Sweet Singing by the Fire [December 3009] {Gilwen}

Faeldor smiled down upon Gilwen as she settled back against the pillows, and squeezed her hand, first giving himself to a short and jolly verse, which he rounded in a lilting sing-songy voice.

“As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, ever hath been
Unto my lady true.”

Though as he finished, he slid back more comfortably on the bed. “Close your eyes, my love, I will stay with you til you sleep.” Then he began to sing, his voice low and true as he coursed through the verses; all familiar songs he had sung before to Gilwen, to urge her slumber onward.

"Thou that from the heavens art,
Every pain and sorrow stillest,
And the doubly wretched heart
Doubly with refreshment fillest,
I am weary with contending!
Why this rapture and unrest?
Peace descending
Come, ah, come into my breast!"

"O'er all the hilltops
Is quiet now,
In all the treetops
Hearest thou
Hardly a breath;
The birds are asleep in the trees:
Wait; soon like these
Thou too shalt rest."

"Sound, sweet song, from some far land,
Sighing softly close at hand,

Now of joy, and now of woe!

Stars are wont to glimmer so.

Sooner thus will good unfold;
Children young and children old
Gladly hear thy numbers flow."

As he finished the last verses, his voice dropped to a whisper, for he could see the steady rise and fall of Gilwen's breaths having taken her to sleep. He slowly moved her hand to tuck it beneath the covers and released her, pausing for a moment to watch her eyelids flutter, though soon standing carefully. He blew out the candle from the table and the room was suddenly blanketed in darkness, though Faeldor knew the way. He shuffled silently across the rug to the heavy wooden door of the room, slowly opening and again closing it in silence. Only the small click of the doorhandle announced his departure, and he was once more in upon the stairwell where the glowing light of the fire was resounding from the sitting room below.

“I heard you singing, Fael,” Haliel announced as he descended the stairs. She was sitting now upon the chair where Gilwen had been earlier, patting Lilotie and watching the Yule Log burn low. “Do you think Beleth is singing all the way in Belfalas right now? And having a Yule feast? And cookies too?” she asked.

“Hm…” Faeldor answered. “If I know Aunt Ivren, she will have cooked a marvelous Yule feast, and all her daughters attended the baking. I'm sure Beleth has enjoyed a lovely Yule with them.”

Faeldor was out of bed and readying for the day; a gentle and quiet hum proceeding from his lips as he stood over the washbasin in front of the mirror, a sharp edged blade in hand. He scraped the blade along the bristled hairs of his neck, and then over his cheeks, tidying the edges of his beard. He was only half dressed, in his breeches and barefoot as he worked.

He glanced across the room. His little brother was already out of bed and dressing, pulling high stockings up to his knees, and watching Faeldor as he worked the blade against his skin

“I wonder when my beard will start growing,” Faelon muttered, as he rubbed the side of his smooth face.

Faeldor looked to him. “Give it five years, and you will not be able to stop it. Then you'll have to tend to it.”

Faelon shook his head, “I'm never going to shave mine. I'll let it grow all the way down to the floor. Like the old Longbeards from the stories. The ones who carved the great stone halls in Moria.”

“That would suit you,” Faeldor laughed. “You're about the height of a dwarf.”

That set the boy off and he dove off the bed toward his brothers legs in an attempt to tackle him.

“Hey!” Faeldor's blade slipped slightly, and left a shallow cut upon his cheek, though the red blood soon began to ooze forth and fill the line. “Now you're acting an orc,” Faeldor protested.

“I'm not an---” Faelon began to argue, yet his words were cut short as booming knocks resounded on the door downstairs. Both the man and the boy froze.

“I’ve come for my daughter.”

“That's Beregar!” Faelon shouted without pause, a frown darkening his small face. “He's going to take Gilwen!”

The voice was enough for Faeldor to drop his blade, and already start moving for the hall. “No, he won't. Make sure Hali stays in her room,” the man called to his little brother, though his steps took him straight to the room next door where Gilwen was residing. He did not knock as he threw open the door and saw her rising from bed in her nightdress.

“Sweetheart… please. Please stay here. Stay in bed. I'll send him off. You need your rest... for tomorrow.”

Faeldor did not dawdle for long in the room though, for he wanted to be the first to the door before any of his other siblings or grandparents or his mother made it down. The sound of the man's voice was not promising. All the stars above, he should have agreed to marry Gilwen today. He should have found someone awake last night and have it set in stone and parchment on Yule itself. He should have done it weeks ago, for the ease at which Gilwen had accepted the idea of an elopement, he should not have wasted time.

As he made it to the front door, he hesitated for a moment, listening. It were as if he could hear the very breaths of the man through the wood. He drew the bar, and opened the door, though instead of letting the man and woman indoors, he stepped outside. His feet froze upon the steps, and the chill wind barreled into his chest

“Goodmorn, Niniel, Beregar,” he started. Perhaps he had heard the man's breaths through the door, for now he heard him huffing as if he had just run from the first tier itself, and Ninel's chest was heaving beneath her thin cloak. Her face looked pained, and it drew his eyes for a few more long seconds before he looked back to Beregar. Faeldor eyed their clothes, and the packs they both carried. They were readied for travel. No. He had said four days.

“Gilwen is resting. I will not have her disturbed today. Yule left her quite exhausted this morning. She needs her sleep,” he said pointedly.

“It better have been Yule.”

Faeldor was barely out of the door before Beregar made the comment, and Faeldor took the implication. Beregar had commented, ranted, yelled at him many times before on the matter that he assumed Faeldor had disgraced his daughter. Faeldor had none no such thing to Gilwen. Though perhaps in earlier days they had come impossibly close more than once when they had taken too much drink and were new to their feelings, but since Gilwen had lived in his own home the past three months, and since she had been so unbearably ill, he had tempered his passions. He had never dishonored her, and he had been careful even to avoid displaying the tender affections that he did give her in front of his family. His Grandmother had been uncomfortable with it; and he did not wish to do anything again to make her suggest that Gilwen needed to stay at the Houses of Healing to recover.

Beregar began to ramble off all manner of instructions, explanations, and threats, and Faeldor frowned taking them in. He was going to take her away. Today. Faeldor's eyes glanced overhead, and searched the sky. The grey clouds threatened more rain and went on endlessly for miles. There were some high passes along the way were snow would surely threaten. The nights would be dark and cold.

Faeldor remained silent. It seemed Beregar hardly intended to offer him a word edgewise as it was, though is thoughts were roving. Gilwen was going to die. She was in no fit way to travel, and certainly traveling in the way Beregar intended she would never even make it to Dol Amroth.

“Gilwen, love, you do not need be down here in the cold draft,” he spoke over his shoulder without turning, trying to keep his voice lighthearted and unworried as he heard her coming into the room. Her breathing seemed too heavy to be safe, and she should not have descended the stairs herself, yet she seemed so inclined to every word that Beregar spoke. No... he thought to himself. Do not listen to him.

“Faeldor, what--?” Meleth's voice rang through the room as she entered behind, still tying a silken robe about her waist as she, taking in the four people standing in the doorway and suddenly realizing Beregar had come much sooner than anticipated. Her heart fell, for Faeldor had told her of the plan they had made the night before. A day too late.

Faeldor heard his mother speak but did not answer. His eyes instead moved to Niniel who was pressing into the doorframe, seeming desperate to get a glimpse of her daughter, and he stepped slightly to the side to allow her. His own eyes noted the raw burn upon her skin as she gave an explanation, though his graver concern was in the state of Niniel's dress. She had that tattered wool cloak upon her shoulders; threadbare and ragged enough to provide barely any warmth; and what seemed a summer dress underneath. He knew they were poor, yet… Beregar however seemed fit for the weather.

“I want to go, Papa. But…I…I’m not ready. I haven’t had a chance to pack—”

“Then we best hurry up and get your things! Then we can get on the road so we can make some headway before dusk. You heard my daughter, Faeldor--move aside. Niniel will help her pack.”

Faeldor turned his head, still blocking Beregar from entrance, but looking upon Gilwen, pleading to her with his eyes. Do not talk. Do not answer.She needed to follow along with him. He was not certain he could get her to lie, but she must. Or at least stay silent and let him do the answering. She knew herself that she was in no state to make the journey.

“Sweetheart, you do not need to pack… we are wed now, and you need stay by my side. You have two months yet til we set out, and you need to get yourself back to our bed and rest so you are ready.” He loosed the arm that he had pressed against the doorframe, and brought it about Gilwen, pulling her against his side. She seemed chilled already.

Meleth's lips were pressed, though she gave no word or indication that she was going to argue with Faeldor. Something must be done to keep Gilwen in their home, for that slight woman was not ready to leave her care.

Faeldor looked toward Beregar and Niniel on the steps. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Beregar, but my wife will not be coming with you today. She is not well enough to travel, and we are keeping to our original plans to come in March. We've married in the night, and you cannot take her from this house. I expect your ride will be easier for it as well, but you may take Laerdin ahead with you as well if you will not let Niniel to wait with us. I promise you shall see Gilwen as soon as we reach Dol Amroth.”

“Faelon,” Faeldor saw a glimpse of his little brother skirting around Meleth toward the doorway. “Run over to to the stable and tell the stablehands to ready Balroch and Laerdin now.”

“Yes, brother,” Faelon said, pressing around both Gilwen and then Niniel, and leaping from the bottom step.

“With haste! They would like to make headway before nightfall!” Faeldor called after him. And he needed to get Beregar off his doorstep soon.

“Married in the night? You’re lying. I know very well you didn’t wed her in the night. Not after you gave such a fuss about the weather.”

Tinuves stepped into the room behind Meleth, a worried expression upon her face as the two women glanced between each other.

“The weather was no matter for it. Get off my step,” Faeldor told the man, his voice equally low. “Gilwen is no longer yours to order. I will not have you here telling my wife what she may and may not do. Sweetheart, let's go. Back to bed now. You need your rest, none of this.”

He tried to turn the woman indoors with him. He would draw the bar and keep her safely inside until Beregar and Niniel had departed. Beregar however seemed not satisfied, his gaze turned to Gilwen, and he began to question her.

“Gilwen, Did you marry this man? Did you?”

Beregar's voice became altogether wretched, and he reached for Gilwen. Faeldor instinctively tried to pull her back, but he had already grasped her chin roughly. “Let go of-” he started, but the man was holding her tight and he would hurt her if he wrenched her away.

“I asked you a question. You’ll answer me!”
“N-no, Papa. We…we were going to get married tomorrow—”
“Now, that’s my good girl.”

The moment Beregar had released her and stood, Faeldor turned and wrapped his other arm about Gilwen, holding her against his chest. His muscles were twitching in anger, and his head was reeling. Why had she told him? It would have barely been a lie… one day… they could have managed one day, and then he would never have known the difference. Gilwen, however, was obviously distraught. She was weak and not quite herself… the forceful way Beregar had spoken to her. “It will be alright, sweetheart,” he whispered down to Gilwen, before turning his eyes back to Beregar.

“Did you honestly think you could lie to me?”

“One does what he must… Do you think I am going to give her back to you? What kind of a Father would take his daughter on a two weeks journey when she is infirm? You were not here to see her in her fever. You set her on the streets to live and die. I suppose the same type of Father who would brandish a sword and threaten to murder upon the street. Spend her hard earned money on drink at the tavern instead of finding work for himself. Leave his family with no food and send her to work long hours til she is sick with exhaustion, while he sits home himself dwindling their savings with ale. Why do you suddenly care to have your family together when you so readily sent her away before? A month on the streets. Then three months here, and you have not said a word about taking her back into your home until it comes to this, and for what reason when I wish to care for her and keep her safe and well? She is happy with me. What kind of a Father would take such happiness and comfort from his daughter?”

Faeldor eyed Niniel once more, in pity. “The same type man who would take his wife upon the street… prepare to travel across the country with her in winter dressed in tatters while he has a thick cloak himself. Gilwen is safe with me. She is cared for with me. Loved by me and adored by my household. Nobody here wishes her to leave, and if you are so far worried about propriety, let us be, we will make it right in your eyes. We will not even wait for tomorrow. We shall have it done before you leave.”

Faeldor looked down to Gilwen. “Sweetheart, come back inside,” he urged Gilwen gently into the doorway. “Mother, Grandmother, please take her upstairs and help her to dress warmly,” he called. “We shall go to the officiant right now and have this matter settled.”

Meleth came forward, though instead of taking Gilwen, she moved around her son, shoving him back from the doorway. That man had thrown Faeldor against the wall before. She knew her son was not going to let up, and she was not about to see him hurt again, on top of Gilwen. Beregar had handled her all too roughly just moments before.

“She is not leaving with you,” the woman held a finger up to the man's face. “Don't you dare touch anyone in my household. I do not care if she is your daughter or not. You have threatened my children enough.”