Clouding of a Star (December 3009-March 3010) [Faeldor]

All Faeldor could do was think on how he should not have struck him. If he had tempered his rage and held himself together… he could have simply saddled Lumiel and gone on behind them. Even if Beregar did not let him near; the man had to sleep sometime. He could have watched out for Gilwen, and if she began to look truly unwell as he expected she would, he could have easily taken her away in the night; galloped off with her to some home or hovel where Beregar might not track them right away, and married her there.

They would need wait for a month. A month! Faeldor was almost certain, and the guards had been along with him as well, that Beregar was not going to file true charges against them; but there was still the holding time, and they would be breaking the Steward's orders to go against it. If the guards had released him, and Beregar could have reported it, it would be not only Meleth and Faeldor lacking for a job. At least the guards had done him the courtesy of putting his mother with him in the holding cell. Usually the men would be separated from the women, but when they had first brought them in, Meleth had cried so despairingly for all her children, that the guards had taken pity on her and moved her to Faeldor's cell. They could hardly blame her for it. It was seldom, in fact the guards on duty could not recall a time, when a lady from one of the upperclass households had been brought in to detention. Let alone for trying to defend her children.

Faeldor had never before slept upon the cold stone, save when he had been camping with blankets and bedroll, and those had been happy times. He had not minded so much the chill then. The last camping trip he had taken… it had been the spring previous. Could it have been so long ago? They were nigh on approaching a year since he had met Gilwen. He had slept so peacefully with her curled beside him.

He looked down to his mother, who sat with her back leaning against his side, that she would not have to feel the stone wall through the meager fabric of her silken nightclothes. The guards had given each of them a thin wool blanket, and she was buried beneath her own, though had refused to let Faeldor give her his. Her toes were bare upon the stone floor. They had been quiet for a long time, the night was waning on as Faeldor could see the deep blue sky. The moonlight had passed through the small barred window of the cell in a startling way… brightening and beaming in as it shown directly through and gleaming off the white stone.

“It reminds me of Fela Isilme,” Faeldor spoke aloud. His voice was gruff from the disuse, and from his thirst. He had rejected the bread and water that the guards had earlier brought to them in his anger, though now he regretted the matter. He would not survive a month without eating it was certain, and he needed as much energy as he could for when they were released.

Meleth looked up. Her chin had been slumped down to her chest, though she had not been asleep. It was impossible to sleep like this. She had never not tucked Haliel and Faelon in for the night in all their lives, and she was cold. She raised a her hand up to touch the beam of light shining through. Dust from the floor sifted about the rays reflecting like flickering starlight, and her fingers looked white against it.

“Faelon used to take me there,” Meleth thought. She agreed; the beams of moonlight cast through the window were similar, though already they were moving off as the moon slowly rose higher in thes sky. “You took Gilwen once,” the mother added knowingly, for Faeldor had come home that very same night that he had first taken Gilwen into her bakery, speaking of starlight and moonlight. She had known already how infatuated her young son had become that very day.

“Twice,” Faeldor said. “I took her back to Mindoluin again, just a month later. She was so beautiful dancing in the moonlight… I had to see her in it again… She loved it so, I had to show her again... We camped there together. She had never camped before.” He recalled just how lovely and lively she had been; long before the illness had come upon her.

Meleth said nothing. Her heart hurt for her boy, and though she had not known they had gone on an overnight excursion, it did not truly bother her. While perhaps her own mother, Tinuves, would have found the idea offensive, Meleth had for many months only seen sweetness between the young couple. Having Gilwen living under her own roof was enough to attest for the young lady's modesty.

“She was afraid in the night, Mother. When we camped,” Faeldor started, recalling how he could not at first convince Gilwen to sleep. “Afraid of trolls. I thought it humorous at first… yet, it was a true fear. I hope she is not afraid tonight out there; not just now.”

“There are no trolls in the White Mountains,” Meleth started. The same words in fact that Faeldor had used himself that night. She had, at some point in their childhoods, had to reassure all her children of the fact, and Faeldor already knew of course. “Her Father is a troll if I have ever seen one.” Her voice was deep in anger as she spoke it.

“He was so rough with her… the way he pulled her from Laerdin to the ground… I could not stop myself. On the landing… she slipped away from him and came to me. He ripped her away so harshly...” His thoughts roved, and he felt sick to his stomach just remembering. It seemed worse to him even now just thinking about it and picturing it once more in his mind. “Niniel… Niniel said something strange to me just then. She told me to look for them at the wharfs, which I suppose is understandable for the work Uncle Linnon has found for them though… why could it be that he said she said Beregar will change her name?”

“Change her name?” Meleth sat upright and turned, looking to Faeldor. “Well, I cannot think what it means, but it does not sound right,” she frowned. “And the wharfs of Dol Amroth are no place to live decently,” she added. Meleth had come from a poor shepherding family outside the city; and even she knew very well it was not a decent place for folk to live.

Meleth let out a sigh, shuddering along with it for both her anger and the cold that swept into her. “He handled her far too roughly for any good Father. And I've seen him handle Niniel aside the same. I think… If I had known, what you had said this morning. When you spoke my own anger got the best of me. About his threats and raging on the street, spending their money on the ale. I knew Niniel looked undernourished those few times when she sat in my bakery. I always sent her home with a basket of somethin... And that was even before their jobs were lost. Locking Gilwen, an adult, in her in her room? If I had known that, on top of him sending her away… I… I should say Beregar is a bad man.”

“Gilwen always made excuse for his rage, though I do not know what man could ever handle a woman that way,” Faeldor agreed.

“Did she ever mention that he hurt her?” Meleth asked suddenly. Her thoughts had been upon the matter for the day, and it was now time to speak it.

“She always said her father was kind and gentle,” Faeldor answered. “Though I never saw the sign of gentleness upon him.”

Meleth frowned all the more. “If I had seen before what I have seen now. You've never… well, I know you've never… I would have heard of it by now I'm sure. You've never seen her skin, have you Fael, under her dress?” she asked.

“Of course not, Mother, we are not yet wed.” The mere thought would have shown a color to Faeldor's cheeks if there had been enough light in the room to see them. “Tomorrow would have been our wedding night.” His voice was morose.

“Forgive me, Fael. I know you and Gilwen are better than that,” the mother answered, sensing his unease. Though if he had honestly answered otherwise she would not have said anything of it at this point. There were things that mattered more. “But there are… Gilwen asked us not tell you of it She has some scarring on her back. She has taken many lashings. She said it was a discipline from the servants Matron at the palace though… I now have my doubts.”

“Lashings?” Faeldor asked quickly.

“Whipped. She was whipped quite harshly. I do not know if it was one instance or more, they were old I could tell for certain, healed up at least. Her whole back covered in them... Yet…”

“Whipped!?” Faeldor took a deep breath. “Lord Denethor does not punish his servants. Nor any who work under them, save to take their jobs if they do not do them well. There is no whipping, not even in the ranks of soldiers. Prisoners are not even whipped.” He spoke rapidly and his voice was low.

“I was not sure...” Meleth stated, but her son did work among more people and closer to the Steward. He would know better. “I had not known Gilwen to be dishonest. Yet I would not be surprised now… if it were Beregar. After seeing how he treated her today, and hearing those other instances you spoke of.”

“Why did you not tell me?” his voice was pained.

“She asked me not to...” was all Meleth could answer.

“I would have married her already. Why did she not tell me?” Faeldor asked dourly. Whipping was reserved for the slaves of Mordor, the orcs… none of the men of the West kept slaves, nor were such actions looked upon as decent and proper. Not that Beregar could have been arrested for it, for his wife and daughter were considered his own property. His domain to use as he pleased. Faeldor suddenly felt sick to his stomach, and he turned to the side to vomit on the stone floor; though having taken no food or drink since the day previous, there was nothing but bile in his throat.

Meleth was on her knees now, trying to comfort her son, rubbing his back furiously. But the hands upon his own back only made him think of Gilwen's, and he wrapped his arms about his knees, burrowing his face against them. He had spent the entire day enraged, and he had no more energy left to leap up and pace furiously about as he had done earlier.

He pictured the smooth skin of Gilwen's neck, how his lips felt upon it, how they had felt against her shoulders the night they had camped upon Mindoluin. If he had assented to her requests that night when she had been so wrought over by the wine and their love for each other… if he had seen the scars upon her, and her lips being so loose with the wine that night… he knew she would have told him. He would have taken her home and married her that very day. It was almost a year ago. What had she endured even since he had met her? There was nothing now to do but wait. It was a month until he could go for her. A month of her under Beregar's care, and then all the more, whatever time it took to travel to Dol Amroth. Would she still be living when he found her? It seemed at once that the moonlight dimmed, and the sky clouded over with the approach of another winter rainstorm.

To Narbeleth, Daughter of Faelon
Care of the House of Linnon

Beleth,
We all hope this letter finds you well and that you had a fine Yule with your Uncle's family. I am afraid the news I must send is not altogether cheerful as you would desire.

Gilwen's Father has taken her from us, and set off to Dol Amroth with she and Niniel ahead of our plans. They have gone upon Balroch and Laerdin, please search for them when they arrive, I expect around the same time this letter will to you, I know not where Beregar may find their home in the city. Gilwen was not well when they set out, and I am worried for her. We did not part on good terms with Beregar.

I am writing the news myself, for your Mother and Brother were both taken under arrest for trying to still Beregar. They let their emotions get away from them as usual. I am certain there will be no charges filed, though they must sit the waiting period. It is likely you will expect us sooner than thought however, for I know Faeldor will not wait once he is released.

Please give our love and regards to your Uncle. I know Faeldor has told Beregar of where his home is, and I hope he will still go to him seeking work, in the least that we hear where their family is staying.

Grandmother




Tinuves frowned. The short letter had been mailed a week past, and should be at least halfway to her granddaughter by now. There had barely been the time to write it, but she had written it in haste and sent it out by messenger the very afternoon that Gilwen had left them. She truly wished there were something more she could do, though in the moment their family was in obscurity. Those who were quite well were away, and Tinuves was home to tend to the children. Melanir could offer moral support, as he so often tried to do, though he was blind and was of no assistance in packing the household or making arrangements.

The children were in worse state. The moment the guards had began to walk away with Meleth and Faeldor, Haliel had gone into hysterics, crying for her mother, and tripped herself with her own cane, falling down the stone steps. Tinuves had heard the crack of bone before the child even began screaming, and the one good leg that Haliel had was badly fractured.

The injury was too much for the grandmother to handle on her own, and in the state she was in, so the child had needed to be taken to the Houses of Healing to have someone to restrain her so the bones reset and tended to.

Haliel had only needed stay two nights before she was released to rest at her home, though in the meanwhile, the stress of it all had set Miriel into the early stages of labor. Too early, Tinuves thought. She managed to get the young woman calmed and settled enough, yet she too also needed to remain on bedrest. If the baby could just hold off another few weeks, Tinuves would feel much better about the situation.

If it were not enough, the very day that Gilwen had been taken away, Lilotie, the pretty cat that had all but lived upon the woman's lap the past three months, had disappeared. The kitten had been Haliel's birthday present that summer, yet truly Gilwen's cat for all the time and attention she had offered it. Upon missing both Gilwen and Haliel, it must have gone in search of them, though it did not return when Haliel did.

Messengers from both the palace kitchens and the stables had arrived after both Meleth and Faeldor had missed work with no word, and Tinuves had been made to relay the news to them. The head of the kitchens had come himself to their doorstep thereafter, and had not been pleased. Nor had the man from Lossarnach who Faeldor was supposed to have been training.

Lord Boromir himself had been called to the Steward's stables to give the man his new orders, and the grooms and stablehands had been most frantic in surprise at that news that the generally jubilant and mild mannered Stable Master had found himself sitting in a cell. Once the reasoning, however, had gotten out as to why Faeldor had been arrested, there was much indignation within the stable. Even the new Stable Master did not blame the man for his actions, though it had made his own job more difficult.

It was left to the Grandmother and her two young grandchildren, Marileth and Faelon, to keep the house and begin the packing on their own. With the few of them there to do the work, they would have to start immediately.

If she knew Meleth and Faeldor, she knew that the plans to move back to the sea were not halted, and indeed she did not doubt as soon as they were released they would have the family in a flurry to move and go after Gilwen. She could not exactly blame them for it; for Gilwen was a sweet girl. She had not entirely approved of Faeldor's approach to the relationship before; the way they had avoided seeking permission from her Father…

Tinuves sighed… it near mirrored Meleth's whirlwind courtship with Faelon those long years ago. She had taken her daughter sneaking out to meet the man much harder than Melanir had however, and it had near destroyed the relationship between the mother and daughter when Meleth had become with child before Faelon had even asked for her hand. At that point there was no option but to allow the marriage for the sake of the baby. For Faeldor.

Meleth had always been one to hold a grudge, much the same way her mother did. The two had gone on without speaking, and even when Faelon swept her away to Minas Tirith, Meleth only wrote to Melanir, not Tinuves. When the family spent summers visiting again in Belfalas, they stayed in the home of Faelon's father, and invited Melanir over to see the grandchildren without her. The grievance carried on for many years. Her daughter was happy with Faelon, and always had been.

When Faeldor had taken sights on Gilwen in the same manner, Tinuves had no doubts that they would conceive a child within the year and restart the whole cycle. Meleth had been far too easygoing about it, perhaps from her own experiences. Though Tinuves had tried to urge and guide the young man to go meet Beregar, and it seemed he genuinely had the motive to do so. Yet it never happened. There always seemed to be an excuse… either the man was not home when he had stopped by, or Gilwen had avoided taking him to her home. She did not know the full story, but she knew it had been quite some time before they had met, and when Beregar had requested Faeldor leave his daughter alone, the two of them persisted in secret.

Then the rumors. It had not passed by the ears of Tinuves what the rumors had turned to after at time; and while she had trust of her grandson, for the sake of what she had heard upon the street, she did not wish for him to foul his name. She had wanted to send her away to the Houses of Healing, and keep more shame from coming upon her household. Meleth and Faeldor however had insisted she stay with them, and being the one most often home between them all, Tinuves had become her primary caregiver.

Once she had truly gotten to know Gilwen though, things had changed. The girl was sweet and mild, kind and forgiving. Even to her granddaughter Miriel who surely didn't deserve such rapid forgiveness. She also was quite compassionate with the children of the household, and even in her weakened state was often offering to be helpful. She was also modest to a fault. There was no way in the whole of Arda that the rumors that had been passed on her had any truth to them. There was truly nothing not to like about the girl, and Tinuves grew in affection for her, thinking on her as one of her own grandchildren.

She was weak. She should not have been taken from their home, and way Beregar had yelled and tossed her about as if she were a sack of wool… It played on a great deal in Tinuves' mind a great deal in combination with the memories of the scars upon her back. Tinuves had perhaps the least hope of any in the household that she would ever see her soon to be granddaughter again.

“Grandmother,” Marileth started, coming out of the closet in Faeldor's room.

Tinuves was startled from her thoughts, looking down to the young girl from the stool she was standing upon. She was removing the large painting of the cliffs from Faeldor's wall to carefully place against the side of one of his trunks. They were selling much of their furniture and possessions for the sake of a simpler journey, yet this was something he wished to keep, along with the model ships he had crafted so long ago. “Yes child?” she asked.

“What of Gilwen's things?”

The closet had been near emptied of Faeldor's possessions. His instruments were all within their cases upon the empty bed, and his clothes now packed, save a few things he would want for when he was able to come home. Marileth now held a yellow dress in her arms, among other colorful pieces, some warm nightdresses and a pair of slippers.

Tinuves paused, uncertain. She was not convinced there would even be a Gilwen left when they reached the seaside. She certainly was not about to pack the things in Faeldor's own trunks… if the girl did not make it… well, it would not be a fine surprise she expected, to come across the garments. “Let's see… I'm sure Beleth left behind a little trunk we could put them in.” She tried to keep her tone even for the children; for all the shouting that had happened upon the street from their mother and brother, the little ones were all certain that Gilwen was going to die, and Melanir had worked with words a long while before they believed him.

“Oh, what's this?” Marileth wondered aloud.

Tinuves stuck her head into the closet where Marileth was pulling out a wooden box and lifting from it another dress, made of a dark blue coarser material. It was short sleeved, and only went down to the knee, and knee length bloomers to match.

The older woman let out a short laugh, “We need to get you back to Belfalas, Mari. No proper girl with the blood of Dol Amroth in her veins would not know a swimming dress when she saw one. Where did your brother get one of those here?”

“Arien, I suspect. Does Gilwen know how to swim?” Marileth asked.

“I should doubt it,” Tinuves answered. “But it seems Faeldor means to teach her.” Her eyes clouded for a moment, and she bit her lip turning back to wrapping the painting safely. “Pack it with the rest.”

Miriel's face was tightened in pain and her body lurched forward. She let forth one final scream in agonies, the crushing grip of her hand upon Marileth's arm. The younger sister was wincing herself at both the merciless clutch upon her, and also the entire situation at hand, her blue eyes wide and her face paled to grey. Miriel gasped, and room grew silent for a moment

Marileth held her breath thinking she might faint for the smell of blood in the room, and she looked down to her arm when Miriel released her, immediately pulling it against her chest and trying to rub off the bright red handprint and slight indentation of her fingernails. Blood was oozing slightly from her own arm where Miriel had clawed against her skin. Marileth almost cried at the pain of it herself, yet there were no others there to hold her hand and the twelve year old had steeled herself over the last two weeks to be helpful as she might to her family.

The baby then began to cry, and Tinuves let out her own breath. It was a few weeks too early, and she had been worried yet the tiny child seemed a bit too small, though in perfect order. “A girl,” Tinuves said with pride, lifting her first great grandchild into her arms, and rocking her ever so slightly before crossing around the bed to Miriel's side and letting the baby rest upon her granddaughter's breast.

The young woman was dripping with sweat, her face a ghostly pale, and her black hair hung limp around her shoulders. “A girl,” she breathed quietly. Glad. Miriel had wanted a girl, not a boy, and she thanked every one of the gods she could remember by name that instant, that the child had been born femael. She could not have fathomed what it would have been like to look upon a little boy who grew in likeness to the babe's father, Durion.

“Her name is Melian,” Miriel whispered, looking lovingly down upon the black haired baby. Her cries had stilled at the sound of her mother's heartbeat and she rested there. One little eye on her red scrunched face opened, and Marileth was hunching down now near the child's face to look upon her and saw it. “Grey eyes, Miriel. She's so cute.”

Another relief. Not the blue-green eyes of her father, nor even her own green, but grey. Like Meleth and Faeldor. Like the rest of her family who were awaiting them soon in Belfalas. The little one would have a good life on the shores of the sea, and she would be glad to leave the stone walls of this wretched White City.

Miriel frowned lightly in thought. She could not stop looking upon the child, and wished that her Mother could be here. Though the circumstances surrounding her conception had brought shame upont he house, none blamed the small child, and she had been loved by the whole household even while still in the womb. Meleth would have been so pleased to look upon her just now. The most perfect work that Miriel had ever created now wiggling against her, and Meleth's first grandchild.

The past two weeks had been tedious. The labor had started so long ago, and she had bled, and bled, and bled. It had not stopped. Tinuves had made her stay abed though the time passed so slowly. The children and her grandfather roved in and out to keep her company, but it had been not the same. Not the same comfort that Meleth could had offered her, or Faeldor, or Narbeleth.

She'd heard no word of Meleth and Faeldor, other than the fact that they were still within the Citadel Guard Tower where they had been taken some two weeks ago. The guards would not send any news in or out, lest it gave some kind of sway to whatever charges were being filed and whatever evidence was being withheld. They should know nothing of the baby's arrival for two more weeks. She'd be half a month old by then!

Certainly there would be no charges, for Beregar had long left the city. Tinuves had paid a young lad to to go the first tier and look at the home, but it now sat empty; the neighbors told him the tenants had left just when they had expected they had, and nobody had been back since.

They had all expected as much, for Beregar had screamed it upon the streets. Though, there had still been a fool's hope. Miriel looked up, scanning the back wall of the room where her trunks and belongings were stacked against the side. Much of the furniture in the home had already been sold. Tinuves and the children had been hard at work keeping their days busy. No lessons had been taught since Faeldor had left, nor handwork taught since Meleth was gone. Just packing and preparing. It was going to be a difficult journey for Miriel; she had known all along. But they had plenty of warm things for the baby, and they could make themselves comfortable enough in the wagon, and stop at the Inns along the way. It would be a wortwhile trip, and she wished to be rid of the city before news made it to Durion that the child had even been born.

“Is that the baby? Can we come in?” Faelon was calling from the doorway outside. Tinuves moved to cover Miriel a bit more fully on the bed before giving him entry. Haliel was in just her nightdress, seated on the cushioned bench upon the landing. Her leg was in a splint, resting before her, though her crooked leg dangled below and her slippers brushed the rug as she waited for Tinuves to wash her hands and awkwardly carry her into a chair in the room.

“She is named Melian,” Marileth told her younger siblings first, and then her grandfather. Her stomach had begun to settle now in joy for it seemed perhaps the worst of it was over. Now Miriel could mend, and there would be a new baby to play with.

Melanir ambled in behind the children, and Tinuves moved to hug him. “A great-grandchild!”

“I'm an Aunt now,” the eight year old said happily. It was perhaps the first time in the two weeks since their world had turned upside down that Haliel had any bit of brightness to her voice, and it caused Tinuves to smile, tears gleaming in the corners of her eyes.

“Mama is a Grandmama now, and Beleth an Aunt, and Marileth as well. And Faelon and Faeldor are her Uncles. And Gilwen is her aunt too, isn't she?”

“They didn't get married,” Faelon interjected. “So I guess not. She cannot be her Aunt if they didn't have a wedding.” Faelon was perhaps just as upset about the fact as any of them, for it meant that Gilwen was not truly his sister, as Faeldor had told him she would be.

“She's my child,” Miriel interrupted. “I think I can say who her Aunts and Uncles are.”

The tiny baby was now contentedly suckling against her, and she brushed the infants cheek with one finger. “Your Aunt Gilwen will be glad to hold you, little one,” Miriel whispered.

“Beleth!” a cheerful voice called into the open door of the Blacksmith Shop. The building was made of white stone, with a tall tile roof above, and a long black chimney extending upwards through it from the forge which was hot aglow. The windows were wide open to the cool breezes, yet the room was as a furnace itself as the hot coals burned on through the late afternoon.

Narbeleth had herself positioned in the center of the room as she leaned over, pumping the bellows in each hand while Calon turned and softened the red hot metal in the forge with his tongs one last time. Orange fire turned to blistering yellow, and sweat was streaming down her face in the heat. Her dress was damp with it, for it had been a long day of work.

Her husband was working on the last of an order of gaff hooks that had been made for a new fishing boat captain. There was still much finishing work needed, much smoothing and detail along with the waxing, but in the least the iron would be bent and molded today.

“Just a minute!” Narbeleth called, seeing the shadowy silhouette of her cousin in the doorway. Which cousin, she knew not, for they all were so alike in voice and appearance, she needed more than the shadow to determine who it was. They did however have different temperaments, each of them. As varied as the flames that leapt before her.

“I think it's hot enough,” Calon smirked across the flames, “Go ahead. I'm nearly finished.”

She pumped the bellows one last time, grinning back at him before righting herself and moving for the front of the shop. Narbeleth trailed her fingernails lightly across Calon's back as she passed behind him, nudging him with her hip and grinning. She was much looking forward to a swim with him once they had closed down the shop and headed home. Though the air was cool this time of year, the ocean currents came from the south, swirling northwards through the bay, which left the water bearable for a quick dip, and the cold walk home from the seashore would not be long and only invigorate the two of them more, and they had a fine evening ahead of them.

“I don't know how you manage,” Ullothel offered as her cousin crossed the room to her. She grimaced slightly at the disheveled nature of her hair, and the wet and grime of her skin.

Narbeleth let a laugh ring out, as she glanced back toward Calon, pounding now upon the anvil to curve and flatten the hook. He wore a heavy leather apron to protect himself, yet underneath he was shirtless and the muscles of his shoulders seemed to ripple and stiffen with each blow of the hammer. Muscles strong as the iron he was working.

“Oh, I manage. My husband makes good company,” Narbeleth said fondly as she reached for the letter her cousin was handing her. The grime of her fingers stained the parchment. “My grandmother's writing,” she noted, smiling.

“It arrived with the messenger a few days ago. He said it was a bit late in coming; the mountain pass has been snowed in so many times this winter already. I tried to find you at your home, but you're barely there. I thought I'd try the city today.” Ullothel eyed Calon up and down, a wry smile upon her face, as she supposed to herself that it could be possible to manage days in the blacksmith shop, with that man in the room after all. It was no wonder she did not wish to stay home. Calon was however, fortunately for Narbeleth, but unfortunately for herself, already married. “Where's Remy then?”

“Left early on some errands,” Narbeleth stated, attempting to work the wax seal without ripping the parchment. “He's moving to the White City in a few days.”

“Oh.” Ullothel's face fell slightly. “Whyever would he do that?”

“His grandparents need help,” Narbeleth answered briskly, even as her own face fell at the news the letter offered.

“What is it? What's wrong?” Ullothel asked quickly, moving round Narbeleth's shoulder to look upon the words written.

A squealing hiss sung behind them as Calon dipped the hot iron hook into a bucket of water to temper it, then clattered the hook and the tongs upon the table, striding forth to lean his elbow upon Narbeleth's shoulder. “All done, here Bel. What kind of news does that brother of yours have today?” Calon was beaming.

Narbeleth tilted the page that he could read, and looked up to Calon. For a moment she saw the slight glance of worry pass across his set lips, though the second he saw her gaze upon him, Calon's face turned back to beamy airs.

“It looks like you will see your friend earlier than expected,” he offered. Ignoring the part for now about Faeldor and Meleth's arrest. It seemed highly improbable the bright Stable Master get himself arrested though… then again he was was duly protective over his lady. The news that his wife had received from her Mother and Brother on her condition was not altogether cheerful and was delaying their trips several months longer than Faeldor had wished to wait. Though neither of them were exactly anticipating meeting up with Faeldor and giving him their fine news, the sake of the delay had been troubling.

“Perhaps we can have her over for supper?” Calon suggested brightly.

“Yes...” Narbeleth hesitated. “I… know not where to even look.” Though she had been six months in Belfalas, she had hardly ventured through Dol Amroth herself. She had been much too busy outdoors, in her family home, and with Calon.

“I know Father has secured a shipping job for her own father,” Ullothel stated. “Perhaps they've settled in the Middle Port?”

“It's where most of the fisherman and sailors stay,” Calon agreed.

“I'll go home and find Father,” Ullothel said, moving to fasten her cloak back upon her shoulders. “He'll be sure to help as well; perhaps he's even heard from him by now.”

Narbeleth was doubtful, feeling she would have heard by now if Gilwen had come to the city… at least, if she were well. She had said many times in the course of the letters that Faeldor had transcribed for her, how much she missed her, and Narbeleth missed her friend as well. She had made a point to write those words often, knowing as well as Gilwen that her brother would need read them to her.

Though, even in the letters to Gilwen she had not given hint to her new life with Calon, of their own home, or the blacksmith shop, Gilwen would know exactly where to find her Uncle Linnon's house not far from the Inn they were going to be taking up at. Faeldor had said he would tell her everything on the eve of Midwinter.

Calon was already on task to removing his apron and crossing the room to the bench where sat a washbasin. He splashed water over his face and neck, drying himself on a fresh cloth, before redonning his shirt. He was slightly taken aback to see when he had finished that Narbeleth had barely moved, and was still staring out the doorway, the letter clutched in her grips.

He caught Ullothel's eyes, and Narbeleth's young cousin had a similar confused expression.

“Now, it will be fine. I'll off to find Father this instant, Beleth,” the girl stated, leaning in to give her cousin a half embrace and even kiss her cheek, as grimy as it was. It couldn't be helped.

Narbeleth watched as her cousin departed, a heaviness about her. She felt Calon undo the ties on the back of her own apron as he had done many times before at the end of their work days. Almost on instinct from the motion, she swung around and grasped the back of the man's curly head, pulling him down to her and taking his lips desperately, sighing as she felt some ease and relief slip back into her blood.

When she had settled back into his arms, Calon worked to lighten the mood, a gleam in his eye. “Like the hens hiding upon the streets of Minas Tirith. We'll flush them out. You know nothing can escape these eyes of mine. We have plenty of practice, you and I. The streets of Dol Amroth are no lesser place to hunt than those of the White City, and we shall have our quarry as always.” He rambled on in whimsical fancy, and even as he did so, the corners of Narbeleth's lips began to curve upward as she finally dropped the letter from her clutches, letting it fall to the floor.

“My fine huntsman,” Narbeleth whispered. Calon took the words as an invitation to kiss her again, in quite the way they both enjoyed drawing it out until she had near gone limp against him, and leaving them both breathless.

“Gilwen though… she's more of a sweet dove than a hen,” she added thoughtfully when the man had finally released her lips.

“The coo of doves cannot escape my grasp,” Calon assured her. “Neither can the song of the Nightingale.” He laughed, lifting her up into his arms as he drew her across the room to the washbasin, and Narbeleth wrapped her arms about his neck, giggling at motion until he placed her down once more.

“You dampen the fire,” she laughed. “And I'll wash up.”

“Oh, Bel,” Calon muttered low. “Nothing can dampen my fire.” His lips had taken her once again, and he let his hands graze down her sides before Narbeleth pulled away, shoving him lightly back toward the forge.

“I very well know that,” she agreed, still eyeing him as he retreated, and she moved to splash the water of the basin over her own sooty face.

---

The afternoon waxed on. Narbeleth's step was light as she wove through the city streets, knocking on one door after the other and speaking to the occupants. She had an easy way with words that made most people comfortable, and thus did most of the talking, while Calon assisted in lightening her mood each time she exited a doorstep with no helpful information and a forlorn look crossed her face.

Now afternoon had waned to evening, and the sky was dim. Stars were peering out through the purples overhead, and the sea beyond the houses near the wharf was glinting. However fishy and pungent it smelled, it was still beautiful. They were upon the last row of houses nearest the water, and Narbeleth's anxiety was rising. Calon could not turn her smile any longer with his words, and thus was simply brushing over his wife's palm with his thumb as they walked.

At the third house from the end where the pier jutted forth, a young mother stood in the doorway, children clinging to her legs below, and as she spoke, Narbeleth's heart sent once more to hope. A small family had just that day moved into the house at the end of the road near the docks, she had stated. And she thought it had been a couple along with their grown daughter; though the woman had seemed quite small to her. They had the accent of the White City about them.

Narbeleth thanked the woman profusely, and as she set back indoors to her children, the young woman once more scooped up Calon's hand, looking to the house on the end of the street. Even so, she could not bring herself to skip the one in between, and was told by a wary looking man staying there much the same information.

“Cal, it must be her. Fael will be glad, I will be glad,” she smiled, near dragging him along with her, and Calon laughed behind at her excitement as she took forward to the door and knocked.

There were voices inside the house, and the sound of a door slamming, followed by heavy steps across the floor to the doorway, which soon swung open.

“Forgive us, sir, I know the hour is late,” Narbeleth started, hesitantly, glancing into the dingy house. If it could be called a house. A glance upward showed a large hole in the roof overhead, and there was no fire on the hearth, only a candle lit on the table beside a horse's bridle, some bundles upon the floor, and a few bottles glinting in the light. A man stood blocking the doorway.

“I'm looking for a family, new to the city. Your neighbors said you arrived here today so I had my hopes,” she forced a smile, though the smell lifting off the man was rank and making her nauseated. “A man and two women, Beregar, Niniel, and their daughter Gilwen, all of Minas Tirith.”

“They don't exist!” the man holding the door, Thoron gave way to shout and stutter, beginning to draw himself into a rage as he gripped the bottle in hand. “Who are you to ask for them?” Spit flew off Thoron's lips as he leaned nearer.

Narbeleth steeled herself against her disgust and disturbance and opened her mouth to answer. Her heart fell in her chest… she had been so certain on the neighbor's description... though Calon's arm had shot out in front of her forcing her back a step.

“Calon son of Istor,” he answered for her. A rare seriousness was upon his voice. “And my wife Narbeleth, daughter of Faelon.” The look Calon offered the other man hinted that perhaps it would be in his best interest not to speak so coarsely, nor lean so near his wife.

“Daughter of Faelon?!” Thoron looked around the man's shoulder, marking the black hair and grey eyes. Noting the certain shape of the eye and tilt of the nose and eyebrow. His eyes moved back to Calon's.

“I don't know who you're looking for,” Thoron sneered, moving back inside and slamming the door in his face.

Narbeleth had tears in her eyes; though it was perhaps only half for the harsh way the man in the house had spoken to them. Yet, this was the last home on the street. Nightfall was now upon them, and they had no lantern with them, nor their cloaks to keep off the chill wind blowing across the sea.

“Shall we try the Gate Town next?” she asked with wavering voice, looking up to Calon.

“Not at night,” Calon stated firmly. The Gate Town was a bit rowdier than the rest with taverns and inns strewn about, and if the man who had just shut the door in their face was any hint, many families would be getting settled for their beds now at this hour, and he did not wish to risk confrontations.

The answer set Narbeleth to crying, though she had half expected it, and she drew herself against Calon's shirt, wetting it with her tears. “What if she's as ill as Grandmother said? And after the journey…” Her voice was muffled.

“Then she will be resting at this hour, and all the more happy to see you tomorrow. We'll look again in the morning,” Calon insisted.

“Before work?” she cried. “We have the orders and...”

“Have I ever not kept a promise to you? My father can open the shop himself.” Calon answered quickly, tracing a hand over her shoulders, and looking back toward the house. Though the window was now dark, he thought he saw a shadow move past it, a rustle in the curtains, and it uneased him. “It will be well. We'll find her.”

“Morwen!” They both heard a muted shout and a clatter coming from the house and Narbeleth flinched, her eyes darting back to the dark doorway as she caught her breath. Calon glared at the doorway, pulling his wife some steps further away.

“You are always true,” Narbeleth whispered after several long, quiet moments. It would have to do… there was no other option. There were few times that her husband's voice was taken away to such seriousness, and the young woman, as wild as she could chance to be, had never done anything but exactly what Calon instructed when he spoke in such a tone.

“Come, sing us a song for us while we walk, Nightingale,” Calon prodded, his voice lightening once more, though his eyes still glinted toward the window.

Narbeleth sniffled against the man's warm chest, but she could not resist his request. She had never notset her voice to sing to him when he had asked it of her. She turned her head slightly, looking toward the dark house beside her, and then beyond to the waves that sparkled past the harbor, and she felt the wind wash over her. The pungent smell of fish was heavy on the air, though she though of their own home outside the city walls. The air would be sweet and fresh, and perhaps some strokes in the waves were what they still needed to finish their day.

“When the sun sets over the long blue wave
I spring from my couch of rest,
And I hurtle and boom over leagues of foam
That toss in the weltering west,
I pipe a hymn to the headlands high,
My comrades forevermore,
And I chase the tricksy curls of foam
O'er the glimmering sandy shore.”

She stood in place, pressed against Calon through the first verse, her voice rising as she caught her breath, and it was not long before he urged her feet forward to the city gates and their home. The sound of her singing trailed behind her in the wind.

“The moon is my friend on clear, white nights
When I ripple her silver way,
And whistle blithely about the rocks
Like an elfin thing at play;
But anon I ravin with cloud and mist
And wail 'neath a curdled sky,
When the reef snarls yon like a questing beast,
And the frightened ships go by.

I scatter the dawn across the sea
Like wine of amber flung
From a crystal goblet all far and fine
Where the morning star is hung;
I blow from east and I blow from west
Wherever my longing be-
The wind of the land is a hindered thing
But the ocean wind is free!”