Thrill and Thrall {Narbeleth, Calon, Gilwen} [March 3010]
Dec 20, 2017 18:30:29 GMT -5
Post by Gilwen on Dec 20, 2017 18:30:29 GMT -5
Meleth was hovering about, working on wiping the trails of milk from her lips and chin, though she had needed to send Faeldor away to do so. She did not mind that he had gone; in truth, Morwen was not sure she wanted him to see her; not like this. And, with Faeldor no longer hovering right before her, she was able to ask Meleth something she had hitherto been denied. “Please, I have to go back,” she whispered. “He’ll be so angry. Mama—”
How long had it been since she had been taken from the shack on the wharf? Hours? Minutes? Days? Everything was blurred together, and Morwen’s heart fluttered with agitation and anxiety. Her mother could be dead by now, if Thoron thought she was not returning.
Her explanation had made Beleth, the doctor, and Faeldor angry, and Morwen felt her chest tighten. She had only answered the question; she did not understand what she had done wrong this time, and her fever and exhaustion made it impossible for her to try. “I had to take it,” she murmured meekly to Meleth. Those men were going to touch her on the ship; her father had tried to get her company before the sail to Haradwaith as well. She no longer could recall if any had been successful; everything was running as one, like wet paints in a stream.
Calon’s jaw clenched, listening to his wife lament the fact the trapper had most assuredly sold her rat poison. “They hock it on the street as if it doesn’t kill the girls who take it,” he grumbled, though glanced hurriedly to Morwen upon the bed to be sure she had not heard. He reached for Beleth’s hand, squeezing it assuringly.
“I would not be surprised if there is organ damage. Let me have a listen, dear. Sounds like a hummingbird.”
Morwen’s eyes went wide, seeing the cylinder pulled from the doctor’s bag. She had not even known what she had done. Was it for speaking out of turn? But he had asked the question. Was it for the answer she gave? But it had been the truth! “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do better,” she mumbled, trying to inch herself away. The man, though was able to get the thing pressed against her anyway, and while it hurt for there was little upon her body that was not maimed in some way, it was not the doctor’s roughness that caused the ache. Slowly, she stilled.
“Bel,” Calon urged quietly, pulling her faintly away from the bedside so as to give the doctor more room to listen. It seemed to little avail, though, for Morwen’s heart was racing so terribly he could not make out much beyond that, it seemed.
Morwen frowned, though, looking from the doctor to Meleth, tentative curiosity in the bend of her brow. “What’s a hummingbird?” She asked. “…Does it sing different?” Perhaps it only hummed, not whistled. She could not fathom how a heart could sound like that, though.
Calon’s mouth fell agape, and he looked to Beleth for a moment. “It’s…a small bird,” he started, but he fell silent hopelessly. Describing the bird, and how it got its name would likely frighten her, if she was sound of mind enough to realize what that meant her heart was doing. “They…they like flowers, bright green, very…fast.”
Morwen was too sick to understand, and was already sinking back further into the pillow, trail of thought released.
“Turn her about carefully so I can listen at her back. We'll loose the dress, I might hear better. Calon, take Bel out to rest I think. See to that cut, it's bleeding too much.”
Head wounds were always the most finicky, and as Meleth moved to start drawing Morwen to her side, Calon nodded to him. “Bel,” he hummed to her. His wife, though did not listen.
“No, wait,” Morwen muttered. She did not want her back bared. She did not want the dress loosed, and she did not want to be turned. Her body was on fire, and aching, and she did not care if the doctor was able to hear her insides. She was not long for this world, she hoped, and Mandos would soon relieve her. Meleth, though, had turned her anyway, and as the doctor began to try for the strings for her overdress, Beleth moved forward to help. “I don’t need him to listen, I need to go back.” They did not understand. They were going to keep her here, they were going to let her mother die.
“Keep the pressure on that head.”
Once more Calon stepped forward, a strong hand coming to settle upon Beleth’s shoulder. “Bel, please,” he said warmly. “You need to take care of you first, otherwise you can’t help your friend.”
The woman, though, promptly ignored him, and instead spoke to the woman upon the bed of the last time they had helped her dress. Calon, for a moment, found a curl of his lip. It was the night he had been able to re-meet his Chicken Lady, the elusive, wonderful woman he had seen in the market those days before. The night the stars had aligned, and he had been able to find the only woman in Minas Tirith that was cut of the ilk he desired. He had thought of her often; though, he had never imagined he would find her at a ball of all places.
Though, he supposed he had not. He had, after all, been trying to escape it. It had not turned out so incredibly poor, though.
Calon’s thoughts were interrupted as Beleth screamed and backpedaled from the spot upon the bed, and it took him but an instant to blink away the fonder memories and remember precisely what the darkness was that was at hand. “Bel!” He said, coming forward and locking his arms about her to keep her from tumbling to the ground in a full sprawl, though as he did so, he could smell the stench of blood and infected skin, and he realized precisely what had unsettled his Nightingale so. Calon’s mouth fell agape, and though for a moment his body was icy with his shock and horror, a heat soon flourished in him and he frowned fiercely.
“What is it?”
“Please don’t be mad,” Morwen shuddered meekly. “It’s not so bad. It’s not.”
How she could even say that was beyond Calon, though. He had never seen worse upon a human in his lifetime.
“I'm going to kill him! He had no right! A servant of Melkor! He--”
“That's enough.”
“They were disgusted too,” Morwen said, though it was so incredibly quiet, Calon was unsure if he had heard it at all.
“Of course he had no right, but she needs peace in here. Bel, out. You too.”
Before Beleth had time to argue, Calon had locked his arm about her waist and hauled her to her feet with little effort. Morwen gasped. Her mind felt as if it were swimming, and it was only then she noticed the blood upon her friend’s forehead. Eru’s name! She was too late. Her heart felt broken, and the young woman slumped. She had not meant to get Beleth into trouble; she would never forgive herself for such a blatant slip, one that was going to cost her friend dearly. Calon looked to be of the same size as her own father.
“I'm not leaving, she's my wife.”
“Keep quiet then. I have to clean these wounds before they become more infected. You'll take some of this brandy to cut the pain. It's going to hurt, but I can work quickly for you.”
“She won't take that well. She doesn't handle alcohol.”
“You know her then...Give her what she'll need to dull the pain. I don't want her going into shock from it when I start working.”
Beleth was already dragged out the door, and Morwen’s eyes were grave and wet, face somber. She could smell the alcohol in the flask as it was handed to her Faeldor, though the smell nearly made the woman ill. No; she neither needed it or wanted it. Meleth was sending for more bandages. Beleth was going to be so sore, so broken…and it was all her own fault.
Faeldor moved in close, taking the flask up to her lips.
“Sweetheart, let's have a little drink.”
“No,” Morwen said, using the last of her energies to turn her head away from the putrid drink. “I don’t need it. Papa will be mad if I drink his flask.” Oh, he would be furious. She had never once had a drop, not even on the nights her pain was swallowing her whole. “Papa will be so mad.”
How long had it been since she had been taken from the shack on the wharf? Hours? Minutes? Days? Everything was blurred together, and Morwen’s heart fluttered with agitation and anxiety. Her mother could be dead by now, if Thoron thought she was not returning.
Her explanation had made Beleth, the doctor, and Faeldor angry, and Morwen felt her chest tighten. She had only answered the question; she did not understand what she had done wrong this time, and her fever and exhaustion made it impossible for her to try. “I had to take it,” she murmured meekly to Meleth. Those men were going to touch her on the ship; her father had tried to get her company before the sail to Haradwaith as well. She no longer could recall if any had been successful; everything was running as one, like wet paints in a stream.
Calon’s jaw clenched, listening to his wife lament the fact the trapper had most assuredly sold her rat poison. “They hock it on the street as if it doesn’t kill the girls who take it,” he grumbled, though glanced hurriedly to Morwen upon the bed to be sure she had not heard. He reached for Beleth’s hand, squeezing it assuringly.
“I would not be surprised if there is organ damage. Let me have a listen, dear. Sounds like a hummingbird.”
Morwen’s eyes went wide, seeing the cylinder pulled from the doctor’s bag. She had not even known what she had done. Was it for speaking out of turn? But he had asked the question. Was it for the answer she gave? But it had been the truth! “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do better,” she mumbled, trying to inch herself away. The man, though was able to get the thing pressed against her anyway, and while it hurt for there was little upon her body that was not maimed in some way, it was not the doctor’s roughness that caused the ache. Slowly, she stilled.
“Bel,” Calon urged quietly, pulling her faintly away from the bedside so as to give the doctor more room to listen. It seemed to little avail, though, for Morwen’s heart was racing so terribly he could not make out much beyond that, it seemed.
Morwen frowned, though, looking from the doctor to Meleth, tentative curiosity in the bend of her brow. “What’s a hummingbird?” She asked. “…Does it sing different?” Perhaps it only hummed, not whistled. She could not fathom how a heart could sound like that, though.
Calon’s mouth fell agape, and he looked to Beleth for a moment. “It’s…a small bird,” he started, but he fell silent hopelessly. Describing the bird, and how it got its name would likely frighten her, if she was sound of mind enough to realize what that meant her heart was doing. “They…they like flowers, bright green, very…fast.”
Morwen was too sick to understand, and was already sinking back further into the pillow, trail of thought released.
“Turn her about carefully so I can listen at her back. We'll loose the dress, I might hear better. Calon, take Bel out to rest I think. See to that cut, it's bleeding too much.”
Head wounds were always the most finicky, and as Meleth moved to start drawing Morwen to her side, Calon nodded to him. “Bel,” he hummed to her. His wife, though did not listen.
“No, wait,” Morwen muttered. She did not want her back bared. She did not want the dress loosed, and she did not want to be turned. Her body was on fire, and aching, and she did not care if the doctor was able to hear her insides. She was not long for this world, she hoped, and Mandos would soon relieve her. Meleth, though, had turned her anyway, and as the doctor began to try for the strings for her overdress, Beleth moved forward to help. “I don’t need him to listen, I need to go back.” They did not understand. They were going to keep her here, they were going to let her mother die.
“Keep the pressure on that head.”
Once more Calon stepped forward, a strong hand coming to settle upon Beleth’s shoulder. “Bel, please,” he said warmly. “You need to take care of you first, otherwise you can’t help your friend.”
The woman, though, promptly ignored him, and instead spoke to the woman upon the bed of the last time they had helped her dress. Calon, for a moment, found a curl of his lip. It was the night he had been able to re-meet his Chicken Lady, the elusive, wonderful woman he had seen in the market those days before. The night the stars had aligned, and he had been able to find the only woman in Minas Tirith that was cut of the ilk he desired. He had thought of her often; though, he had never imagined he would find her at a ball of all places.
Though, he supposed he had not. He had, after all, been trying to escape it. It had not turned out so incredibly poor, though.
Calon’s thoughts were interrupted as Beleth screamed and backpedaled from the spot upon the bed, and it took him but an instant to blink away the fonder memories and remember precisely what the darkness was that was at hand. “Bel!” He said, coming forward and locking his arms about her to keep her from tumbling to the ground in a full sprawl, though as he did so, he could smell the stench of blood and infected skin, and he realized precisely what had unsettled his Nightingale so. Calon’s mouth fell agape, and though for a moment his body was icy with his shock and horror, a heat soon flourished in him and he frowned fiercely.
“What is it?”
“Please don’t be mad,” Morwen shuddered meekly. “It’s not so bad. It’s not.”
How she could even say that was beyond Calon, though. He had never seen worse upon a human in his lifetime.
“I'm going to kill him! He had no right! A servant of Melkor! He--”
“That's enough.”
“They were disgusted too,” Morwen said, though it was so incredibly quiet, Calon was unsure if he had heard it at all.
“Of course he had no right, but she needs peace in here. Bel, out. You too.”
Before Beleth had time to argue, Calon had locked his arm about her waist and hauled her to her feet with little effort. Morwen gasped. Her mind felt as if it were swimming, and it was only then she noticed the blood upon her friend’s forehead. Eru’s name! She was too late. Her heart felt broken, and the young woman slumped. She had not meant to get Beleth into trouble; she would never forgive herself for such a blatant slip, one that was going to cost her friend dearly. Calon looked to be of the same size as her own father.
“I'm not leaving, she's my wife.”
“Keep quiet then. I have to clean these wounds before they become more infected. You'll take some of this brandy to cut the pain. It's going to hurt, but I can work quickly for you.”
“She won't take that well. She doesn't handle alcohol.”
“You know her then...Give her what she'll need to dull the pain. I don't want her going into shock from it when I start working.”
Beleth was already dragged out the door, and Morwen’s eyes were grave and wet, face somber. She could smell the alcohol in the flask as it was handed to her Faeldor, though the smell nearly made the woman ill. No; she neither needed it or wanted it. Meleth was sending for more bandages. Beleth was going to be so sore, so broken…and it was all her own fault.
Faeldor moved in close, taking the flask up to her lips.
“Sweetheart, let's have a little drink.”
“No,” Morwen said, using the last of her energies to turn her head away from the putrid drink. “I don’t need it. Papa will be mad if I drink his flask.” Oh, he would be furious. She had never once had a drop, not even on the nights her pain was swallowing her whole. “Papa will be so mad.”
