Fire and Ice

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.