Whiskers [Gilwen]

[Gilwen]

“And I should hope that by the time my daughters are old enough to wed, that I shall no longer need my sword for defense, but might take any man down with my mere fists.”

Beregar grinned. “You’ve got strength enough for it,” he half laughed. “Maybe I can train you up right for when the time comes.” He did not wish to linger long on that thought, for certainly Faeldor disliked him for his own show of brute strength, and truly did not know if it was time yet to take it lightly or not.

Beregar had mentioned the cavalry boy, and immediately the father grimaced. He could see his mistake immediately. “She cared for him that much?” “I don’t think she did as much as Niniel did,” Beregar replied as quickly as he could without sounding desperate. “She…she spoke about him sometimes at home, and once he walked her to our door for he was on his way out of the city at the time.”

Beregar chose his words carefully, not lying though certainly not speaking of the way his daughter had blushed when she mentioned his name, or had whispered to her mother that she thought he was handsome and strong. Those things she had very well done for Faeldor, too.

“She must have met him around the palace, though I never knew quite rightly how. Niniel knows, I think, but I never cared to learn. She said he helped her,” he paused and frowned a little in recollection. “She said he had cared for her, and that to make her feel better, he had taken her to the stables to let her play with his horse.” He flashed his eyes toward Faeldor a moment, the old puzzlement he had felt over that day long ago returning.

“Gilwen never spoke to me on it anymore, no matter my questioning. She had hardly been at the palace a month at that time, and I…I let the matter drop. I suppose she might have been infatuated for a while, but after a few months, Gilwen never spoke of him again. Not unless Niniel asked and prodded. And then, it was only to say she was sure he was doing well. She very well lost her voice after that, working in that place.”

That hardly sounded like it was going to help the Stable Master feel better, so Beregar let out a wry laugh. “Still, even with her voice worked from her, I heard a great deal about you. If Niniel so much as mentioned you, Gilwen would flush—and I came home at least once to her carrying on to her mother about how handsome she thought you, and strong.” He laughed a little harder. “She did not know, of course, I was listening. I doubt she would have said anything if she had thought that.”

[Faeldor]

“You’ve got strength enough for it. Maybe I can train you up right for when the time comes.”

“Perhaps you should. I, and my brother.” Faeldor thought for a moment on Faelon's anger the night before, brandishing a sword no less! He was as protective of his family as Faeldor was himself, it seemed, and the matter pleased him. Faelon was a good boy, and had always helped his crippled sister Haliel, in any ways that he might. He had also been good to Diore and Eoric since they had come to live with them... but to try and defend his grown brother! Certainly, Faeldor mused, he would have done the same for him. He almost laughed. “Brothers,” he corrected himself, thinking on little Eoric. Though, it would be some years before the little Horse Lord need know skill in battle.

“Some day, we shall all have wives to defend, or sisters at any rate. Perhaps our services will even be needed for Gondor,” he thought back on the day that the orcs had come upon them on the plain. It could be that those days were sooner than Faeldor would like them to be.

When more information of Herion's role in Gilwen's life was given, Faeldor nearly blanched. “Well...” he managed managed, not feeling any better at Beregar's choice of words to tell him of Gilwen and Niniel's delight over Herion.

“He does still keep horse in my stables. A good man, I suppose, though I notice more that he is always kind to his mount. Those are the Calvary men whom I like best.” He was a bit morose on the fact that Herion had known Gilwen so early in life. He might have known her then, if he had looked for her. She had been there in his stables while his Father was still alive, and Faeldor himself had been simply one of the horse grooms. She was probably about the stables the same time of day that he was, and he had not noticed her. Of course, at that time, he had been interested in other young girls. Though, Gilwen would not have passed his eyes. Though perhaps she still never believed him when he stated it, she was very beautiful.

“At any rate, you say she was only fifteen” he mused. “And he likely paid her not much notice, for she probably looked to be ten at that point. I dare say I thought her perhaps not eighteen yet when I met her this spring. She came to see my horses after I had met her in the palace, and I asked her oughtn't I return her to her parents home early? She was quite offended by that remark I think. She sternly told me that she would return home at whichever time she wished...” He paused momentarily deciding if he should continue. “I suppose I should have taken her home early anyhow, but she was so gleeful to be out with me. I could not resist to take her to one of my favorite places, and she simply gleamed, laughed, and danced in the moonlight. She was splendid.”

Perhaps, Faeldor forgot who he was talking to for a moment. The subject may have offended Beregar and brought back some anger, but Faeldor did not have a Father to speak with on these matters. Faeldor's first impressions of Gilwen had always overwhelmed him. He had loved her so from that first night.

“I suppose she has not shown you her own horse,” Faeldor started... Glad that he was changing the subject. Likely, he mused, Beregar did not even know of the tender mare that Faeldor had picked for his beloved. He knew Beregar had been the one to teach Gilwen her skills of horse mastery though, so surely he would be interested. “She was a gift for her birthday. Oh, did her eyes gleam and her face light at that. Pity she has not seen much of the horse at all since then, but the grooms have cared for her. I don't want her in the stables right now, in her condition... though certainly the horse would up her spirits.”

“Perhaps I should get her a kitten...” he mused, laughingly. “She seems to desire one. So much for being strong with this face, though perhaps she was trying to fend the other women away.”

[Gilwen]

“Perhaps you should. I, and my brother. Brothers. Some day, we shall all have wives to defend, or sisters at any rate. Perhaps our services will even be needed for Gondor.”

Beregar nodded, though his face was solemn. “Aye, I can learn you right, though I hope Gondor has no need of your swords.” He paused and pursed his lips into a tight line. “I chose the way of a soldier because it was the best way for me to make a living. My parents owned an apothecary down on the third tier, but I was never much good at herbs and remedies. I have been on a few campaigns, you know. Osgiliath twice, and even out to Ithilien.” For a moment Beregar’s eyes flashed and his mind screamed within him with memories and foul visions of blood and pain.

He thought of leaving Niniel and Gilwen, not knowing if her were going to come home again and be able to hold them. Watching his daughter fend off her tears when he left, not wanting him to see her weep openly. War was pain, and Gilwen should not have to bear the burden of watching her husband, trained not in the art of warfare, march toward any dark force. But Mordor; it was growing dark.

“Leaving Niniel and Gilwen behind, telling my daughter not to cry because I would not want to remember her by her tears, but by her laughter…it was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. By some grace I was able to return after all that bloodshed—but I was never the same man.” Beregar, now, was quiet in his words. Blue eyes were clouded and shaded, lips hard and frowning.

Beregar thought for a moment on the prospect of the cavalryman, and looked to Faeldor for the first time with fondness. “I think I like you for her better than I ever would have that Herion,” he stated warmly. “Indeed the day could come when all of Gondor’s sons are emptied to war, but you will not have to leave Gilwen alone before the very end, should it come to it. You will be there for her.” The man tossed a look over toward the east. The sky seemed darker above the mountain there than any of the grey above the city.

“At any rate, you say she was only fifteen. And he likely paid her not much notice, for she probably looked to be ten at that point. I dare say I thought her perhaps not eighteen yet when I met her this spring. She came to see my horses after I had met her in the palace, and I asked her oughtn't I return her to her parents home early? She was quite offended by that remark I think. She sternly told me that she would return home at whichever time she wished...”

Beregar laughed, the sound pleasant and lighter than any of his previous bursts of humor had been. “She never looked her age,” Beregar agreed. “She was born to us early, and I don’t think her body ever caught up with her years.” He smiled, fondly imagining the little girl who he had come home to every evening. Her smiling face, her little hands.

“She almost was denied her job at the palace for they thought her too young to be in service to the steward like that! Gilwen never liked being thought so much younger,” Beregar added giving Faeldor another sideways glance. “It might be why she worked so hard to prove her worth in that palace—she never liked not being taken seriously. I never really minded her size, though, for she always had strength enough. Niniel and I thanked the Valar for that every day.”

“I suppose I should have taken her home early anyhow, but she was so gleeful to be out with me. I could not resist to take her to one of my favorite places, and she simply gleamed, laughed, and danced in the moonlight. She was splendid.”

Beregar eyed him with a heavy stare. “She came home aglow, for certain. I must admit I thought it bold for you to take her from the city so easily, but if you had simply come to me afterward and spoke with me…” Beregar stilled his tongue, choking back a bit of upset with a hard swallow.

“My daughter trusted you, though—I suppose she spent enough time in your stables to know your character well enough to let you take her.”

“I suppose she has not shown you her own horse.”

Beregar’s mouth dropped a bit, and his face certainly relayed his surprise. “A horse? No,” he admitted almost reduced to childlike curiosity. “She never spoke of…did you? You must have,” he found himself rambling. “She always wanted one of her own, you know. I could never afford it, though. I know she was sad about it, but bless her she never pestered me over it. She always was like that—even when she was little and knew we could not afford the dolls she eyed in the shops. You…you got her a horse?”

He paused for a breath and then frowned a little harder. “Surely, she will have the strength soon. Are the stables so busy that she could not simply sit there for a time with a watchful eye?” Perhaps Beregar could watch her. He had always wanted to know what her eyes would shine like if ever she got a mount of her own—maybe he could catch a precious glimpse of it. Still, he did not offer. Some of the lower stables were quite calm or empty for the day. The Citadel Stables, though, he had never stepped into before that morning. And they had been quite a bit larger than any other board he had been in.

“Perhaps I should get her a kitten…She seems to desire one. So much for being strong with this face, though perhaps she was trying to fend the other women away.”

Beregar once more smiled. “Well, someone in your home certainly wanted one. Though, I must say, I have never even considered my daughter the type that would ever use ink like that!” He chuckled. “But I suppose you are right; it will certainly keep women away.” Beregar smiled all the wider. “You may want to wash that off—should you walk too low in the city with those whiskers, someone may try to take you for a fool.” A shadow of a wink passed through his now pleasant eye.

[Faeldor]

“A horse? She never spoke of…did you? You must have, She always wanted one of her own, you know. I could never afford it, though. I know she was sad about it, but bless her she never pestered me over it. She always was like that—even when she was little and knew we could not afford the dolls she eyed in the shops. You…you got her a horse?”

“I did,” Faeldor answered, wondering if the girl's father had seemed it too great a gift. Either way, he shrugged lightly, it was not too much for him. “She has never asked me for a thing... save to hold her,” he added the last quietly. “Though she did mention that she had always wanted one.” It had been difficult to all extremes for Faeldor to stop with simply a horse. He did not have the money to buy the world, but he had wealth enough that he could have helped her and her parents considerably.

Well perhaps... perhaps the time would come when he could provide for them all. When they were old, certainly. But now... he looked to the man for a moment. He was out of work, and in some ways, though it was Durion's doing, Faeldor still felt completely responsible. Perhaps he could put in word for him somewhere. He did have sway throughout all the stables of the city. Perhaps he would not be taken back as a solider, but then again, it had not sounded as if he had really cared for the great responsibility and loss. It was a topic though, for another time.

“You know, perhaps she enjoys the creatures so much for her size. I had not thought of that before, but one grows a great deal of height and power when atop a horse...”

“Surely, she will have the strength soon. Are the stables so busy that she could not simply sit there for a time with a watchful eye?”

“There is always an ebb and flow in the Steward's stables. But, for a time, perhaps. Soon, at least. Not yet. I don't wish her among the bustle, and the Calvary men are not always quite appropriate in their language. Mind you, if they see a woman about they hold their tongues, but if she were just sitting in the stall... I do not wish her about any unseemly speech. Not that it could truly harm her, but she simply flusters so easily. She needs some more days of complete calm.”

“Well, someone in your home certainly wanted one. Though, I must say, I have never even considered my daughter the type that would ever use ink like that! But I suppose you are right; it will certainly keep women away. You may want to wash that off—should you walk too low in the city with those whiskers, someone may try to take you for a fool.”

“Ah, they shall think me a fool of it anyhow when I drag this perfectly good war horse down to the head of Stables here, and demand that it be sent out to to work the fields. I may as well look the part,” he drawled, glumly. “Perhaps they have something I can wash with, though I think this will take a good deal of soap and hot water to come free.”

[Gilwen]

“I did. She has never asked me for a thing... save to hold her. Though she did mention that she had always wanted one.”

Beregar felt his heart fall a bit in his chest, heavy with swirling guilt. Partly because he knew his daughter had desired a horse so fiercely and he could not have ever given her one of her own, partly because Faeldor was certainly comfortable enough in wages to afford such luxuries for his little girl, and Beregar had so adamantly tried to pry Gilwen from him.

“That’s my girl, all right,” he whispered. “Never asked for anything, save to be held.” Beregar could almost feel a little girl in his arms, and the gentle warmth she had given him when she fell asleep upon his lap, or the joy he set in his heart when she had taken his hand upon the street.

“You know, perhaps she enjoys the creatures so much for her size. I had not thought of that before, but one grows a great deal of height and power when atop a horse...”

Beregar shook his head slowly, not certain whether he fully agreed or not. Perhaps it was something only Gilwen could say. “She always thought they were beautiful—I told her she was too small to be near a horse. I truly thought she would die beneath hooves! One day, though, we were on our way home from the market and she spied this young lad atop a gentle mare with his father, I take it.” He paused and sighed. “She was so taken by the horse—it was black with a perfect white star upon its forehead. Gilwen could hardly contain herself, she was near dancing at my side!” A faint smile took his lips.

“She must have caused quite a scene, because the little boy actually took the time to notice her. He must have asked if she could come see the horse, and the man actually stopped whatever he was doing and let Gilwen pet the mare’s nose! Gilwen was very careful around the creature, and…well, I decided why not teach the girl to ride?”

“I don't wish her among the bustle, and the Calvary men are not always quite appropriate in their language. Mind you, if they see a woman about they hold their tongues, but if she were just sitting in the stall... I do not wish her about any unseemly speech. Not that it could truly harm her, but she simply flusters so easily. She needs some more days of complete calm.”

Beregar nodded. “Soldiers never are ones to mind their language around other soldiers,” he agreed knowingly. “Something about knowing you will die beside them makes etiquette unnecessary.” He smiled, though. “But Gilwen does fluster, doesn’t she?” He was certain the Valar had used every shade of red and pink when they gave his daughter her emotions. There always seemed to be a new shade worn upon her cheeks!

“Ah, they shall think me a fool of it anyhow when I drag this perfectly good war horse down to the head of Stables here, and demand that it be sent out to do work the fields. I may as well look the part. Perhaps they have something I can wash with, though I think this will take a good deal of soap and hot water to come free.”

“Well, they don’t know the whole of it,” Beregar offered as warmly as he could, hearing quite easily the man’s glum and dreary tone. “But the horse will thank you later—you have saved its life twice over.” Free from Durion’s repercussions, and free from war. The horse did not seem so unsuited for fieldwork anyway.

“Though, I hate to say I doubt anything short of soap and a good scrubbing will take that ink off,” Beregar bit back a laugh. “The rain hasn’t so much as smudged it. You must have had it on all night.”

[Faeldor]

“You say a star faced, black mare,” Faeldor commented aloud, smiling. “I would have said that was my Father's own Thinilroch if...”

If what? he thought to himself, and suddenly he imagined himself upon his father's mare, as Faelon led them back up the street toward their home. Faeldor, as a child, was not let to steer the horse by himself through the crowded streets, yet Faelon would take them out through the gates in the evening, when time permitted, and teach his son all the skills that would later gain his position as Stable Master, and they would return in time for supper.

“A little girl in a yellow dress, with dark hair and eyes,” Faeldor thought aloud.

“Father said she looked as if she were a little doll herself. I saw her near jumping in her skin at the horse, and he stopped and he called her over. I was glad for the wait because it meant that I would have a few more moments to sit atop that mare. I loved those rides with Father.” Faeldor looked to Beregar for a moment, quizically. Yes that was him. He recalled that he had been slouching atop the horse as they walked back up the street, but upon seeing Beregar looking on him, he sat up straight.

“Father inquired if the little doll would like to see his horse, and what did that little child answer, but, “No, my doll is at home, but I should like to pet her nose!” Faeldor almost laughed. “She near bounced over to us...”

“I had a handful of flowers for Mother from the field, and I reached down and gave her two,” Faeldor laughed aloud. “The yellow is for you, and the blue is for your doll, who is missing out on petting Thinilroch, the fastest horse in all of Gondor!”

“Father laughed, and we went home to supper. Mother was not at all perturbed that I had given some of her flowers away. She told me I was a good boy.”

“Though, I hate to say I doubt anything short of soap and a good scrubbing will take that ink off. The rain hasn’t so much as smudged it. You must have had it on all night.”

“Oh believe me, I know what it will take, and that is no less than several hours of scrubbing,” Faeldor drawled. “But the first good wash should get the most of it. My younger sister did this very same joke to me several years ago... though she is not now living in Minas Tirith. But they...”

The man wondered for a moment. He did recall that the day before they had all been asking, if not demanding for him to write to his Uncle and have his sister sent home, and he had insisted that he would not...

“I do believe it was likely a team effort,” he mused. Then sighed. After his late arrival at the stables, and now this departure, he did not have time to deal with this today! And for the people who could have been involved in the matter, he could have no harsh words with his Mother, and Gilwen and Miriel were in states of which they should not be upset either. He would have to handle the matter in grace. Ignore it. Last time it occurred he did everything but ignore it. He had chased his sister about the house for what seemed like an hour, and after she had lit off to the roof to hide from him, he had shouted from there!

[Gilwen]

“I would have said that was my Father's own Thinilroch if...”

Beregar laughed, immediately lifting a hand and shaking his head. Of course it could not have been Faeldor and his father. It was so long ago—nearly twenty years!—and the city was so large and full of horsemen. In fact, it was so unlikely it could have been them, it was impossible. Still, even as the man opened his mouth to speak, Faeldor said something that stole his breath, stole his color, and stole his words.

“A little girl in a yellow dress, with dark hair and eyes.”

Beregar’s eyes were wide, brow furrowed and the assuredness he had held so firm before was now utterly gone. “Y-yes, she…she had a yellow dress.” It was the only dress his Gilwen had owned. Surely Faeldor had simply heard of it and was trying to imagine Gilwen dressed that way.

“Father said she looked as if she were a little doll herself. I saw her near jumping in her skin at the horse, and he stopped and he called her over. I was glad for the wait because it meant that I would have a few more moments to sit atop that mare. I loved those rides with Father.”

Beregar let his eye study Faeldor more closely. Grey eyes. Had the child’s eyes been grey? Perhaps. It was quite some time ago, though, and the man could not be sure. The soldier thought he could recall that both man and child had light colored eyes, but Beregar’s attention had been mostly on his daughter and the horse. He tried to picture the moment he had smiled apologetically toward the man and apologized for his daughter’s intrusion to their evening.

Beregar’s eyes snapped back to Faeldor’s face, studying his smile, hearing him laugh, and eyeing the dark hair atop his head. “He looked like you,” he impulsively stated. The man had laughed the exact way, with fondness and kindness. His Gilwen had interrupted them upon the very streets of the market, and the man had not held a single quarrel with it. Maybe…

“Father inquired if the little doll would like to see his horse, and what did that little child answer, but, “No, my doll is at home, but I should like to pet her nose!””

“I had asked her to leave Anna at home that day…she near ripped from my hand she was so eager to cross,” Beregar muttered. Perhaps at the same time Faeldor continued, “She near bounced over to us...”

“I had a handful of flowers for Mother from the field, and I reached down and gave her two.”

“Yellow, and blue,” Beregar whispered, still eyeing Faeldor as he continued to laugh and speak. “The yellow is for you, and the blue is for your doll, who is missing out on petting Thinilroch, the fastest horse in all of Gondor!”

“By the Valar,” Beregar muttered. Faeldor finished quickly, stating that he had gone home to supper and that his mother had not minded him giving Gilwen flowers, but Beregar was hardly listening by that point. “Gilwen was so excited, she near had us run all the way home to show her mother the flowers. Even after they had wilted she made us keep them by her bed for days!”

Beregar’s pensive and studious expression suddenly gave way to laughter and amusement. The man’s eyes were near shining. “You, then! You’re the one who made it impossible for me to tell my daughter no. You! You are the reason she learned to ride!” He was near gasping he was laughing so hard. “The lad atop a horse!”

For a while he was consumed in more laughter. He finally contained enough of his amusement to turn back to Faeldor with more words, though. “Niniel said it was Gilwen’s love of horses that caused you to—” He erupted in laughter again. “Oh, and to know! You made her that way first, all those years ago…”

Beregar shook his head, amusement still brimming from his features and a new light in his heart and eye that no shower of rain could dampen. “By Eru, I never thought the little lad atop that horse would ever become a son of mine!”

Faeldor spoke on washing, and Beregar listened pleasantly. “It might have been a team effort, then,” Beregar hummed in reply. He paused, eyeing Faeldor once again, smile still smeared across his face. “When you’re done turning the horse over,” Beregar motioned with a nod toward the lucky creature escaping Durion’s care, “we’ll stop back at my house so you can take some soap to those whiskers of yours. Niniel would like to see you at any rate, I am certain.” And gracious, did Beregar have a story to tell!

He paused a moment and turned back to Faeldor. “You know, I doubt Gilwen even realizes she finally met the boy atop the horse. She thought he—well, you—were training to be a cavalier, you know. She...” He started to laugh again. “She called you a horse master, for to be so young and riding!”

He finally controlled himself long enough to finish. “She will blush, you know,” he added fondly. “To know you saw her in her excitement and gave her flowers. She talked about you for a few days after that. Niniel and I joked that you were her first love.” He grinned. “She will blush more knowing you know that!”

[Faeldor]

“You, then! You’re the one who made it impossible for me to tell my daughter no. You! You are the reason she learned to ride! The lad atop a horse! Niniel said it was Gilwen’s love of horses that caused you to—Oh, and to know! You made her that way first, all those years ago…”

Faeldor smiled to himself, bemusedly, trying to remember more on the day, though simply it was. He had pointed her out to Father, and Father had called her over. “Ah, but the Valar must have intended for our meeting.”

“You know, I doubt Gilwen even realizes she finally met the boy atop the horse. She thought he—well, you—were training to be a cavalier, you know. She... She called you a horse master, for to be so young and riding!”

“I never wished to be a cavalier. I was never interested in war or battle. Only wanted to copy what my Father did,” Faeldor responded thoughtfully. “Only a Horse Master I suppose...” It took Faeldor as a hilarity that Gilwen called him now the very same thing. He would not mention that fact to Beregar. He tried to picture the small little girl phrasing those words. Yes, that was her, that pretty little thing. How could he not recognize her?

“She will blush, you know. To know you saw her in her excitement and gave her flowers. She talked about you for a few days after that. Niniel and I joked that you were her first love. She will blush more knowing you know that!”

Ah, she would blush, Faeldor agreed to himself. He would be certain to tell her the entire story upon his return, and make pointed effort to mention what Beregar had said, for he was a man much amused by the rosy color of Gilwen's cheeks, and he took a great deal of pleasure in seeing her fluster over such sweet little thoughts. “A pity the flowers of the field are all but dead to winter, or I would pluck her some more. Well, it shall have to wait for spring time,” he said aloud.

“Here we are,” he motioned to the stable ahead as he began to walk Durion's horse toward it. Let me send this one off to a new home, and I will take you up on your offer to wash my whiskers. I should like to see Niniel as well.”

[Gilwen]

Beregar nodded to Faeldor as he began to work his way into the stable, horse in tow. The man did not wish to be any more intrusive, and while a part of him greatly desired to follow so he could see the first tier stable master’s face when he spied Faeldor’s inked face, the soldier opted to wait outside. He leaned by the doorway, arms crossed across his chest and wearing what was undoubtedly a silly grin. Perhaps he had held reservations about his daughter’s betrothal just the night before—even, he would admit reluctantly, that morning—but he had gone to seek Faeldor out at his work anyway.

He could make peace, he had told himself. Gilwen would want him to.

Now, though!

Beregar was smiling, and enjoying himself in Faeldor’s company. It was quite a turn, even he acknowledged. To go from wishing the man beaten by your own hands to thinking with uttermost certainty that your daughter’s betrothed was actually a right match in less than a day was certainly no small feat.

His Gilwen. His little girl had somehow found that boy who had sat atop a horse those many years ago. The one who had given her flowers, and ignited a simple, though girlish and silly, crush. She was about to marry him, and she had not the faintest idea. The Valar was certainly at work there—Beregar could not deny that. And, if Faeldor had been given to Gilwen from their very hands, who was he to deny their match?

As he was pondering the thought, though dutifully avoiding the idea of Faeldor touching her and giving her children, Beregar’s mood lightened. She would be comfortable. She would be happy. She would be cared for. He nearly sighed.

A voice cut in on him. “That is quite a smile, my lord.” It was unmistakably female, and Beregar’s attention snapped up immediately. The man’s shoulders tensed as well, because the way the woman spoke was far too low and velvety for his tastes.

“It is quite a pleasant day,” the soldier answered gruffly. He eyed her. The woman was lovely, and at one point had to have been radiant. Her eyes were the color of chocolate, and she had long brown curls and smiling lips. She wore a hood, fighting against the wind and rain of the city’s day, though even with the shadow it cast he could see her curling lip and hungry smile. Beregar was immediately uncomfortable.

“Pleasant?” She sang in response. “I suppose it could be, with the right company.” Shania lifted her head and marked the rumbling clouds and the grey blanket they had thrown over Minas Tirith. “I was hoping to head inside to escape this rain, for I am rather chilled myself.” She paused. “Would you care to join me?”

Beregar had never received an offer from a harlot before, and could not quite find control of his face to hide his utter shock and surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to prowl at night?”

Shania tilted back her hood and shrugged. “Pleasure is a business that need not be so confined.”

Beregar realized the lady had no intention of taking his question as dismissal, and quickly looked back over his shoulder toward the stable’s entry. “A business I do not need you for. I am waiting for someone, that is all.”

Shania let her eyes flick to the doorway herself and raised her brow. “A man? …I see.”

Beregar blanched. “Not in the way you think; he is…a son.” What did a harlot need know of his Gilwen? The very idea seemed repulsive. “Be on your way,” he added hurriedly.

Still, Shania made no point to move, and Beregar was not about to be physical with a woman, no matter how much he wished to be rid of her unnerving eyes.

[Faeldor]

Faeldor made his way into the stable, sighing that he would indeed need to speak to another person with this inked face.

“Where is Balagand?” he asked one of the work crew as he entered. He was soon led to the center of the stable, and a man heard them approach and exited.

“A certain cavalier we have spoke of before will be trying to get this horse extinguished soon, I am certain. He got himself beat for good reason, and no doubt he'll blame it on the horse,” Faeldor informed the Head of Stables on the first tier. “It is a fine mare, and I would hate to see this done.”

“Ah, I think I recognize that one. The stallion that bred her is just down on the end now for a time.” Balagand looked upon the horse. “Will that cavalier be requesting another then?” As he asked, he looked now upon Faeldor, for at first glance his eyes had been upon the horse. He stared for a moment, and his face broke into a smile.

“I know, I know,” Faeldor grimaced. “My family has pulled the wool over my eyes and played a joke on me. I think I shall have to find a kitten for them.” He sighed, continuing. “No, I don't think for a time he will need another,” Faeldor recalled. “He will probably have some leave from his duties. Well then, her name now is Moroch, but we shall change it to Bruidal.”

“And I shall have one of my boys take her out the Fields today. Perhaps I can arrange a trade with one of the farms for some more hay and provisions. Should get a couple wagon loads for that beauty.”

“I should say so myself,” Faeldor patted the horse one last time. “And she'll have a better life for it! Her old master has probably ruined her for war, anyhow. Time she gets a break!”

Balagand had a lopsided grin upon his face. He pointed across the stable to the median room on the opposite side of the hall, where the hay and grain for the horses was kept. Faeldor looked, confusedly, and noted a cat wandering out. The cat had a short tail, for it had once been stomped by a horse, and one of the stable grooms had been forced to cut it off, lest the small creature come to infection. Following behind the cat were five kittens, one after the other, some batting at other's tails, and with bits of hay in their fur. “Feel free to take one. In fact... there is one with a blind eye. I'd be happy to see it go. Might be a good house cat, but it won't last long here once it's mother lets it run about on it's own. It will get a hoof for sure. The white one.”

Faeldor noted the white kitten, following after it's mother and stepped over and lifted it. “Partial albinism,” he noted, looking at the pure white fur.

“Blind in the blue eye, but the green seems to track well enough,” Balagand added.

He hadn't seriously thought of coming home with a kitten. In fact! Well... perhaps he would come in cheery, despite the whiskers that he would not be able to remove entirely in one day. If he ignored it about his family, perhaps they wouldn't see it fit to do again. It had, after all, resulted in Durion's beating. Perhaps it had not been such a bad joke after all. “Well, I suppose,” he stated. “It won't like the rain much, but I might as well take it now before something happens to it.” He hadn't even grabbed his cloak to put it under.

“Put it in that sack under your arm. It'll stay a bit dry.”

“That will do. Well, I best be off. I need to try and clean my face and the stable is calling.”

“I understand that!” Balagand laughed for a moment. “We'll see this horse is put to good home.”

Faeldor nodded and moved to pick up one of the grain sacks from the storage room, placing the kitten gently in it. Then raise a hand in farewell to the other Stable Master, and was on his way. He saw Beregar waiting outside for him in the misting rain, a woman standing in front of him. Well, it was not all that unusual. They were near his home here... he likely had acquaintances.

Though the woman... on second glance, seemed familiar. “Good day,” he chanced mildly, not to be rude.

[Gilwen]

Beregar was getting quite uncomfortable, for indeed Shania was showing she had no intention of leaving. It was almost a breath of fresh air for Faeldor to emerge once again, though it was not his presence the man noticed as much as it was his voice. “Good day.” Beregar turned and offered him a strained smile, but before he could get the words out that they should be on their way, Shania had smiled and offered words of her own.

“My, what a polite boy you have,” Shania drawled, picking up a velvety saunter as she took a few strides forward. “I must say though, you do not look much alike—though it could be all those markings.” Were they tattoos? The woman could not quite decipher; it seemed a strange picture to ink upon oneself, but the lady had seen many strange things.

“He’s not mine by blood,” Beregar near grumbled, and he almost reached for Faeldor’s arm to drag him behind. “Good day,” he offered curtly.

Still, before he had managed to pull them both away, Shania gasped and let another smile cross her face, this time one of amusement and recognition. “Oh, I remember you, dear,” she half sang. Beregar near whipped about to mark her face, and then slowly looked back to Faeldor, eyes fighting confusion. Perhaps he was about to speak and tell the woman she had quite overstayed her welcome amongst them, but Shania hardly allowed him such time. “You’re the one with an affinity for girls. I recall your last one—small, mousey.” She crossed her arms. “Have you tired of her yet? Would you like to reconsider my offer?”

Faeldor was seen with another harlot? The day before Beregar would have believed it in an instant, but now. Now he thought he knew better. For a moment the man was quiet, but it seemed all at once his mind caught up with Shania’s words. “Mousey?” Beregar exclaimed, suddenly understanding. He turned to Faeldor and dropped his voice low. “Is she talking about Gilwen?” He was frowning. He turned, and scowled at the woman, expression hardened and beginning to anger.

“That’s my daughter,” he near growled. “She is no harlot!”

Shania dismissed Beregar, though and kept her eyes on Faeldor. “She isn’t here this time, dear—I know we had our disagreements last time, but it does look as if you need a break.” She laughed, the sound not nearly as bright as it should have been. “Are those whiskers upon your cheeks? I did not realize you were so fond of games.” Her dark eyes glinted. “Come, now. You must have thought of me at least once. I know you were curious.”

[Faeldor]

“I must say though, you do not look much alike—though it could be all those markings.”

“He’s not mine by blood. Good day.”

Beregar once more seemed strained, Faeldor noted, as he approached the two of them, and it was true, the woman made Faeldor a slight uneasy as well, though she had barely said a thing to him. It was simply her mannerisms. The way she was standing and looking upon them. He was glad that his soon to be father-in-law had ended the conversation and was making motions that they leave.

“Oh, I remember you, dear. You’re the one with an affinity for girls.

Faeldor's glance shot to the woman. She remembered him? Perhaps he had seen her among the tier before. The wife of one of the other stable masters? Or perhaps one of the women from the markets? He traveled there on occasion... Due to his position in the city, many people knew who he was before they had met him... but... No... As Shania continued, the remembrance hit him.

I recall your last one—small, mousey. Have you tired of her yet? Would you like to reconsider my offer?”

“Mousey? Is she talking about Gilwen?”

“Yes, she is speaking of Gilwen,” Faeldor answered Beregar shortly. Gilwen was the only women Faeldor had spent any time with in the past months... years even. Perhaps as a youth he had taken... what had she said, an affinity for girls, but he had been well beyond that for years!

“That’s my daughter. She is no harlot!”

“And my fiance,” Faeldor added, his face grimacing in agony.

“She isn’t here this time, dear—I know we had our disagreements last time, but it does look as if you need a break. Are those whiskers upon your cheeks? I did not realize you were so fond of games. Come, now. You must have thought of me at least once. I know you were curious.”

“I was curious of no such thing,” the Stable Master answered, his nerves beginning to grate once more. Not in the same way that Durion made him to aggravate, but in a much more... personal way. He could not lay a hand on a woman the same way he could of Durion. And was she a bold woman!

He ignored the comment about the whiskers. For the second time they were taken as a sort of “game”. Heavens, that sister of his... that mother... Gilwen even. What he would have to say to them for this! “We still have our disagreements, as before.” Faeldor nearly stamped his foot upon the ground. “You shall always find that we have our disagreements, as I am an honorable man, and I am to be wed soon. I am tired of this talk. You best spend your time seeking someone else, or finding an occupation that is less hazardous to my temper. If you ever...” Faeldor looked pointedly at her. “If you ever offer me business again, it best be that you are on my doorstep trying to sell me candles, or fish at the market, or a clothier, a weaver. For heavens sake, find something better to do with your time.”

[Gilwen]

Beregar was ready to be gone, and took a few more pointed steps in the direction of his home, hoping Faeldor keen enough to follow. It was a short distance to the stoop he had come to call home, but with the thought of Shania following the both of them to the very door, well, suddenly it seemed much further. Had this been a single day earlier, had Beregar caught Shania making talk with Faeldor just a mere sunrise ago, he would have assumed the worst, and he would have loathed the Stable Master even more than he already had. But there, as Beregar tossed him a sideways glance, there was not a single thread of any emotion upon Faeldor's face but dark disgust and sour refusal. His words echoed his expression, and he made move to join Beregar again. The old soldier even took another step of his own.

Shania, though, looked suddenly stricken. Her painted lips were washed of their sneer, her eyes went from glinting and playful to hard and nearly dangerous. She offered Faeldor a glare that was enough to have stirred the stormy air the same as any lightning, and her fists balled tight against her side. "Do not make the mistake of thinking I chose this," she growled beneath her breath as the rain pattered upon the stone. "Not everyone is as privileged as you." Her wound seared deep, and the woman turned on her heels. She knew it was going to take some time before she was going to be able to find enough control to seek out someone new. She just hoped that by the time the sun began to set, she was able to make enough money to put the bread she needed on the table.

Beregar watched for a moment as the woman vanished further down the road and looked back toward Faeldor placidly, once more ready to dwell on more pleasant subjects than harlots and offers. "All right, lad. Let's get you washed up. Niniel will be glad to see you," he offered with the lightest inflection he could muster as he once more picked up his strides. "But if I were you, I would wipe that scowl away. Niniel will notice that before the ink, and I wouldn't want her to think I have gone and made a fool of myself again."

No, likely Niniel would not even expect to see them in company with each other. Though, now that Beregar had managed to spend some time with Faeldor himself, he did not find his presence a great bother. Perhaps if they had met on different terms, they could have been friends. "Last night Niniel made a faint mention that you extended an invitation for Verya to come visit Gilwen, and...well, explained to me the problem of my brother's wife and eldest daughter." Beregar nearly frowned around the words, a strange expression falling over his features that danced between regret, disgust and sadness. "Faeron is working in the fields today, but I am afraid Merilwen and Merilla will be there. I'll see if I can't get you in to wash up without letting them see you directly until you've finished."

[Faeldor]

"Do not make the mistake of thinking I chose this, not everyone is as privileged as you."

Faeldor watched along with Beregar as the woman walked away, scowling at her all the more. Since when had it become a crime to belong to a family of wealth? Faeldor's family had never been poor, it was true, but all wealth that they had had been earned through hard labor, and careful keeping on his family's name and dignity. His Father's Father had earned his way to the top as one of the hardest working shipwrights of Dol Amroth. Certainly, his Father Faelon had inherited quite a bit when his Grandfather had passed, but he never lounged in luxury. He had worked his way to the top in Minas Tirith with his own skill. Faeldor would not have simply inherited the job as Stable Master if he had not honed his skills as well. They had earned their wealth. Every person in his family over the age of eight years old did their share of work for the city.

Even if they had not been fortunate enough to talk their way or work their way into the positions they held with the palace... even then... Faeldor would take it upon himself to work the fields, to work a fishing net, to dig in the earth. Even then he would never stoop so low to take up an occupation such as the one which Shania had taken upon herself. Even Gilwen, when left on her own in the streets, would not succumb to this occupation. If she had not been ill, she would have kept her dignity and had found something. There was work in the city for those who looked in the correct places... some jobs did not pay much, but it was enough to keep a person fed until something better came along.

Perhaps Shania had children of her own to feed, and no man about to help. Even begging would be preferable to the way she offered herself. If she had showed up at his door asking for food or work, well... his family would have certainly obliged her, given her food, given her some labor to do, taught her skills, or helped her to find a place of work. He knew it... if she had begged at Niniels door, there on the first tier, despite the fact that the family had little food of their own, she knew Niniel would have given her anything she had to care for needs. And these two families were not the only. There were many good people in the city who would help others to pull themselves out of the holes that they had either created for themselves or unintentionally ended up within.


"All right, lad. Let's get you washed up. Niniel will be glad to see you...But if I were you, I would wipe that scowl away. Niniel will notice that before the ink, and I wouldn't want her to think I have gone and made a fool of myself again."

Faeldor's thoughts were turned back to Beregar. "No, of course not. We must be done with misunderstandings and ill thoughts between our families... for the sakes... of all of us, really..." he muttered. His mind was still slightly clouded... clouded with morning anger still toward Durion, and frustration toward anyone who had mocked his name, Gilwen's name... even Beregar's name. Faeldor took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. A fitful wiggling of the sack he carried reminded him of the stowaway he had in mind to drag into his house later for Gilwen. "I think every one of us could do with less stress," he acknowledged.

"Last night Niniel made a faint mention that you extended an invitation for Verya to come visit Gilwen, and...well, explained to me the problem of my brother's wife and eldest daughter. Faeron is working in the fields today, but I am afraid Merilwen and Merilla will be there. I'll see if I can't get you in to wash up without letting them see you directly until you've finished."

Faeldor's face blanched for a moment, thinking of his anger with Merilwen and Merilla. Gilwen had spoken much in her fevered state of what the two ladies had said and done to her. And they were supposed to be family... blood. Well, he knew how much a blood relationship meant at times, thinking of his own sister, Miriel. Gilwen likely would not have said as much if she had been herself, but what was said she could not unsay. He couldn't verily handle those two the same way he had handled Durion's taunting. But, now between Beregar, Niniel, Verya, and himself... the two would be outnumbered... perhaps they would keep their mouths shut.

“Yes... it is probably best to wash up first... perhaps... you could hand me some soap and cloth through the side window to wash with... and then I can come knock on the door...”

[Gilwen]

"No, of course not. We must be done with misunderstandings and ill thoughts between our families... for the sakes... of all of us, really..."

“Agreed,” Beregar grunted with a faint nod. He knew what he had done had been unforgivable; he knew that there was no time that any Valar could give him that could undue the pain and suffering he had caused to the people of both houses. Perhaps he did not know the exact number of years he had left to live and breathe, but he knew that he would spend every last waking moment, every last breath he drew, trying to make up for every last foolish thing he had ever done.

When he passed into the halls of his fathers, when it was his time to leave his little corner of Gondor and rest, he would make sure the last words he ever uttered were a praise to his daughter, and the life she had found. He owed her everything.

“Yes... it is probably best to wash up first... perhaps... you could hand me some soap and cloth through the side window to wash with... and then I can come knock on the door...”

The man offered a smile, twisting the corners of his lips upward until his eyes shone with a bit of humor. “Not bad, lad,” he chuckled. “I think that’ll do fine.” He motioned with a nod of his head to spur their walking once more, and took off with heavy strides. He knew Faeldor knew the way to their first tier home—Valar knew he had shown up unwanted on their stoop more than once—but Beregar wished to lead. It soothed something deep inside of him, one that wanted Faeldor to really understand: he was welcome.

He moved mostly in silence, consumed by deep thoughts and heavy regrets. Still, as they passed the gate down to the first tier, he glanced over his shoulder at Faeldor and slowed his pace. “Wait around side,” Beregar offered. He paused and looked back up to the man, having to stifle a laugh at the man’s ridiculous facial paints. “I’ll bring out a cloth and water soon.”

He finished the trek to the small house, and laid his hand heavy on the doorknob and gave it a turn. He shouldered his way inside, shaking rain droplets from his hair as he passed through the entry. “I’m home,” he announced.

Immediately, eyes lifted to spy his coming. “What on earth were you doing out in this weather?” Beregar almost cringed at his wife’s sharp tongue. Perhaps Beregar had shed ample apologies, but the woman was hardly bent on forgiveness.

Though, the man had expected that.

He also expected to win her back. He did not know how, but he knew he was not going to relent until the grave took him. “I had an errand,” he evaded, his tone rich. “We got caught on the way, is all.”


Niniel lifted an eyebrow, and Merilwen and Merilla did so as well. “We?” Niniel questioned.

“Aye, we, lass. I had to see a man about a deal,” Beregar answered. “Not much to worry over—it’s sorted and well.”

He could see in his wife’s brown eyes that she was anything but wholly convinced, or perhaps it was that she was not wholly satisfied without all of the details. Still, her interest read almost friendly compared to the women in front of her on the sofa with their knitting. They had eyes like magpies, every bit of information more valuable than glint and silver. “I see,” Niniel hummed. From where she stood in the kitchen, she dropped her eyes to mark her sister-in-law and the woman’s daughter, every bit as aware as Beregar their greed for news or gossip. She was not going to indulge them. “Well go change out of those clothes then,” she ushered. “I don’t want you dripping all over the place.”

“I’ll be right out,” Beregar assured her. “Then I can help with whatever you need.”

“Start by not making that puddle any bigger. Go on, now!”

When he had slid the lock into place, Beregar turned and moved to the window. There was a click as the pane unlatched, and with a heavy push, he swung it open. “Here,” he said quietly, reaching down and lifting a cloth and bar of soap from the washbasin’s side. Then, when he was certain Faeldor had both in his hand, he lifted the bowl and set it on the sill. “And be quick about it,” he added with a low laugh riding in his words. “If it takes me too long to change, Niniel will get curious!”