Heralded By Storms

C5: Rain Unlooked For

Whitwell, September 1375
(a year later)


Little Pearl cozied in her arms, Esmeralda settled beneath a shady tree and Saradoc sat down next to her. Roam and Jester nosed in curiously to welcome the newest wee hobbit to enter their world. Brandy Hall was a noisy haven of multigenerational life, with never fewer than a dozen children filling its every corner with the joyous sounds of their presence, so the birth of Eglantine and Paladin’s first babe had seemed to the young Bucklander a most auspicious turn of events. Over the last year, he had continued to visit every time the trading route he rode allowed, and he had gotten to know the quiet family, watching their growing anticipation of her arrival with protective fondness.

The wagon had this time carried a special cargo of gifts for the child and her parents tucked away among the casks of brandy and the little luxuries from Outside. But the strange pall that had greeted him this morning was alarming, to say the least, and Esmeralda had almost immediately ushered him from the small smial, the gurgling baby bundled in her arms.

“She seems a sweet child, Esmie,” he said as the little lass was handed to him. He brushed a gentle finger against the infant’s round cheek and her slate blue eyes tried to focus on and follow the movement, though her attention was soon caught by the dappled shadows upon her aunt’s sage green dress.

“She is indeed… A rare Pearl of great price,” Esmeralda murmured, unnaturally subdued, and it was that odd shift in her demeanor that worried him most. Though he well knew how thoroughly a fussy newborn could drain the sprightliest caregiver, there was more than simple weariness in his companion’s face.

“Esmie…” he started, intending to uncover the trouble that shadowed his love’s heart, but she turned despairing eyes towards him, no longer holding back the tears her pride would have denied. He pulled her close against his shoulder, pressing chaste kisses to her hair and cheeks. “Ah, now, lass… What’s got you low today?”

“All that should be well is ill, and there is no reason for it!” she murmured against his shoulder. “I would give anything to have my dear friend back from her strange spell, but I’m afraid that smial is well and truly cursed…”

“Now, love, it can take a while to get used to the first babe in such a quiet home as yours has been ‘til now. Why, I remember my cousin Prim crying her dear eyes out when her little lad wouldn’t let her sleep for a stretch. All it takes is time…”

“That’s just it, though,” Esmeralda replied, frustrated anger bobbing just beneath the surface of her voice. “Eglantine sleeps! And sleeps and sleeps, on and on, and even nursing Pearl seems to bring on a flood of tears and little joy. I don’t know what to do.”

“It seems to me you’ve likely done all you can, my dear. You look exhausted,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “It will pass, as all spells do…”

She sighed heavily and closed her eyes, sagging against him. “Sing to me, Master Saradoc, something dreadfully bawdy and unsuitable…” she murmured.

Eyeing the skies above, mercifully swept clear of cloud and the potential for rain, he started an old favorite, but soft and slow, to not disturb the infant now drowsing in his arms or the lady whose eyes he’d never seen so filled with sadness. As the last verse strung to its scandalous end, he could hear their sleeping breath under the sounds of summer’s end.

“You have a strange sense of proper speech before the innocent, young buck,” Adalgrim said quietly, appearing from between the flowering hedge nearby.

“I’m sorry, sir, Esmie…”

“My daughter does as she pleases, as ever,” he replied, settling upon the grass, the ever-present harp across his knees. The tavern song’s simple melody rose from the strings, his fingers traveling their intimately familiar span without his attention.

“Yes, sir, she does indeed. I would be a fool to deny her, even in this small thing.”

“Love is grand that way, like music and the course of a river. All their wanderings and surprises are not to be negotiated by those that choose to follow their path. Happiness lies in surrendering to their power…”

“Esmeralda would not believe you if she heard it, sir. She might well be the only one I know could turn the Brandywine’s flow northward by force of will alone.”

The old hobbit grinned suddenly, rising more swiftly than Saradoc had imagined he could. “There’s hope for you yet, it seems, my lad!” he said, disappearing through the hedge once more, though the harp’s song resumed, still rippling through lilting variations into the high blue sky.

Letting his head rest lightly against Esmeralda’s sun-warm curls, he allowed himself a small smile.

“I’m not entirely sure, darling,” he whispered, though she slept, “but I think I may have at last got your father’s blessing… Though I’d never have thought it would be won by an ill sung bawdy.”

Sun chased through sky, golden on the fields and feather-light on the babe’s sweet face, charged with the promise of bountiful years, if only they could prevail; against time, against misfortune, against prying eyes and wagging tongues, against the course others would set for them.