Fire and Ice

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.