Live Journal Feed“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.
)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.
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!
