Unable to Escape Alone [Faeldor]

[Gilwen]

She had awoken entirely early for her day of work; a product of a loud uproar from the streets outside. It did seem, from what the little lady heard, two men had found themselves in a grapple over something outside her house. It seemed to have died down in a few minutes, both perhaps returning to their homes, and Gilwen fruitlessly tried to close her eyes to return to her sleep. Finally, the young woman gave up on trying and began to ready herself for her long day of work ahead. Surely by the time mid-afternoon had come, the serving woman would be quite aware of the sleep she had missed. Until then, nothing in the world would be able to convince her seemingly alert body to even think about resting.

Though she had thought. In fact, she had thought plenty. Her pretty little head was full of such visions of her Faeldor, and the past few days. It had been about three days now that she had kept her distance in his company, and him in hers. Their eyes, perhaps, had been full of such feelings of love and restraint, but in Faeldor also there had been hurt. Still, he had been respectful; perhaps trying to prove that he did not merely seek her skirt. It would not be long, she knew, before she would not be able to go without a touch from him for fear that she would lose him forever. They should be wed soon; their love would only grow, and their family.

Such thoughts startled the gentle woman, though, as she laid in her bed. Instead, she sought a quick diversion. With the extra time she had, Gilwen decided to take better mind of her appearance, indeed there was nothing else at all she could occupy her time with. She slipped into her black and white serving gown and crossed to a small shelf that had her comb upon it and grasped it.

She combed through her hair thoroughly, using a cord to tie it back in a half-up-half-down style. Heavens, she had plenty of time this morning! She moved quietly out to her small living area; careful not to rouse her parents in their own room. Noise carried so easily in small houses, and this was worse than their previous residence. Gilwen, in fact, was quite certain that one could hear someone sigh from across the house.

For the remainder of her time indoors she had sat by the window, looking out over the empty streets. Gondor, it seemed, was still deep in slumber. Which was precisely where Gilwen wished to be, though she would never say such aloud. She was a hard and devoted worker. It would do her no good to complain, anyway.

It was just about time for Faeldor to come fetch her, and Gilwen abandoned both her thoughts on the workday as well as her position by the window to step outside. Today, perhaps, she would walk a bit of the way to meet her beloved. He had to walk too far to fetch her every morning. She felt entirely guilty!

She shut the door softly behind her and turned to begin a climb toward the second tier. She had no idea, truly, where Faeldor would cross paths with her. Still, any bit of the walk she could take away from him would be an improvement to his new routine, she was certain. And the streets didn’t seem ridden with danger like they did at other hours, so a bit of a walk should bring her no harm.

She walked quietly, her stealthy footwork echoing from her work in the palace as she climbed the way to toward the gate; and it was this quiet stepping that led Gilwen to hear the other footfalls behind her. It was curious to hear; most of the lower tiers did not wake so early. Whether it was because the shops they tended to did not open until later, or they were still sleeping off the tavern the night before was unknown. Still, Gilwen barely came across anyone when she headed off to work in the morning. And she had certainly seen none as she had been walking.

She tossed a curious glance over her shoulder, trying to make it look nonchalant as she did so. It was a man; tall, perhaps about the same height as her Faeldor, though not nearly the same epitome of health and physique. She did not look upon him long and once more turned her eyes before her. His person unnerved her. It was the pasty skin and the eyes that seemed a bit off; even at such a quick glance, it made her feel uneasy. Her heart began to beat a bit faster, despite the fact that he had truly made no move to make her uncomfortable. There she was, letting her thoughts run away with her.

“You are one of Ahava’s girls, aren’t you?”

Her blood seemed to instantly run cold. The slurred words had come from the very man that was behind the serving woman, and she wrung her hands together nervously before turning around to answer. He was altogether much closer to her than she had imagined, and jumped slightly in alarm. He was not but four feet from her now. He had been quite a few more paces back with her last glance. Though, he was a tall man and probably had very little trouble keeping up with her strides.

“No,” she answered quickly. It had been something she had been approached with a few times; ever since that lovely woman had come to her home her first day in their new house. She could smell the ale on him from where she was, and his eyes were much more frightening the longer she looked at them. His hair was matted and messy; his face dirty and scratched, as if he had been victim of a brawl. Her heart quickened a bit more—would he accept her answer?

“Madam has been to your door. I have seen it myself,” he mumbled giving a quite sickening smile. It was cold, and it seemed a bit carnal. He took a step forward, and Gilwen countered with a giant stride backward.

“I am not under her employment; I am not who you are looking for.” She replied quickly, turning and hastening off at a brisk and hurried walk. Faeldor was somewhere up ahead. The sooner she found him, the sooner the eerie man would let her alone.

She felt him grab her wrist, and yank her around and she gasped as she raised her eyes to his and tried to wriggle her arm free. “No, precious. You are.” He smiled again, leaning in close, to the point where Gilwen could feel his drunken breath upon her face. “I will pay. Like a good gentleman.” He offered once more, moving in closer all the while.

“No!” Gilwen exclaimed, finally wrestling free of his grimy hands and turning and dashing off toward the second tier. She was not quite fast enough and the man caught up to her once more. For being so inebriate, he was quite agile.

He forced her back against the wall of one of the many shops around, still quite calm with what he was asking. He seemed to offer her a proposal again, perhaps this time it included a price; Gilwen could not hear it for the pounding blood in her ears. She was looking around; looking for anybody that could help her. The area about her was made up of all shops, it seemed. Not that it would have made much difference if there had been houses. Nobody would have come out of their house if she screamed. The noise of the first tier was promptly ignored by all.

“Let go of me,” she muttered fiercely, trying to fight against his strength to get herself away from the wall.

“Oh my pet, I have offered you my money twice now. And you dare refuse?” His eyes seemed to take on an angry glint and Gilwen struggled all the more. “Madam would be disappointed; You have forgotten your place. You are a sleeper. A harlot. You take any man. It is your job to do whatever I ask!”

“I am no such thing,” Gilwen replied shakily. His force seemed unbreakable to her. Even with him so heavily intoxicated, he was much stronger than she could be, despite all of her years laboring in the palace. And he had her pinned using most of his body’s weight.

In his mind, it was not wrong to seek a harlot for her services, and the man was fully intending to pay—or had been in the beginning. Now, though, he was angered and no longer desired to wait for the lady to agree to his terms—he would simply take it. This thought spurred him onward, and he moved toward her, Gilwen quickly mustering enough energy to cry for help. “Help! Please—“ She did not have a chance to finish her loud cries, for one of his hands came over and clamped her mouth shut, reducing her frenzied plea to a muffled whimper. Oh, her heart was hammering in terror, and her eyes were now filled with sheer fear and tears; and still she struggled against him.

“I would have paid, you know,” the man muttered into her ear, letting the other hand slide down her thigh and begin to lift her dress. Instantly, Gilwen tried screaming again; this time, though, the muffled cry morphed into a few desperate sobs. “It is your own fault.”

His head ducked down, and Gilwen felt his lips begin pressing kisses to her neck. Her body began to shudder; half in pure hatred and loathing of what the man was doing, half for her silent sobs that were now completely un-reined. She continued to try and call for help, though the more she resisted, the more it seemed fruitless.

She struggled a bit more against him; but even her pounding fists seemed to not phase him. This was not how it was supposed to go. Her dignity, her virtue. It was not supposed to go to an indecent man. A man she had not even seen before that morning. She was not supposed to belong to him.

She made another attempt at screaming, trying to get out Faeldor’s name. Surely he was close! The man’s hands gripped at her thigh, her skirt now only covering her to mid-calf. She made another attempt to cry out, and still she fought back—but it was a sickening realization that she was not going to be able to escape alone.

[Faeldor]

Faeldor had risen earlier this day as well; not for sake of an earlier start, yet because he had in mind to find a flower to take and offer his Gilwen. It took him a few moments in the gardens behind his house to find a flower that had not closed to the darkness of night; but when he did, he thought that it was the loveliest of them, and it even had a fine scent.

Yes; she would enjoy it, indeed. And even when he gave it to her; he would not expect to touch her. It had been the way for the past few days, and he had laid not a hand upon Gilwen. It had been more difficult at first than it was now, but he was certain now that he could keep up with it as long as she desired it. Of course, it did hurt him deeply that the woman did not trust him. It was not the lack of physical touch as much on his part that hurt him; though he loved to comfort Gilwen with his hands. But he indeed missed her own touch upon his skin. Gilwen spoke well with her actions. She spoke more with motion than word of mouth, it was true; and though her eyes still spoke of love for him, her hands had failed to do so.

Well, they would push through it, certainly. Nothing had kept the man from his lady yet; despite all the attempts that had been had at it. Perhaps she would wear the flower in her hair; at least on their walk to work. That would please him. She could put it in her apron pocket for the day and remember him. Anything that would bring her some form of joy would be pleasing for the man. He twirled the stem in his fingers as he moved to the streets, making the long descent to the bottom of the spiraled city.

Something about the morning made him uneasy. The lower tiers were usually quite silent at this hour; it was in the evening that he always worried more for Gilwen walking upon the street; but still, he always came to accompany her in the morning. He would not let her alone. Still, this morning, there was certainly a ruckus on the street. From even around the curved path nearing the gate of the first tier, he thought he heard a muffled shout.

What uneased him most was the fact that it was certainly a woman’s voice, not a man’s, and it was not simply a single shout, but as he came through the gate, he heard the cry for help. Faeldor’s eyes darted in the dim light, and his skin bristled. The moon was low now, and did not offer much assistance to the eyes, but against the white stone walls, the shadows were quite visible. And though the man’s figure was mostly blocking that of the woman’s, her size, and her sobs were not unnoticeable to the man.

The fury that welled within the Faeldor was quite unmatched to anything he had ever experienced. Even Durion had never upset him in such a way. The man lost his self control; and without a thought, he bolted the last few paces, and before he even thought for what to do, his hands were on the shoulders of the lanky man; pulling him back with all of his strength, and then some. “Release her!” he shouted; a deep voice that was certain to awake any who were sleeping in the homes nearby. He did not wait for the man to do as commanded though, and as he turned the man, he ripped his hands from Gilwen’s body and then shoved him back against the wall, hard. It was only a fraction of a moment later that Faeldor’s fist knocked him smoothly in the face.

If it had been just any woman crying out and assaulted in such a way, Faeldor certainly would have had the same rage and reaction; though the fact that it was his Gilwen had set him into a fury without comparison, and even after his Lady had been released, Faeldor’s instincts would not let the other man free, and his fist pounded the man’s face once more; sending a bloody streak upon the white wall behind him.

[Gilwen]

Her hands were still striking against his chest, and Gilwen’s cries had not stopped. Still, as the man’s hand eagerly moved up her thigh, and his lips continued to rove across the skin of her neck she began to feel that nobody was going to be able to aide her. Her heart was hammering, and her tears were growing ever more ample.

“Release her!”

Her eyes opened, and Gilwen could see the form approaching. Her tears made it near impossible to see the details of the hero who had come to help, but his voice! Faeldor! “Fael!” She exclaimed, though the other man’s hand had distorted and muffled it well.

She felt a strong tug against her leg as the stable master ripped the foul man from her completely. She gasped as she was released, finding enough sense to step aside. Frantically the woman righted her skirts, and wrapped her arms about herself, watering brown eyes watching as the stable master slammed the drunken man against the wall.

The man was mad, his sickening eyes were frowning intently at the interruption. “I have my right to her first,” he slurred, even after his blood painted the white wall. The man used his sleeve to wipe the blood. And with that, the drunken man balled his own fist and knocked Faeldor’s jaw in return. “You must wait your turn—“ he looked to Gilwen quite quickly. “I haven’t finished with her yet!”

“Fael!” Gilwen sobbed as her beloved was struck. Goodness, her nerves felt so tense, and she could not bear to see him get hurt as well!

The man pushed back on Faeldor’s shoulders roughly as if to unpin himself from the same situation he had thrust Gilwen into. It was only moments before the drunken man had worked himself into a rage. His face was hurting, certainly turning to bruise, blood was pouring from a ripped lip, and he had been interrupted in his ministrations with the harlot. His fist once again knocked across Faeldor’s face.

Gilwen could not regain control of herself. She was sobbing silently, gasping for breath. Her lungs were hurting from the deep breaths and bounding heart she still had; and this! A fight between the two! Faeldor would certainly be able to hold his own. He was ever so much stronger, certainly. Still, a part of her wished to step in on his behalf and help; oh, but she was in no state to do such a thing. She felt herself leaning against the wall of the building, desperately trying to convince herself the threat was over. By the Valar! Her heart would not steady itself!

It seemed the man was aware of Faeldor's advantage of strength, and immediately, he used the toe of his boot to slam down on his ankle. "Dare you try more?" He threatened, drunkenly. It was impulsive, as if he could not have held his tongue. Certainly, if the man had been sober, he never would have said such a thing. His ghastly appearance though seemed somewhat dangerous, and it chilled Gilwen's inside to see him.

Oh, his face would haunt her, it was certain. Her hand went to her neck, and the woman began to rub it fervently, still crying a slight. It felt as if his lips were still upon her!

[Faeldor]

“I have my right to her first. You must wait your turn-- I haven’t finished with her yet!”

The man’s boot connected sharply with Faeldor’s ankle, and almost threw him off balance. Certainly he should have been in pain, though his adrenaline did well to keep him from noticing the impact. Faeldor lost track of Gilwen, though he knew she was off to the side and out of range. He was not about to remove his eyes from the disgraceful man before him and give him any advantage. This man would not trouble her again; that was a certainty.

His words infuriated him further, and Faeldor lent another shock to the man’s cheek. “You have no right…” was all he managed to grit out. He was not in the mood for casting words at this moment; indeed, he hardly could even think of words that would be appropriate for the situation.

“Dare you try more?”

When the man’s boot hit him, Faeldor took a half step back, then swung his own leg at the man’s shins, while at the same time hitting his side with the opposite elbow to knock the man down off his feet, lending a loud thud on the walk. Faeldor was certainly stronger than this drunken man; and even if he would have held himself better while sober, Faeldor’s strength would have soon outmatched him.

As soon as the man was on the ground, the Stable Master flew upon him once more, his knee pressing down upon the man’s chest. Even at the crack of a rib, Faeldor did not relent, and while the man sprawled beneath him, he let his face have it. Sweat was dripping down his face, and his breathing was certainly labored, though at this point he felt that he had won, he could not stop himself. “You shall never lay your hands on her again! Nor even your eyes!” he growled. The man’s mouth was bloodied, and his nose certainly beyond repair.

Faeldor’s heart was racing; his mind wracked up in anger and aggression. He would certainly kill the man. He would not even have a chance to regret touching his Gilwen. Faeldor would see to it that he never touched her, let alone any woman again… his filthy hands upon her, the way he had covered her mouth to muffle her cries. He could not break the image from his mind of that nasty hand pressing into her thigh, and those lips, now bloodied and swollen touching her skin.

[Gilwen]

It happened so fast, and the man was so intoxicated it seemed that it was in an instant he was on the cobbled street of the city. The words he had spoken impulsively soon were soon shoved back at him by way of a force so great, the man did not even stand a chance. Each blow that Faeldor laid against him brought forth sickening moans and groans; his ribs had cracked well under the man’s weight, and his nose was certainly destroyed.

Like a coward, the man began to try and shield himself, asking pitifully for the man to stop his aggressive behaviors. Nonetheless, his mouth was so full of blood, and his lips so swollen that the words he tried to make came out as nothing more than a mumble that was lost amongst his cries of pain.

Gilwen could not make what her emotion was as she watched. The man certainly deserved it, for what he was about to do to her! But Faeldor…she had never seen him so enraged. It was as if something within him snapped; he had won! But still, he was not relenting in his abuses against the drunken and moaning man that now lay upon the cobbled stones. Blood was trickling past her boot, and it was then the woman, still teary and anxious jumped forward. Faeldor did not need to become a murderer on her account.

“You shall never lay your hands on her again! Nor even your eyes!”

“Faeldor! Fael, Fael, stop!” Gilwen cried, rushing forward. “That’s enough!” She had reached him now, but she was fearful of interrupting him. Should he, in a blind rage, strike her as well? Still, the thought was short lived, for those arms were what she desired. Her hands went to his shoulders and she tugged on him. “Fael!” Her tears were streaming down her face again, and the woman continued to tug upon him.

The man was moving his lips, he was trying to speak. Drunken eyes looked up to Gilwen in thanks, but the woman was not stopping her beloved on his account. However hard it would be for them to convince her father to let Faeldor marry her if he had taken the life of a man in a fit of rage!

Faeldor finally rose, though, seemingly having come to some sort of sense. Thank the Valar! Gilwen moved back as he stood, allowing him his space. “Fael…” his own face was a bit beaten, and his tunic was bloodied from his work on the drunkard. And his Gilwen had not missed the blow he had taken to his ankle. She stared at him for a moment.

The man on the ground tried to move and stir, but he was in far too much agony; his cry was enough to relay those facts. He…that drunkard had almost taken her. Gilwen’s horrified thoughts caused her eyes to well with tears again. He had touched her, kissed her…the skin felt as if it were burning. And Faeldor…he had taken such blows rather than to allow the filthy man to touch her any longer. Instantly she rushed forward, and pressed herself close to his side, nuzzling her face against his tunic with silent cries. Her warrior, and her hero. Faeldor had saved her, in the truest sense. At the moment, she was shaking horribly. All she desired was his comfort. Still, the only sound that came from her was her shuttering gasps, and two soft words that sounded like, “Thank you.”

[Faeldor]

Faeldor felt the little hands tugging upon him, and soon he realized that Gilwen had moved behind him. His hearing seemed to return past the ringing of his heart in his ears, and he heard his name, and Gilwen pleading with him to stop.

The stable master took a breath; his fists stilled, and he let Gilwen pull him up to his feet. However he did not turn to her just yet. The moaning man on the ground had been spared his life, it seemed, yet Faeldor did not allow him to go in ease. His heavy boot fell hard upon the palm of the man’s splayed hand, and Faeldor kicked him once more in the ribs before he felt the woman come against his side, and heard her sobbing into his shoulder.

At that, Faeldor was done. His arm reached around behind him and enveloped the woman, and he stumbled back a few steps, and then turned, ever so carefully wrapping his arms around Gilwen. His heart was still racing, and his muscles were clenched tight; though his hands had never been more gentle.

Faeldor did not notice the blood upon him until he had moved one hand to caress Gilwen’s cheek, and tilt her head upward, that he might check her face for damage. She was crying and shaking; but he did not know if it was entirely from fear or injury. Though, he startled at the dark streaks his fingers left upon her skin, and released her for an instant as he noticed the same smears upon the white apron of her serving gown. Faeldor clenched and looked at his hands, though, he did not feel like he was bleeding; and in fact none of the blood was his own, he felt shaken by it. His jaw was tender, but he was certain that the other man had not drawn blood; though the dark liquid on the ground attested to what his own force had done.

He glanced down at the battered man, who was moaning, but thankfully still moving about. Faeldor would not have known what to do with himself had he murdered a man; but thankfully it had not come to that. Despite the man having deserved it. He frowned, glaring angrily down upon him, though, it was only an instant before his arms returned to Gilwen, when he was reminded of her tears and trembling.

“There…” his voice came quietly, as he deciphered that she was not injured. His hands traced gently down her back, and even down and across her thighs, though not in any desirous way that they had before; but simply to affirm that nothing was amiss with her. Nothing broken or battered. Perhaps she held a few bruises from his grips, or from struggling against the wall, but she would be physically fine.

Yes, she was well, Faeldor concluded, his arms coming back to hold her close. Oh, she was trembling in her skin! The blood would wash away… perhaps not off the white garment, but at least off her skin. “You are safe now, sweet one,” he whispered into her ear. “I will let no one harm you, my Starlight. There…” he hushed her, bundling her more within his arms.

“Shhh… let us go from here,” he said, a soft inflection returning to his voice. He left his arm snuggly about her, crossing the other in front of her, and began to lead her back down the street; not certain of where to take her. He was not taking her to work; that was certain; she never could have passed in her state of dress; nor state of emotion. No, they would not go there. Nor would Faeldor have gotten far upon the tiers without his bloodied state being noticed. It was not light yet; but the people would soon be rising and the markets opening.

“We will… go somewhere. Here, I won’t leave you,” he assured her. The woman seemed to cling to him! “I need to… get this blood off. It is a stench,” he muttered.

[Gilwen]

The man screamed aloud as his hand was given a final blow; such a pain it gave him, that he barely even acknowledged the swift kicks to his ribs, though certainly such a thing hurt as well. The man, likely, would be lying there until someone cared pick him from the ground. The Houses of Healing would be quite certain to have to treat him; and once the ale had left him, he would understand truly how much pain he was in.

Gilwen, though, was not paying the wretched and foul man any attention. Indeed, she was not even minding the state of Faeldor’s clothes; she had pressed herself so closely to the man that it was a sure thing that the blood upon his own tunic had smudged her dress as well. But Gilwen did not care.

Fael seemed to snap to full attention to her, though, after he had so finished with the man’s hand. He brushed her cheek, though seemed to startle; Gilwen did not look upward at him, though, so she did not see the way he registered the blood he had shed from the other man. Though, she did feel the weight of his eyes as he shifted his attention back to her. “There…” His hands moved over her, and Gilwen pressed herself all the closer. He was being so gentle; his touches were soft, in search of any harm that had come to her. But none had—he had saved her. She could not recall if all of his touches felt so wonderfully gentle. The serving woman’s mind was in a fitful flurry of nerves and fear; nothing had ever felt better than to have his arms about her now.

“You are safe now, sweet one, I will let no one harm you, my Starlight. There…”

She certainly felt safe, there with him. Though, she only seemed to cry the harder for the relief she felt. Thank Eru he had come! Blessed Valar that they had willed her to be saved! He immediately seemed to notice that her cries had intensified, and he sought to still her, quieting her lovingly and moving her away from the wall, and the still groaning man upon the stone.

He shifted his hold upon her, and Gilwen was feared for a moment that he would release her, though such a thing was highly unfounded. She clung to him, though. She pressed herself against his side, and a her two hands gripped to his tunic as if her very life depended on it. “We will… go somewhere. Here, I won’t leave you. I need to… get this blood off. It is a stench.” Gilwen’s tears had slowed, and her sobs had stilled almost completely.

It was then she noticed the state of her own things. She was not terribly troubled by the state of her clothes, but she did need to change and wash up herself. She looked up to him, “We are not far from my own home.” It was the least she could do, after what he had done for her. “Come, if we hurry and are silent we will be finished before my parents wake.” Her voice felt so weak as she spoke; nonetheless, she hurried their steps toward her home and said when they were not but two houses away, “We should not speak inside…voices carry well in this house.”

She led him to her doorstep, and quietly pushed the little wooden door open. She stepped quietly inside, fervent eyes watching the back room of the house. She motioned for him to follow, and soundlessly shut the door behind him. Gilwen had kept herself close to Faeldor all the while; though it seemed she had taken the lead somewhat and ushered her into her own room.

She turned to face him, and shut the door behind them. She locked eyes with him a moment before looking once more at the state of his tunic and hands. She glided to the far corner of her room, though it only took here three strides to cross, to a wash-basin. It was still filled with water, but the cloth had been put with the laundry.

Momentarily the woman frowned, and crossed back to the foot of her bed to open her trunk, soundlessly grabbing a rag and standing, without shutting the trunk, and extended it to Faeldor. She eyed her change of clothes, though faltered as to what it was she should do. She could not very well send Faeldor from the room to wait for her in the sitting room; that was far too dangerous. Instead, she decided to tend to him first. He was, after all, deserving of such attention.

[Faeldor]

“We are not far from my own home. Come, if we hurry and are silent we will be finished before my parents wake.”

“We best hurry then, before the sun rises;” Faeldor muttered, as he quickened his pace slightly. Of course; he kept in mind Gilwen’s own pace and did not hurry too fast; nor did he remove his hands from her the entire length of their walk upon the tier.

“We should not speak inside…voices carry well in this house.”

Faeldor nodded wordlessly, as if his voice would carry even from this distance. The last thing he wished was to be caught inside the house of Beregar by the very man himself. Gilwen pressed close to him even still as they had come upon the house, finally moving from his arms only to open the door.

Faeldor followed the lady in, making careful silent steps, and Gilwen soundlessly shut the door behind him. For a moment he stood still; his eyes adjusting to the even dimmer light of the closed house. Only a window on one side shed in the faint purple of the sky before dawn. The room they stood in was small and tidy; and he made out the outline of the dining room table upon one wall, and the sofa on the next. A counter stood with a basin and some pots, and the fireplace took up the rest of the room; though, there was not much else.

By the time his eyes adjusted to the room, Gilwen was already drawing him behind her to a doorway on the side wall, which led into her bedroom. A small window cast some light in upon the narrow and neatly made bed. A trunk stood at the foot, and a small stand with a washbasin in the corner. A white nightdress was folded upon a chair; but not much else filled the room. Faeldor distinctly saw the lovely dress he had gifted Gilwen hanging within the small closet, and the dancing shoes beneath, but nothing else.

He frowned slightly; Faeldor had certainly not left his room in such nice repair. His bed was wrinkled, with the blankets falling apart; and his nightshirt had certainly fallen to the floor wherever he had taken it off. However, when he returned home in the evening; his things would have likely been put back in place by a mysterious lady of the house… perhaps Beleth, or his mother.

Faeldor watched Gilwen as she moved to her trunk, and pulled out a rag. He was standing near enough her to see within that this was where she held her clothes, though it was nearly empty. He recognized the replica version of her black serving dress, and the brown day dress that she often wore when not at work; and what appeared to be a cloak, however, soon his eyes were drawn back to Gilwen as she came to him with the rag. Indeed; he must focus and clean up quickly; for he was a slight nervous to be in her house; and entirely nervous to be in her bedroom.

Faeldor washed his face, and felt a bit of sting upon his cheek as he did so. His skin was sore there; that was certain; yet he had come off quite nicer than the other man, and was not concerned. It was not the first time that he had been in a fight, though it was likely the worst damage he had caused another person. His moved near the basin, and cupped the cool water, rinsing the sweat from his neck and hair; and finally paying careful attention to his hands; removing every trace of the blood. Then he placed the rag down on the edge of the basin, and moved to undo his belt; and silently slip from his bloodied tunic. He looked to Gilwen for a moment as he folded it that the wet blood was inward and would not stain whatever it touched, and then not knowing what to do with it, sat it upon the floor.

In that brief minute, the man had certainly been transformed; and looked quite himself again. The offwhite shirt he wore had soaked none of the blood that his tunic had taken, and his face seemed fresh; despite the reddened portion upon his cheek and upper jaw. He reached again for the rag that he had left; and folded it, turning to the clean side; and moving a step toward Gilwen, he began to gently wipe her own face clean of the streaks he had left, careful with every motion. Though perhaps she would have been quicker on her own; Faeldor could not help himself; and with his free hand, he ushered her close her eyes as he wiped her forehead, and moved the cloth over her jaw, and lightly upon her neck, wiping every exposed area of skin that the dreadful man might have touched, and dipping the cloth to do so again.

Even in the dim light, the man could see the mark upon the woman’s neck. It was not a mark removed by water, and Faeldor intrinsically knew what it was, though for the moment he would say nothing; and he kept his temper in check; that even his breathing did not increase. His lips had been set together the entire time, so he must have made no motion upon his face. Yet, he dipped the cloth once more and brushed it over Gilwen’s hands until she was quite as free as he was of the blood. Then he placed it back within the basin; and did not stop himself from turning back to Gilwen and brushing his clean fingertips over her face, and softly and soundlessly pressing his lips to her temple.

Finally, he stepped back slightly, moving around the woman and reaching for the ties of her dress. He had loosened them once before, and offered her the assistance of doing so again, though without letting her dress fall, he motioned to her trunk, and then smiled slightly, turning about and taking a step forward to place both hands on the sill of the window. He would certainly respect the lady and not turn around until she ushered him to; though the fact that Gilwen would change while he was in her room made him all the more nervous; he glanced to the door of the room, and then back out the window, praying to the Valar that Beregar would not be disturbed from sleep.

[Gilwen]

She watched Faeldor as he worked soundlessly. Truly, he had never been this quiet before. It seemed as if the man even minded the sound of his breaths, for nothing at all was louder than the softest whisper. Though, she supposed his life had never depended on such quiet before. He took the rag from her and cleaned himself well, ridding himself of his bloody tunic and seeing that all traces of his grapple in the morning had been washed away; Gilwen’s own self eased as he did so. The sooner there were no reminders of the manner of their morning, the better off little Gilwen felt her heart would be.

There was a little reddish-color to a part of his cheek and jaw, though his beard made it hard to see fully. Gilwen frowned though, seeing his face harmed. It would likely leave very little in the way of bruise, though Gilwen would be able to notice that it was there for she had seen him receive the blow.

Faeldor dipped the rag once more and came to her, and Gilwen almost reached out her hand to accept the cloth from him, though found herself not being offered it at all. Instead, he began to wash her. The woman caught her breath, though allowed him to work as he wished. For to protest might draw some sort of response from Faeldor; and noise, at this very moment, was their greatest enemy.

His face was so stern that Gilwen did not notice a difference in him when he saw the red mark left upon her neck. Indeed, the woman did not know of it herself, and as such stayed calm herself. She let him wash her neck, and almost grabbed the rag from him to do so in a rougher fashion. It was as if she would never be clean enough again.

He brushed her temple, and his fingers lightly caressed her newly washed face. She almost sighed, or made motion to return such a gesture. Oh, by they hadn't time for that! Certainly when they were safely out of her own home she would be able to give him the attention she desired. But here...they need work quickly. Such a gesture, though, had warmed her and settled her. Oh, she had never been more thankful for him as she was then.

Faeldor moved around her, and she almost gasped as he loosened her ties. For a moment she thought the man was to undress her, and at that she would have protested greatly. Instead, though, he motioned to her trunk and smiled slightly to her, and positioned himself by the window.

Gilwen chewed her lip as she saw him glance to the door. She herself carried the same trepidation. Best to work quickly. Quick hands moved to untie her apron, and slip herself from her own dress. She had folded them both and laid them upon the floor before she reached for the brown frock in her trunk, but she froze mid move as a sound wafted from her parents’ quarters across the house. It sounded as if someone was stirring! Immediately Gilwen’s heart began to hammer. What on earth would they do? She was in naught but a chemise, and Faeldor! His tunic was upon her floor! This was surely the most compromised they had ever been with one another! In her own home!

She stayed still, as if her movement would be too noisy, until she was certain they were still asleep. Gilwen grabbed the dress, and slipped herself into it as quickly as she could, beginning to work with the ties to tighten it rightly.

She crossed to Faeldor when done, and lightly touched his shoulder to let him know she had finished. Then, the woman turned to gather the bloody clothes. It was best not to leave them in the open, for indeed her mother could very well come into her room if she felt like it. She stooped and grabbed them all, finally putting them below her bed. She supposed she could pass Faeldor his tunic through the window later that evening if such a thing was necessary, though she had a right mind to clean it. She was ready; she just needed to shut her trunk and they could leave.

It had to be fast! Gilwen was certain that her parents wouldn’t sleep much longer!

[Faeldor]

Gilwen was not the only to hear the faint creak of the bed through the walls, and when the thing was heard; Faeldor almost stopped breathing; as if one could hear such a thing from two rooms over. He tried to still his heart beat, so that it would not resound so in his chest. Though, it seemed that the moments passed by like hours, eventually he heard the soft sound of rustling cloth, and knew that Gilwen was moving once more.

Oh, but she was quick; she tapped his shoulder, and he turned about. He never knew how a woman could tighten and tie the strings of a dress behind themselves in such a quick and neat manner; yet they continually did so; and Faeldor was certainly glad for the speed of things today. He watched as Gilwen bundled up their garments and placed them hidden beneath her bed where they should not be seen. It seemed that she studied the room for anything else that might need be done, and Faeldor silently moved to help her, going for the trunk.

He glanced up to Gilwen for a moment; then reached within the trunk for the woolen garment. Surely she would be cold with the morning air; and he had not brought his cloak, nor did he even have his tunic to offer her now. He pulled the thing grey thing out, and tucked it beneath his arm; then carefully shut the lid, and pressed the clasp. He straightened, smoothed his shirt, and raised his eyes to the woman then; listening for a moment for movement before making his way to the door of her room.

It was not long before Faeldor had paced from the bedroom to the front door, and he checked that Gilwen was following behind before opening the door, and stepping out, quietly shutting it behind them as she came through. Faeldor made haste to leave the doorstep, scooping Gilwen about the waist as he did so, and he kept them at a brisk and wordless pace, at least brisk for Gilwen, until they had rounded the curve of the path, and the Great Gate of the city, as well as the black wall of the lowest level was in sight.

There, Faeldor stopped, and sighed so loudly; as if he had been holding his breath the entirety of the time from entrance until now. “I have never feared so for my life,” he attempted to humor slightly, a small grin upon his lips as he released Gilwen for only a moment to unfurl the grey garment, and draw it about her shoulders. It was the thinnest cloak he had ever laid eyes on; that was certain, though perhaps it would do a slight to keep out the chill. He wondered for a moment if it was the only that dear Gilwen possessed; and recalled that Narbeleth had mentioned it to him some weeks back. He pressed his lips together once more, though did not note aloud his thoughts on the matter, as he pinned the cloak at her shoulder.

Faeldor then drew his lady into a warm embrace; that would do more to stop the chill than such a thin cloak would. It seemed that he enveloped Gilwen completely within his arms. Oh, he would never release her after this morning; he knew it. What a dreadful way to start a day, he mused. What a dreadful way to spend any time. The poor dear. He would ask how it was that he had come to find her as was. Had the man taken her from her very doorstep, or had she walked alone? He was only greatful that the Valar had brought him upon her as they did.

Though, he was not about to speak of such matters while still on the city street. Oh no, he was quite anxious that they remove themselves from the first tier entirely; and seeing as they were nearer the lower gate than the upper tiers, the man had in mind to take her outside of the city. He held the lady firmly to his side. “Come, my dear, we will go out to the Pelennor as the sun rises; and you shall not leave my arms this day,” he said gently, sighing again, and looking anxiously about them.

No, the man would not be on his feet walking this soon. He would not harm his lady again. Faeldor protectively brought his other arm about Gilwen, and nuzzled his face within her hair for a moment as they walked slowly. Only when he looked up again did he increase their speed.

[Gilwen]

While Gilwen was stooped working with hiding the bloody clothes of the morning beneath her little bed, Faeldor had taken the cloak from her trunk, and proceeded to shut it. The woman did not notice the cloth in his arm, but was thankful for the help. She took another glance about the room, as if making sure that even the smallest of details was in order. The woman was satisfied enough; though, perhaps it was more a product of utter unease that drew her to follow Faeldor so closely as they seemed to bolt from the house.

They ventured a ways away before the stable master sighed: the first sound from him in some time. “I have never feared so for my life.” Gilwen could not truly agree, though she tried to force a smile in response to his jesting. Indeed, this morning had been full of fear for her---though the moment where she had been pinned against the wall this morning…that far outweighed her discomfort as to being in her own home, even with Faeldor in her bedroom.

It was then she noticed he had taken her cloak. She gasped lightly as he unfurled it and began to drape it about her shoulders. It was old; perhaps the oldest thing that Gilwen owned aside from her serving dresses. And there, in the pre-dawn light, the cloak looked to be in even worse shape than she remembered. There was no way Faeldor was going to let such a thing go unnoticed by him! She would have to still his thoughts on the matter, though. She did not wish him to buy her anything else, or worry for her over the small matter of a cloak.

Indeed, even as he clasped it, the little thing could not even feel the change in warmth from it; rather, what made her feel a slight better was the man before her, and his warm grey eyes she was watching intently. He moved to embrace her, and Gilwen readily buried herself against him once more. Propriety had utterly fallen away from her…she was so desperate for that closeness she had not allowed of herself for the past few days. How she needed it! What a horrendous fright she had been given this morning! It seemed that just being enfolded in his arms brought back the worst of the fears and emotions over the morning, and the woman pressed her face to his shoulder quietly to try and block the recurring visions.

It was as if the man’s eyes were still on her, and she could still see them here.

“Come, my dear, we will go out to the Pelennor as the sun rises; and you shall not leave my arms this day.”

Gilwen looked up to him as he shifted his hold upon her so that they could venture out of the city. Something of a thankful smile managed to pass from her lips, even through her taut nerves and anxious demeanor. Indeed, she had not missed Faeldor looking about, and the woman could not help but do so herself.

It was utterly ridiculous to assume that the man would be able to get himself together enough to even stand after how Faeldor had left him. Yet, it seemed as if she had to mind themselves: as if she understood that that was what had gone wrong this morning.

Faeldor had nuzzled into her hair for a moment, and it drew her mind away from her fears for a moment. Faeldor was right there. Should anyone else approach, surely she was safe now at his side.

No sooner had she let herself think such things, then did Faeldor pick up his pace. It seemed he was anxious to leave the walls of the White City behind as she was, and it was with all speed that they had worked their way down to the main gate.

Dawn was working its way through the sky; the lovely colors of a sunrise would just be beginning to paint themselves across the sky as they stepped into the golden grasses of the Pelennor. The young woman sighed, and cuddled in closer against her beloved; she was eager for him to hold her. She could make up for the past few days. How it now seemed utterly ridiculous to her!

Still, something bade her ask a question to him before the gate had let them to their freedom: “What of work, Fael?” It was soft, feeble. Perhaps she inwardly wanted him to ignore the question entirely. She was not the only one who needed to provide for her family this day. While, perhaps, she was in more dire need of attending than he.

[Faeldor]

“What of work, Fael?”

Faeldor stopped for a moment as they came to the main gate, and the guard allowed them to pass. “If you feel that you are able, and wish to work this morning; I will take you to the seventh tier…” he started hesitantly. “But I do not wish to let you go. I need to make certain that you are well,” he said.

Gilwen was far too distraught to go to work this day. Even if he were to try and test her; and release her from his arms, he was certain the woman would shudder. She had clung to him more tightly since she had pulled him from that man upon the street, than ever she had. Faeldor was not about to test her though; he would not let go of his Lady. In fact, he tightened his hold upon her at just the thought.

No, his Starlight had been terrified; her eyes even now held fear; and it was not a fear out of place. That man had held no right to touch her.

The guard at the gate smiled down upon them. Certainly they did not seem out of the ordinary; a young man and woman, married perhaps, or lovers, going for an early morning walk. Without his fine tunic with its silver clasps and embroidery; Faeldor clearly looked a common man. He might even pass for a man of the first tier. The woman’s tattered cloak certainly showed her status.

“I know you need the days wages, my dear, but your mind and body need the chance to calm. You have been through enough trauma; and now it is time for you to simply be still, and let me love you as I should. I shall quiet your heart,” he muttered softly. “Oh, how bitter I am toward that man,” he frowned as he pressed the woman warmly against him.

Faeldor waited for Gilwen’s answer before moving further. The guard watched them curiously, wondering why they stopped. The Stablemaster knew intrinsically that the woman would protest for his own duties, and so he continued; “When the groom realizes I am not there he will give the stablehands their orders, and I will go in later tonight for my planning and schedule writing. I shall not miss a thing. I would rather stay with you.”

[Gilwen]

“If you feel that you are able, and wish to work this morning; I will take you to the seventh tier…”

If she was able. Gilwen seemed struck by the statement. She knew she had been frightened, yes. But the thought of him turning, and taking her to the seventh tier, releasing her…it utterly terrified her. At the simple thought of such a thing, she gripped at his tunic all the more. She could not even imagine kneeling amongst the white stone walls today; an ever present, but perhaps irrational fear, that he would come for her there. That…that drunken man with the hungry eyes. She could see him as if he were standing there.

“But I do not wish to let you go. I need to make certain that you are well.”

The man she was with tightened his grip upon her as well, and the woman felt the bit of tension that had welled within her ease a slight. No, that man would not seek her again this day; Faeldor had left him beaten and broken upon the street for the way he had touched her. And now…now they would go to the plains. She need not be alone. Her mother would not wish her to work today, either, should she know what happened. Their new house did not require the same amount of wages, and the family had no upcoming dire costs. A day of work might be skipped; she could make up for it by working an otherwise scheduled day of.

“And now it is time for you to simply be still, and let me love you as I should. I shall quiet your heart.”

At those words, Gilwen knew she had made up her mind upon her own circumstance. Her heart needed to be quieted. She could not explain why, but her heart was anywhere but quieted now. Such anxiety filled her! And fear! Gracious Eru, Faeldor was standing at her side and she was frightened still.

Faeldor, though! He must need go to work; his job was plenty more important than her own. To run the stables…could one miss a day like this? ”I shall not miss a thing. I would rather stay with you.” It was as if the Valar had willed him to speak those precise words. Gilwen smiled, then, and nodded. “I should like to be with you, too.” There was her answer: work could wait. So, she waited a mere moment longer for Faeldor to take her away from the dirty and vile lower tier of the city. The Pelennor would calm them both, and she greatly desired the time to sit with him alone. She had missed such things over the past few days. The little thing knew it was her own decision to keep such a distance from him, but now! Now it all seemed ridiculous. She would make up for it all today. Faeldor, by the end of their time together, would surely know how much she loved him, and have enough kisses to make up for the past days he had gone without.

[Faeldor]

“I should like to be with you, too.” Faeldor nodded, standing with the woman for a moment before moving on. She had not seemed entirely hesitant; which was good. Even if she had asked to go to work, Faeldor knew that he could not leave her in the state she was; he would have waited outside the palace walls, knowing that it would be only shortly before she would return to him. A nervous worker would not give the palace a gain, and surely she would have been sent off.

“Gracious, you are trembling so…” the Stablemaster muttered. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything else to warm you with…” he added, attempting to bundle her further within her cloak, and warm her in his arms. Though, he was quite certain that it was not necessarily only the cold which made his lady to tremble. “The sun should rise soon and warm your skin. Perhaps we will walk for a time first.”

Faeldor took his little woman and set a slow walk through the great gate, and upon the fields. The sky was pale purple, and everything was now visible within the grey-green light of dawn. Birds sounded from the grasses; and the flowers were beginning to open as they searched for the first rays of morning. Faeldor sighed; he was not at rest or peace right now either. The man was entirely troubled; and there was still more he wished to ask Gilwen; of how the event this morning had come to be.

Though, that could hardly be discussed right now. His Gilwen was obviously still terrified. First he must quiet her trembling; and speaking further might wait ‘til the sun rose in the sky, and there was no terror hidden in the shadows.

They were in no hurry now; and Faeldor turned off the main road to a side path that led through the fields and past the farms. A song would help her. The man thought for a moment, as he tilted his head to press his lips upon the woman’s skin. Yes; it had not been a cheerful morning; but perhaps a bright song would help her to calm and settle. He kissed once more the tip of her ear, humming into it as he did so, before he returned to leisurely walk, and finally did sing for her.

“While the earth is dark and grey
How I laugh within. I know
In my breast what ardours gay
From the morning overflow.


Though the cheek be white and wet
In my heart no fear may fall:
There my chieftain leads and yet
Ancient battle trumpets call.


Bend on me no hasty frown
If my spirit slight your cares:
Sunlike still my joy looks down
Changing tears to beamy airs.


Think me not of fickle heart
If with joy my bosom swells
Though your ways from mine depart,
In the true are no farewells.


What I love in you I find
Everywhere. A friend I greet
In each flower and tree and wind—
Oh, but life is sweet, is sweet!


What to you are bolts and bars
Are to me the arms that guide
To the freedom of the stars,
Where my golden kinsmen bide.


From my mountain top I view:
Twilight’s purple flower is gone,
And I send my song to you
On the level light of dawn.”

---
_{Dawn Song-George William Russell}

[Gilwen]

“Gracious, you are trembling so…I’m afraid I don’t have anything else to warm you with…”

Gilwen looked up to him for a moment, before taking her brown eyes away again. She could not bear to look him in the eye as she replied, quite quietly and flatly, “It is not the cold that bothers me.” Indeed, it truly was rather warm out, even despite the lack of sun. The summer was still upon Gondor, and it would only warm as the sun rose. But her trembling frame was not from any feeling of discomfort from the weather, rather a discomfort from within.

She tried desperately to regain control of herself; it all seemed so pointless. Her nerves were shaken well from the morning’s activities and needed their proper course to run before she would once more be well.

Even the lovely turning colors of the sky did not do anything to aide her relaxation, though her brown doe-eyes did eagerly turn their direction to the painted skies. The purples were illuminating the plains, and the golden grasses were beginning to look such the color, losing their silvery grey glow of night. The birds sung from their nests, happy little tunes that normally did well to keep Gilwen in bright spirits. Today, though, it seemed strange to hear. Though, she mused if she listened long enough, the sounds of life would ease her again.

Faeldor took her from the main path, and such was fine for the little lady. She absently watched the billowing grasses, and the farms as they seemed to quickly fill with people for the coming work they would do. She felt a bristled kiss pressed to her skin, and the woman cherished the feel. This kiss had been so much lovelier than the others she had gotten to her neck. The roughness of his beard was anything but undesirable; such comfort came from him. The lips this morning had been rough, and unwelcomed, though the skin had been smooth. Gilwen’s stomach churned at the thought, and her hand clenched Faeldor’s tunic all the more as she fought back a sudden wave of sickness over the thought of the other man’s lips.

But a soft kiss pressed to her ear by her Faeldor settled her for the time, and he began to sing to her. Such a blessed sound; it matched the loveliness of the morn. Slowly she resigned herself to release the tension in her muscles. How could she keep so taut nerves out here, upon the lovely field of grasses and flowers? And with her beloved, there by her side. She was blessed; she need not worry here. The Valar had taken her from the danger. They had saved her from her own stupidity. It was her own self that had worked her way into the situation she was in. Oh, she had thought no harm could come of going to meet her beloved! She leaned against him, sighing—a sound that was neither content nor discontent. Though, her shoulders no longer trembled and shook with the same fervor as they had been within the walls. It was as if the very open air had stilled her a bit.

Faeldor finished singing, and the woman looked up to him, her face gentle. “It has been a while since I have heard you sing to me,” she observed quietly. It did not trouble her, her eyes relayed that. It was the manner of the circumstance this morning that was so troubling.

The scene played before her again, and it felt as if she could feel his wretched hand upon her thigh, even as she stood so tucked against Faeldor’s side. She shuddered involuntarily and she took a hand to brush the skirt smooth, as if to make sure that no hand was upon her.

She could feel herself begin to tense again, so she tried to turn her mind to other topics, but all she could manage to think of was the brawl, and the blood. Her stomach felt weak again, as she thought of it all, though amidst such things she found her solace. A diversion for her poor little mind. She saw the blow to her Faeldor’s ankle. Heavens, why were they still walking?

Gilwen caught her breath and looked up to him, “Fael…do sit down.” He would never allow her to walk as he was—he had cared for her ankle when she had been struck. It was a motherly, and pleasantly distracting, act that could ease her spirit.