Fire and Ice

“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.