Thrill and Thrall {Narbeleth, Calon, Gilwen} [March 3010]

Ioreth’s tears had dried eventually, though the woman’s heavy eyes and heart lingered still. Morwen was suffocating by her stare, and worked to make sure that her own eyes did not fall upon her mother. Her mind was turned instead to the morning. Thoron had said it was going to be an early start, for the tide was going to go out at sunrise, and the ship’s captain would want to catch such a thing.

“Mama,” she said finally, after some moments. “How long will the sail be? To Haradwaith.”

Ioreth’s face fell, and she reached, fingers from her left hand stroking through Morwen’s dark, mussed hair. “About two months,” she whispered in reply.

Two months.

Eight weeks of sailors using her in any way they saw fit. If she refused, what then? Would they throw them overboard? Drop them at a port along the way? Thoron would be so cross, drowning would likely be a blessing instead of having to face his fury. She felt like she was going to be ill, but it showed as little more than a grimace.

Her arms crossed, and the woman hugged herself, dark eyes glancing to the tinctures that were sitting upon the bedside table. Her tonics, her father called them. But they were poisons. There to rob her of her womanhood. It tasted like sour herbs, and bitter powders.

“We don’t need any more rats around,” her father had said. Her stomach knotted, feeling of lead.

Ioreth glanced to the tinctures, and her brow furrowed sadly. “He’s picking up enough for the trip,” she assured her in a low murmur. Ioreth had never felt such blackness within her, and she had known what it was to beg for death. “I won’t…” She could not rightly promise, she supposed, that there would be no child to remember the whole trip by, but she prayed the gods were merciful. “It will be little more than a bad memory someday, Morwen,” she assured her instead, her voice heavy and meek. Her heart felt as if it were ripping.

A bad memory. Morwen wished it was already one, instead of looming ahead and waiting like a troll for her to face.

“What do you think it will be like, Mama?” Morwen asked next. “I heard Near Harad was a land of sand.” He had told her that. Almost as an aside during one of his many weaving stories. He had known so much; even of ships, and of the way many took ill upon the waves.

“I…I don’t know, sweetheart,” Ioreth answered, wrapping her arms about her daughter’s shoulders and pulling her tight against her chest. Morwen began to tremble, silent tears rolling from deadened brown eyes. “I can promise we’ll be together, though. No matter what.”

“No matter what.” Morwen whispered, feeling her mother press a kiss to her hair. She paused, a long silence filling the air. “Do you think he’ll be all right? Will…will he forgive me, Mama?”

“Oh, Morwen…” Ioreth’s voice broke, and for a moment she did nothing but cradle her against her chest, cheek resting atop her head. No, she knew. He would never be all right. He was going to blame himself for years, and his heart for a time would know only bitterness. She had seen the love he had, of the fight he offered on her daughter’s behalf. Maybe someday he would learn to love another, but he was never going to feel whole. Not completely. Still, that was not what Morwen needed to hear. “He will never blame you, sweetheart,” she said instead.

“He should,” Morwen sobbed, and Ioreth held her as she succumbed to bitter tears.

Uncle Linnon's home was an hour ride if taken at a trot from the city, over grassy rolling hills, and through thick forests where the great oaks pressed close to the roadway. There were farmlands and pastures. Shepherds were tending their flocks on the hills, and men were already tilling the spring soils and planting their crops. Always there was the sea shore to his left, as he rode atop the cliffs Northward on the Edhellond Road.

It could, however, be reached more quickly at a gallop, and Faeldor was pressing Lumiel forward. The horse enjoyed the pace, for though she had traveled many miles, the journey was slow for her. She could only go as fast as the draft horses took the carriage, and they had not covered too many miles in a day. Faeldor had not ridden her at all upon the journey, so she did not have to bear much weight, for Faelon and Marileth were small riders, and Meleth was lithe and easy.

Mother would be happy to be home, Faeldor thought, for as he rode he passed by one farm after the other. The property itself was of his Uncle Linnon's estate. It had once belonged to his Grandfather Calaeron, yet these acres had been been kept and farmed by his Mother's family for many years. The shepherds he saw in the fields were likely his cousins, or the children of his cousins, and if it had been a fair day… If he had just arrived to the countryside here, and Gilwen had been his wife, safe and well in his arms atop Lumiel, he would, have stopped to greet and speak with them.

As it was, he rode on.

When he came upon the halfway and neared the Edhellond Road Inn itself, he looked toward the nearest farm. This was the home of Amarthon, his Mother's eldest brother. He was far her senior, seventy years old, his children were grown and scattered about the countryside with their own families, and his wife had left him a widower many years back when she had succumbed at the birth of their youngest child. This was the home his Mother had grown in, and the home she would be moving back to with her parents.

It was only a few bends of the road down from the inn. Though, it would be a chore for Haliel to walk the distance, even when her leg was mended, and she was growing far too big for Meleth to carry her always. In Minas Tirith they had used at times a cart to pull her when the distance was long to walk, but now that they were in the countryside, he could find someone from the city to fashion for her a small horse cart, that his Mother could drive and even she could when she were older. Faelon could happily take her about in it as well, he considered. She had not the strength and balance to keep herself atop a horse, yet a cart would do her well. Even as he thought on it, his mind had trailed to more of a pleasant place than it had been these days past. Though the distances were further in the countryside, his little sister would have quite more opportunity for independence here than she had in the city. The thought made him smile.

His eyes moved over the fenced pasture in front of the house, where Amarthon's horses were grazing. There were three there, and he wondered at it for a moment, with just one man in the home, why were there three riding horses? They were not even draft animals for work, but fine sleek creatures. A brown chestnut mare with a white star atop her crown. A large black stallion, and then beside a horse of the lightest grey, with a dark grey nose and black mane and tail. The mare that was near white lifted her head and Faeldor stopped. “Laerdin?” he wondered out loud. At the sound of his voice the black horse began to trot toward the fence, lifting his great head in a nod as if he were expecting a treat. “Balroch!”

The black horse could have passed for any, for his coloration was common, yet Laerdin had unique look. There could never be another that matched so perfectly. The horses turned out disappointed, for once Faeldor realized of which they were, he turned Lumiel up the path to the house. Those were his horses. The ones he had sent along with Beregar, and Gilwen.

“Uncle Amarthon!” It was only a few short minutes before Faeldor was pounding on the front door, and a man with black hair, peppered with silver streaks and a beard of the same nature answered the door.

“Well, this must be Faeldor,” he looked him over with approval. “Can't say you have your Mother's look about you, but you certainly have my own beard. Haven't seen you since you were a lad. Grown up quite a bit, I say. Come in! Come in! My parents aren't with you then? And your Mother? Everyone make the journey all right?” he asked quickly. He knew that his Father's health was in and out these past years and had a bit of worry hearing that they were going to take the route by land instead of boarding a ship on the Anduin to take them down the river and through the bay.

“Everyone traveled well,” Faeldor answered quickly, hoping the man would move on with the greeting so that he could get the information he needed. He sighed, it would not due to be rude. “They'll be around later this evening, I'm sure… getting Miriel and the baby settled at my Uncle Linnon's home.”

“Ah, heard your eldest sister had a baby. No husband though? Can't say it surprises me too much. Must be a bit disappointing for you though, your little sister and all. I know, I've been through it myself, of course, hm?” Amarthon nudged Faeldor knowingly, though Faeldor had no clue as to what the man was speaking on. It did not matter, for his Uncle had given him no time to respond before continuing in his speech.

“I'm sure it will work out all right for her though, she's a good family to take care of her, and if the Father isn't around, it's better to be out of Minas Tirith as well. She can make a better name for herself here, maybe find someone who wants himself a ready family? There's men out there who wouldn't mind. Or just keep to herself if she wants. Linnon has plenty of space for her I'm sure, and plenty of daughters to dote on that baby. It's a good thing he has the spare space though. With my parents here, and your Mother, and little Faelon and Haliel and Marileth… our rooms are going to be full up. Faelon is going to have to share a room with the girls for a little while I imagine. Though we have the sheep shearers cottage out back. No doubt your Mother is going to fix that up and get herself and the girls in there soon enough, then he can have his own room in here with me. Boy'd probably like that. Lived in the cottage for awhile myself with my wife when we were first married. Your Mother wasn't even born yet back then… hah… all boys in the home.”

Faeldor nodded. “I'm looking forward to seeing all of my Uncles again. And Aunts. I hate to change the topic though but I have to ask--”

Amarthon seemed to miss his statement, and continued on. “Heard that other sister of yours got married to Istor's son. Good match if I may say for her. I've always liked Istor. He's made my shears for many years, and I get my arrowheads there too. Och, you should get out hunting with him if you get the chance. Man knows how to track… When I was younger… he wasn't more than the age of that son of his now, we'd both been out hunting at the same time. Both took down a stag near the same time. We were out tracking the beasts and the blood trails crossed paths and mingled together. I didn't know how to tell which was which, but Istor, he stooped down and tasted the blood where the trails finally split and could tell it from just that! The taste of the blood. Can you believe? That man, I say… My friend, Dauchon, says his son has just the same skill in the hunt and he's working his way up in the forge there. Your sister should never want for fresh meat! Dauchon said he saw the boy out in the woods with her a month or so back, dressed up in those men's hunting clothes, she was. Thought he had another young lad with him by the looks of things until he hailed out to them and discovered it was his wife. They'd been shooting partridge out of the trees. She had two of them around the neck. Dauchon asked her if he'd taught her about the blood trails and he said he hadn't had to yet- she took down a deer back in January. Istor's son said it was a double lung shot. Can you imagine a little girl like that pulling it off. Didn't teach her about those blood trails yet because he hasn't needed to… brought that deer down straight to it's knees with a clean shot!”

Faeldor grimaced at the talk of hunting. Blood trails? Tasting blood? His sister and Calon… did everyone in the city know the two of them? They had clearly kept themselves busy in their months here. Narbeleth wearing men's clothing? Holding partridge by the neck? The thought almost mae his stomach turn. It would figure that Calon would allow it. He sighed. He truly had more important matters to speak on though. It seemed every person he met was going to remind him once more of Narbeleth's antics. Well, she had certainly made herself at home.

“I'm sorry, Uncle,” Faeldor was shifting on his feet and interrupted. “I'm sure I'll have more time to talk later, but I need to know… those horses you have out there.”

Amarthon had hardly waited for him to finish. “Ah that chestnut mare. You know I've had her twelve years now. You know, your Father Faelon picked her out for me. All I had to do was say I was thinking about getting a new one… my grey mare was getting up in years and not a good choice to take to the city anymore. Put her out to pasture… she went a few years back; was so sweet and gentle til the end I can say I've missed her. The chestnut has never been as gentle, but she's strong and--”

“I need to know about the other horses you have out there. I'm only asking because they look just like the two I sent with a family from Minas Tirith. They left over two months ago. I know those are the same horses; they came to their names. When did you get them? Where did you get them? Did you see the man with them? Big bulky man with short hair, grey eyes, no beard. And two petite women along with him.” Faeldor was stringing his sentences together rapidly so that his Uncle could not get a word in edgewise before he finished. He had to catch his breath at the end.

“Oh yes, those were the ones. Bulky man. Loud voice. That man brought them up the drive one morning. Early, early morning. Sun had barely risen. I was up already making my tea and eggs and bacon. Him and the women some breakfast with me. Girls were soaked clear through to the bone, though it hadn't been raining, and looked hungry and cold. Young one was sicker than a dog. Offered them my fire but the man sent them outside to wait. Was disconcerting, it was. Those horses were panting, tired and hungry. Couldn't get them to stop from the watering trough, like they'd run all the way across Gondor. Ribs were showing. They've sleeked up fat and happy again now, but they've been eating like you wouldn't believe! Didn't have need of more horses but he seemed desperate to sell them. Figured he needed money for food, or a doctor for that poor girl, and he wasn't asking a lot. Tried telling him all about the doctor up in the White Town. Sees patients for a good cost. My friend Dauchon had gone some weeks earlier and he saw him right on Midwinter's Day even though most of the shops were closed. Got that cough he had taken care of with a good elixir. I figured he'd be able to get that girl in pretty easily. Made me uneasy, that man. I tell you, I slipped some boiled eggs into the older woman's hands while he was counting the coin I paid, she looked so grateful for those pitiful eggs. I wish I could have given her more. Hope it was enough money to get that girl to the doctor, get them some food. You know those people?” Amarthon stopped his rambles suddenly, waiting for Faeldor to answer.

“Gilwen… that's Gilwen. And her parents. I'm supposed to marry her,” Faeldor's voice was blank. He felt sick at the words his Uncle had just rambled about

“That's the girl? Your Mother mentioned in her letter that they came ahead of you. The sick one? And you let her travel like that, boy? What's wrong with you? Your Mother mentioned they were common folk, and believe me I don't care a word about who marries who. I know your Father's family had their issues with Meleth, but you could have sent her with enough for food. Sent her in a carriage at least. That's no way to treat your betrothed, were you thinking?” Amarthon's voice was rising in anger.

“Please...” Faeldor started. “I tried everything to keep her Father from taking her. I would not have let her travel at all.. That's why Mother and I ended up in the prison to begin with--”

“Your Mother was in prison? And you? What's wrong with you boy, you let your Mother go to prison?”

“I couldn't stop her, she hit that man-- Beregar. She hit him with a door bolt and he called the guards. I tried to fight him to keep Gilwen.”

“Sounds like something Meleth would do too… Her name wasn't Gilwen though, son, are you sure we're talking about the same girl here at all? Morwen- it was Morwen, and her mother was Ioreth. And Thoron was the man. He didn't introduce them to me but he was hollering their names the whole time. I remember names. I've got a whole lot of them here in my head, but there wasn't a Gilwen with them. Nor a Beregar.”

Faeldor quickly pulled the parchment of names again from his pocket and his eyes skimmed over them. Thoron. There it was. The same name on the list the Innkeeper had given him.

“Thoron must be right,” he muttered.

“Well I told you it was, didn't I?” Amarthon seemed impatient.

“Do you know where they went?” Faeldor asked.

“They took off walking toward Dol Amroth when they left. Didn't tell me what he was going to do. Made the women carry the tack is all I know. He had a few bags. They would have fallen over if he'd made them carry it all I'm sure but he sure did make me uneasy. Wished there was something I could do about it. Women looked in awful sorry shape. If my wife would have been here she'd have known what to do better. Always knew how to take care of people she did. Sorry you never got to meet her. Actually your Mother reminds me a lot of her. Meleth was just a little girl then, she'd come out to our cottage and play all the time with our children. Of course, the boys thought it was quite funny that their Aunt was younger then them, but it didn't matter, she let them trail along after. Almost like brothers to her that way. I'm sure she'll be glad to see them again, and their babies are your age now! I've a great granddaughter that's Hailel's age. Lives not far down the road from here. She'll be glad to have a little girl to play dolls with. We'll make it an easy place for Haliel here… my sons are going to add some ramps to get to the front so she doesn't have to use the stairs. Heard she took a fall, poor thing. But should be about mended now right? As mended as she can be anyway?”

Faeldor's mind was reeling as he tried to decide what there was to do, and he had completely missed the question asked of him, though noted the lapse in words.

“I'm sorry, Uncle,” he started, putting a hand on Amarthon's arm. “I promise I will be back here to talk again soon, and you can cook that breakfast for Gilwen and tell us all your stories. I need to get back out there and look for her though. I have doubts that her Father took her to that doctor, though I'm glad you tried to help.” His words were in earnest. It was apparent his Uncle Amarthon was a good man, though he could not stand to listen to him any longer for the moment.

He started to the door without invitation. “I'll buy the horses back from you later if you'll part with them,” he said as he stepped out the door.

“Oh, no bother. They can be a wedding gift,” Amarthon answered. “Get back here soon with the girl. I'd like to see her again. I'll give her the horses myself.”

“I will, Uncle, thank you.”

Faeldor gave the two horses in the pen a final look, and their ears perked as they watched him. This time however, he spurred Lumiel to a gallop back toward Dol Amroth. Now he had names. He would go back to the wharfs. Surely, they had at least made it as far as Dol Amroth, and someone must know of them.

“Thoron. Morwen. Ioreth,” he muttered to himself, as it to keep from forgetting the names. Morwen. Maiden of darkness. Faeldor had an inward notion that the name had not been randomly selected. Picked in mockery. There was no spirit of darkness in his Starlight.

“We’re set te sail,” the captain affirmed. He had green eyes, skin wrinkled and leathery from his years toiling under spars and sun, grey hair that was faded nearly to white for the same reasons. Still, there was something keen about his eye, something that Thoron knew came from a fire that none but the sailors of Dol Amroth could bear in their bellies.

Thoron grinned, extending a hand that the captain clapped into a firm grip in agreement. “This is the best news I’ve had in months, Captain,” he said.

“The best news I’ve had’s that there’ll be a young lady fer us te entertain,” the man countered, a strange, wolfish grin spreading beneath his lifted bushy eyebrows. “Or should I say, te entertain us.”

Thoron smiled. “Morwen will serve just fine,” he agreed to them. He knew, of course, that many of the men had been away most of the year, finding women in every port, their standards lowering with each toss of the anchor. It did not matter what state Morwen was in when she walked up that gangway in the morning; those men would be drooling, and begging for time below decks with her as soon as her foot was aboard.

“Must say, ain’t used to havin’ passengers. We’re just a merchant vessel—the boys’ll be glad for some nice face. Heard yer wife ain’t so hard on the eye neither,” the captain chuckled, the sound as salty as the air of the harbor.

“She’s not part of the agreement,” Thoron said, voice dropping low enough that even the old sailor for a moment had a wash of unease.

“No, no, ‘course not,” the man countered, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “Merely sayin’ it might be nice to look, is all. Yer girl’s the only one the boys’ll be touchin’, mark my words.”

Thoron smiled. “Good,” he replied. “Very good.”

“We’re castin’ off at sunrise,” the captain finished. “Yer goin’ te be here?”

“Captain, we’ve been waiting months for this,” Thoron smiled. “We won’t be missing it now. I’ll have the chests to get on board.”

“And the more important set, eh?” The captain’s doggish expression would have curdled dairy, but Thoron merely laughed, the sound as twisted as the other man’s smile.

“Morwen’s too,” he agreed. “See you tomorrow, Captain.”

With that, the tall man moved from the ship and back toward the docks, watching as the men of the town carted the freight they were going to be moving to Haradwaith upon the deck to store below.

He had done it. He almost could not believe his success; it had been so long in planning, and so many things could have gone wrong. But come the morning, he, Ioreth, and Morwen would be loaded upon the barque and off for the two month journey down to Haradwaith. A new life. Again.

Starting over grew tiresome. Though, he mused to himself as he paced his way down the street, Near Harad would not have Faeldors to interfere again. He never wished to see another Gondorian in all his life, if he could manage it. Dol Amroth once more needed to be naught but a memory.

He saw the tired wood of the front door and briskly threw it open, calling inside before he even had disappeared within, “You better be all packed. The captain’s looking forward to setting off in the morning!” And with that, the door slammed shut behind him.

“Morwen. Do you know a Morwen? Or a Thoron?” Faeldor asked into yet another home. This was not as easy as he had proved to think it would now be, and many houses had come up short. Though; there had been some hope. Thoron's name was known by some of the residents. A man who fit Beregar's description, who they were certain lived somewhere along the wharfs in the Middle Port. A loud, bellowing man, who walked with heavy footsteps, and often had a bottle of ale in hand. Faeldor looked to the sky and sighed. Already the afternoon sun was growing low in the sky. He knew she was here. He had to find her.

Faeldor sighed as he came to the end of the row. There were only a handful of houses left, and no sign of this Thoron. Many words, yet no sign. Until this moment. Faeldor's eyes widened as hew watched the man step around the corner from the docks. There he was. That was indeed Beregar. He would not forget that bulky frame and straight face.

“You better be all packed. The captain’s looking forward to setting off in the morning!”

The door slammed shut. Faeldor felt suddenly dizzy; his head throbbed. He took a moment to lean against the stone wall nearest him, legs weak. It did not occur to the man that he had taken no food nor drink the day over, in such a frenzy his search had been.

By the Valar, that had been him. He could not decide how he felt, and the man held back the urge to run straight for the wooden door and throw it open. Could Gilwen be inside waiting for him? She must be. She must be there. He waited a few minutes, waiting for another movement from the door, or perhaps a view through the window, yet there was nothing to be had.

“Gilwen… please,” he whispered to himself. “Let me see that you're well.” Beregar had been talking to someone. Was it Niniel? Or Gilwen? The both of them. Oh, he hoped so. If Gilwen had been as ill as his Uncle had mentioned... He was worried, yet it was true she must have made it this far. People had known of Thoron, but not of Morwen. Could she be indoors, resting abed? Was there some small hope that he was caring for her?

Faeldor had fought Beregar twice now. And twice he had been near knocked senseless by only a few blows. The punch to his head earlier in the day had been a stark reminder that he had not the muscle that he perhaps wished he did in moments like these. Usually it was not such a setback, he was strong enough for the tasks he needed accomplish, yet Calon had set him off his feet in a single fluid motion. He felt a slight rise in temper at just the thought of the man.

He could not think on it now. Oh, he had said in the morning. Setting off? Setting off to where? And the captain? It must be a ship. Where was he taking her? He had to act quickly; that woman was not going to be Beregar's any longer by morning. Gilwen would not slip from his grasp again. Faeldor rushed to the door of the nearest house, knocking.

“Yes?” a woman with dark hair, streaks of silver within came to the door quickly, as if she had sensed him leaning there and was ready to send him off.

“Gilwen… I mean Morwen? Do you know Morwen?” Faeldor asked quickly.

“I'm not Morwen. There's one across the way though,” she pointed again toward the dilapidated house that Beregar had entered. The woman looked unsettled. “That house is cursed. Foul noises come from that way at night. I'd stay away.”

The woman moved to shut the door, but Faeldor put his hand in the way to stop her and winced as the door hit his fingers. “Have you seen her? Recently?” he asked. “Morwen?

“I saw Ioreth outside this morning. Can't say I've seen Morwen for a few days at least,” the woman added, frustrated. “I told you though, the house is cursed. That man drinks day and night, and you don't want to know what it sounds like he's doing in there.”

Faeldor swallowed hard. “She's about this high?” he motioned. “Dark hair?”

The woman nodded, “That looks about right, brown eyes. Smaller than a rail.”

“It must be her,” Faeldor muttered, looking back toward the house. “I… thank you.” Faeldor shoved the door back open and wrapped the woman in and embrace. “Thank you, thank you.”

The shocked woman tried to draw back. “What are you doing?”

“I… I'm sorry,” Faeldor said quickly, letting go of her. “I have to go.” He was out the door in a moment, and it shut quickly behind him, yet he could see the woman now looking out at him through her curtains. He tried to offer her a smile, but he no longer had one to give, and he went straight back to Lumiel where he had left her.

He needed to get in that house. He needed to get her. There was no time to lose. Night would be upon them soon, and after that… morning. He was not going to let that man take her away again. He needed help. More men. There was no way he could hold back Beregar alone and get to her. Someone with strength… someone….

Calon. He knew not anyone in the city stronger than Calon. Faeldor groaned to himself. He could not let it matter. He needed to get him. If Calon would not help him for his own sake, he would help him for Beleth's sake.