurly you know I’m right. All I’ve wanted to do from the momeant I followed you into that tihny wooden box of a chamber is to let you loose to run and watch that gleeming black mane float on the wind. Let me do it. Between us, we can find a way, if you’ll only trust me again.

Too blinded by her tears to read further, Morwen laid the letter on the windowsill and tried to simply breathe. He hadn’t said a thing that she didn’t feel herself, but the ease with which Gamling cut to the core of her was startling. Was it as easy to leave as he made it sound? Before that thought took proper hold, though, the letter was suddenly gone, drifting on the tail of a breeze rushing past the window, just as her scarf had the day before. Barefooted, bareheaded, without even a shift over her binding and drawers, Morwen whirled and sprinted down the stairs of the Dragon’s Hoard, through the kitchen, into the door yard and scanned the air for the paper, spying it near the barn. It tumbled end over end through the grass on the windward side and started up again like a frightened grouse as she approached, hands outstretched to catch it as it passed. She missed. Swiped again and missed again, flailing as she chased the wind, struggling for balance and focus all at once, and then it was there, in her hand between her third and fourth fingers, precariously caught, but caught none the less.

For a moment Morwen stood hunched over, hands on knees, panting from her sudden dash and watched Walda and Rose approach from the inn. She chuckled a bit as she took stock of the situation: an old whore, obviously winded, standing on the edge of the community woodlot in her underwear clutching a piece of parchment that promised her the world, about to be roundly scolded by an old whoremaster for scaring the life out of him with her break-neck dash from her chamber. The situation was so ludicrous that her chuckle turned into a full laugh before Walda reached her, but as quickly as the fit had come, it faded again.

Gamling was right: it felt good to run.

“Walda?” Morwen said as the old innkeeper advanced, “I need to leave.”

“Not in your drawers you don’t!”

“Of course not,” she replied. “But I… I… I can’t stay here. I need…”

“Take Patience and go,” he said after a long moment of studying her. “Be back before night fall, or at least send word so I know ye havn’a fallen off and died somewhere.”

“You’re… letting me?”

“First time I’ve seen color in your face in over a month. I’d be a fool to force you to stay here and pine. Go. Just come back in one piece.” But Morwen was already gone, running into the building again for clothes.

Come back in one piece? For Walda’s sake, perhaps, she’d think about it.
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