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

Narbeleth felt a relief flood over her as Calon spoke to her and kept his firm hold upon her, though she was not quite in control of her crying, and could not seem to still it. For a moment the tears washed over her even greater than before as he gave explanation and apology and she felt his lips against her. She felt a horrid wife for even assuming he would come after her in wrath; had he not just told her she was safe with him? And had she not agreed wholeheartedly?

“It’s been a long day for her. For both of us.” She was settled into Linnon's armchair, missing the loss of Calon's touch immedately, and though the stool had been pushed up for her, she moved to curl her legs up against her, clinging to her own dress. Her siblings were gathered around commenting on her state and she needed to calm herself. This was not how she had intended to greet them again after her long months away! She had not even allowed herself to cry at her departure from them.

Linnon had drawn her husband to speaking with him, or perhaps it had been the other way around. Either way, Narbeleth could not grasp their words for so much energy was being focused on stilling here sobbing again; it seemed all the more difficult this time even than it had been before, and her Mother came round the side of the chair, to stroke her hair as she listened to the men's exchange, trying to determine what exactly had even happened.

“I won’t be leaving with her. Not now. So you may vow that much. Please, keep her from her grandmother, she…needs to be calm.”

Linnon glanced toward the stairway once more, though Faeldor had now vanished, and he moved into the sitting room after Calon, grasping the young man's arm momentarily. “She's your wife, you can take her when you're ready to-”

“That's not what Fael said,” Faelon cut in, frowning.

“Faelon-” Meleth started, but Linnon raised a hand to still her quickly and spoke to the boy instead.

“I think Faeldor has had a long day too. Now, I think we're all going to get a warm drink and settle down,” Linnon looked down to Faelon as he said it, giving him a pat on the head. He looked back toward Calon. “But until then, you know I'll keep an eye on her.” He would keep Tinuves out. He knew that woman had always ground on his brother's nerves as well.

“I have to go find Niniel, I won’t come back until I’ve found her, or have scoured every inch of Dol Amroth looking for her. She’s going by Ioreth? Is that what Gilwen said?”

Narbeleth was watching Calon through bleary eyes, and though her breathing was still well out of sync and her face wet, she had managed to still her sobbing and sat with blank expression. “Ioreth,” she affirmed. “And Thoron,” she added, as if he needed reminder. The name seemed almost vulgar to say, and for a moment Narbeleth considered that she hoped she never met another by the same name, for she thought she would surely have a burning hatred within her immediately if she should hear it even from the most innocent of people. She did not wish for her husband to leave. She wanted his comforting arms about her, yet she added, “Check… check at the ships.”

“I shall try to not be late.”

Linnon nodded; “You're under no curfew of mine. My own daughters are difficult enough to keep track of. I'll have Ivren keep the soup on for you, Calon.”

“Someone will be awake,” Meleth added. Someone would need be up to keep eyes on Gilwen through the night, it was certain.

As soon as Calon bent near her, Narbeleth sighed against his lips. “I love you, Bel. “Go, my love,” she whispered back to him. If he had stalled near her a moment longer, she would have clutched him and never let him leave.

With that, Calon was gone. Faelon and Marileth followed to watch from the door as he rode away, and Narbeleth missed him before she even heard his bootsteps diminish. Her eyes were trained toward the exit of the sitting room even while most of her family gathered around her. A cup of tea was near forced to her lips by her cousin, and her Mother was over her again fixing the bandage that she had hastily wrapped around her own head. Meleth brushed her fingers over her daughter's hair, and scooted beside her in the large chair, hugging her and kissing her cheek.

“Oh, my girl,” Meleth muttered, then sighed. “I suppose you don't wish to be called that anymore.”

“It's fine to say it, as long as you treat me like I'm grown,” Narbeleth replied, readily taking the affection and leaning against her Mother.

“Oh, you've been grown a long time already. Always have been a good girl.” Meleth paused a moment, then looked down to her daughter, noting the streaks red upon her face as she used her hands to wipe the wetness from her cheeks. After seeing Gilwen's state, her mind could not help but wander to darker thoughts. “He's good to you?” she asked quietly, her mind moving back to the way his voice had barked up the stairway.

“Of course he--” Narbeleth started quickly, looking to her Mother, though she even had feared her husband in the moment, and was sorry to have done so. He did have a powerful voice, however. She had seen him on Faeldor twice this day, and his fury on Beregar even greater. It was apparent Calon could muster a hurricane within if need be. “He's just had an awful day. He's never raised his voice to me before...” Her mind trailed to Calon who must now be upon Fundaroch galloping back toward the city, and she frowned, fearing his day was about to be much worse. She prayed that the Valar kept him safe.

“Your face?” Meleth whispered, not exactly comforted by her daughter's words. “There's going to be a bruise there. Why did he--” She touched her cheek lightly. The streaks were obviously from the print of a hand.

“Not Calon. Grandmother,” Narbeleth stated flatly.

“My Mother?” Meleth asked sucking in her breath in frustration, though releasing it in relief. She knew very well her Mother, and now the pieces made sense. Never had she given her mother permission to strike her children, and though Meleth had on occasion needed to discipline them with a spank when they were young; though it had most often been Faeldor and Faelon who had needed it, she had only risen a hand to the cheek once. Miriel had sorely deserved it for the way her mouth had flown at Niniel that day.

Narbeleth nodded. “Is Gilwen going to be all right?” she asked hopefully, not wishing to dwell on Tinuves' scathing words. “The place we took her from was so horrid… her Father was--” she paused, suddenly noticing how near Haliel and Faelon stood looking at her with wide eyes.

“I...” Meleth started, then moved to stand. “I'm supposed to be getting her milk. I'll… I hope so,” was all Meleth could offer. She was not certain she wanted to speak on the issue right now in front of her daughter who seemed to have been in a state of panic since arriving, and the little ones were so nearby. Still, she stood beside the chair still stroking Nabeleth's hair for a minute. She had never been parted from one of her children for so long.

“I'll get the milk,” Ivren stated knowingly, and Meleth seemed relieved as she told her sister-in-law what the doctor had ordered for her. One woman took off down the hall to the kitchen, while the other settled again on the arm of the chair.

Narbeleth turned to look to her siblings, and opened her arms to them, forcing a smiling. “Well come here then,” she said, trying to raise here voice to a brighter pitch, and the children gladly took the invitation, now climbing into the chair to hug her, Haliel with some assistance from Linnon who still hovered near.

“Mari,” Beleth called, waving her other sister over. The girl was standing near the entry to the sitting room, looking to her strangely, though upon notice, she flitted away down the hall without a word.

“What's gotten into--” Narbeleth started, looking up to her Mother in confusion.

Meleth leaned near and said quietly, “She fancied she was going to marry Calon.”

“She said she was going to kiss him,” Haliel added from where she had settled on her sister's lap.

“Well...” Narbeleth started, raising an eyebrow as an actual spark of amusement rose through her momentarily. “I hope she forgives me. She might have had a fleeting chance if she were the proper age; he adores music yet... I do not think she'd take fancy to his hunting.”

“Poor girl near melted down when she saw the stag head in my study earlier,” Linnon agreed. “Won't know what to do with that house of yours.”

“You have a house?” Haliel asked suddenly. It seemed strange to think of her sister living away, now that they were all together again. Miriel was grown with a baby and still with them, though she was going to be staying at Uncle Linnon's while she and Faelon and Marileth lived down the road with Mother and their Grandparents, and an Uncle they had not yet met. Faeldor was the oldest of all and still lived with them as well.

“Well we don't live in a camp, of course I do,” Narbeleth answered. “Cal is a good provider, and it's just a perfect house.

“Can we come visit?”

“Of course you can. Though we only have bedroom. You might have to sleep on the bearskin.”

“One bedroom, and a bearskin?” Haliel wondered out loud. Their home in the city had many rooms, and he Uncle Linnon's home was a mansion even compared to that one. Even Gilwen's tiny home they had visited in Minas Tirith had two bedrooms, she could not imagine one smaller.

“And all his hunting trophies on the walls. You should see it, he's the finest hunter in Belfalas, I'm certain of it. Perhaps his Father dwarfs him only for his age, but Calon will be better yet.”

“He's better than me, that's certain Linnon laughed. Though he had always enjoyed the sport, he'd never the time to perfect his skills. “He'll never have an empty table, that's certain.”

“And we have the pups who will want to meet you,” she looked between the children as she said it, then up to her Mother. “And he's putting in a garden in the spring. Cal put a window in the ceiling, Mother. In the ceiling,” she laughed. “Only so we can look out to the stars at night. It's not far from the cliffs and shores at all.” Her mood was warming even as she thought on it, and her mind trailed to the afternoon spent at Cast Faerveren.

Meleth sighed even as her daughter did. It was apparent, though she was speaking on her her home and surroundings, that the light returning to her eye was the same she had those months ago in the garden at their own home. Meleth knew very well that it was the man, not the place, which was bringing her such joy. “He sounds perfect,” the mother noted.

Narbeleth's eyes gleamed. “He is… Faelon, I bet you would like to see his smithy.”

The boy still had a slight frown upon his face, though he had drawn near to his sister. “Well, I don't know if I want to,” he stated grumpily. “Leastways, I'm not sure I want to see his smithy.”

“Whyever not? He makes all sorts of things… swords...” Narbeleth prodded, knowing her little brother's affection for things sharp and shiny. “Spearheads, axeheads, arrowheads, hooks of all sorts.”

A faint brightness shone in Faelon's eyes as she listed through the weaponry.

“You could even apprentice to him someday, and his Father, if you wanted. They'd teach you to make swords, spearheads, arrowheads… anything you can think of with metal,” Narbeleth added.

“Maces?” Faelon asked. “Halberds? War hammers?”

Narbeleth's face contorted at the question as she thought… “Well, I haven't seen him do… those ones yet, but I'm sure he would know how. You'll have to ask him.”

“Could he make a flail and chain?” Faelon asked excitedly. “Does he get to use the weapons he makes?”

“Of course, he has to give them a test,” Narbeleth laughed. Ivren returned with a tray, leaving the soup for her niece and cookies for the children on the side table. She had a cup of milk, pressing it into Narbeleth's hands before moving back to the stairway with Gilwen's cup. It smelled sweet, and Narbeleth sipped it, widening her eyes as she did and looking to her mother. Meleth nodded for her to drink it. It was strong, whatever her Aunt had given her. She had only had wine before, though this was quite good, and she mused that Calon would probably enjoy it as well as she sunk back into the chair. If it were a better day, he would have certainly enjoyed the conversation.

Linnon was having his input now. “Blacksmiths are strong. Stronger than Horse Masters even. And never a lack of work no matter where you live. Of course, if the boy wanted to be a Shipwright, he'd be able to learn under me. Then there are the Swan Knights… like your Grandfather.”

The downstairs conversation wore on between the children and Linnon, and it was not long before Ivren had re-joined them, and all the cousins were sitting about the room as well. Narbeleth had eaten her soup, and settled completely with the heavy wash of brandy in her milk. She laughed with her siblings for a time, though her eyelids soon grew heavy with her weariness and drink. She hardly knew when she had not only slipped from the conversation, but slipped into sleep, and as it seemed with the multitude of guests in the household that all the spare rooms were filled to the brim, Ivren settled her in with pillows and blankets in the chair. Meleth kissed her and took the other children off to bed, though Marileth had already put herself to sleep. The cousins made their own retreat, and Linnon settled down in another chair with his reading for a time, as he had promised Calon he would keep an eye on her.

After some hours, he opened his own eyes at a soft noise, not realizing that he had fallen asleep himself, and noted that Tinuves was in the room, hovering over her granddaughter.

“What are you--” Linnon started, frowning and shaking the sleep from his head as he stood up.

“Just checking on her head,” Tinuves clucked.

“Calon asked not to have you touch her,” Linnon noted.

“The boy doesn't know what he's talking about,” Tinuves retorted.

“He's a good boy,” Linnon said. “I think he does know. And she was just fine before she fell asleep. I've taken a few head knocks myself, I don't think she'll be troubled by it beyond a headache. Aside, Ivren's been in to check already.”

Narbeleth's face scrunched in the firelight and she groaned, shifting on the chair. Linnon frowned, “Out,” he said sternly. “You're disturbing her.”

Tinuves sighed, and fussed with the bandage on her granddaughter's head, though her eyes were taken to the bruise beginning to darken on her cheek.

“I doubt she deserved that,” Linnon grumbled, noting where Tinuves' eyes were roving. “Out.” He took hold of the woman's arm to move her, but Tinuves pulled away, intent on removing herself instead.

“She shouldn't have spoken back to me. You're no better than your brother,” she mumbled. “You think you can do and say whatever you want, take whatever you want, just for your wealth and your Father's position. You shouldn't have let her marry. It was careless.”

“Now this has nothing to do with my family name. It never has… not with me, not with Faelon. And she is not mine to control, nor yours,” Linnon said as he ushered her out into the hall. “If I thought her Mother or Father would have been troubled by it, or if I had not known his family, I would have encouraged them to wait, but as it was… he's a good boy. I've long known Istor, and I've seen him raised. I think it's a good match. He takes care of her.” The last words were light. He'd heard the concern in Calon's voice just this night, and he'd seen them together many times since the boy had come home from Minas Tirith. “If you keep this up, you're going to push her away, just like you did with Meleth and Faelon.”

“That's none of your business,” Tinuves responded quickly. “Faelon's gone, he's not even--”

Linnon's face darkened. “Meleth is still my family. Whether my brother is here or not. So are her children, and her children's chosen spouses. And you for that matter. Go to bed, Tinuves.” The man urged her toward the stairs and Tinuves relented.

The man watched her retreat, then moved back to the sitting room to add wood to the hearth, tuck the blankets back around his niece, and take up the last cookie from the tray before moving back to the chair he was taking watch in, and after at time, drifting back to sleep.

“Calon, son,” Istor sighed. The sky overhead was beginning to turn pink, heralding the fading of the night and the coming of the dawn. It was hours ago his son had come to his home, bolting into the bedroom where he and Arobes had been settling in for the evening. As soon as they saw him, they knew something was terribly wrong, and at first, Istor had been thinking something had happened to Beleth.

As soon as Calon had explained the situation, though, Istor was leaping from the bed to dress, and Arobes was rising as well. Calon had informed Arobes she was not going to search, recounting the power Beregar possessed, but she had assured him she had no intention of doing anything more than heading down to the kitchen to prep a large meal for Beleth’s family that she would have finished by the time Calon was heading back and he could bring it. They should not need to cook, not at a time like this.

Calon did not stop to consider how he would get such a feast to Linnon’s house, merely had agreed and remounted Fundaroch and took off into the city with his father.

They started, of course, with the run-down shack Gilwen had been calling home. The look of horror and disgust on Istor’s face as Calon barged inside and he could see the true meaning behind his son’s earlier words. “They had her living in squalor,” he had said. This was not squalor. This was far below that; unfit even for the orc of the East.

The house, though, was empty. There was not much to search, though they both scoured. “Gilwen said they had tickets for Haradwaith; the ship was leaving in the morning,” Calon had offered as they both made for the front door once more.

“Ships usually don’t let anyone on early—unless they can pay for berthing, maybe,” Istor offered.

“Who knows what he did to get money, but we should check,” Calon declared definitively. And so, they had ridden hard for the Harbormaster’s house.

The Harbormaster had been sleeping, though Calon’s knocking had wakened him easily. It was, likely, not unusual for the man of the docks to be ripped from sleep, and so the man merely carried his candle with a light frown. Seeing Calon and Istor, though, had confused him. The blacksmiths often filled orders for cleats and pulleys that the man needed for his charge, and he knew them by face.

They expressed concern, explaining the situation and only offering enough detail to spur the man to comply. Even a small hint at the detail, though, had robbed the Harbormaster of his color. “But you found Gilwen?” He clarified. The blacksmith and his wife had been looking for her for so long, he had been hopeful they would not find bad news.

“Yes, and now we need to save her mother. Which ship is heading to Haradwaith in the morning?”

“The Erufalas is,” the man muttered, reaching for a cloak by the door. “Come. We’ll do an inspection.”

It had been fruitless. There was naught but the crew aboard, though Calon had decided the captain was little better than the rats they found in Gilwen’s old home. There was something beady about his eyes, about the smirk of his lips that made him appear to be as slick as an eel. He had not trusted the examination of the ship, so twisted were the captain’s expressions. Still, Niniel was nowhere to be found.

Istor and Calon had moved on to the guards, beginning to ask questions, and their task had taken them all about the city before morning. There was nothing; no sign, no word, nor even sight of Niniel or Beregar in Dol Amroth.

“Calon, son,” Istor repeated, the pink rays reaching higher in the sky. “We need to go rest,” he said sadly, and heavily. Calon grimaced.

“I can’t, Father,” he said. “I promised Bel I wouldn’t come back until I had seen her, or scoured every inch of the city.”

“We have,” Istor said with a sigh. “Maybe we should head back to Linnon’s and see if the girl is awake and can think of anywhere—”

“The Healing House!” Calon exclaimed suddenly, shifting Fundaroch and beginning to head the other direction. Istor also turned, though his face furrowed into a frown of confusion.

“If he’s the type of man to treat his family like that, I doubt he’d bring her to—”

“No, Father, he’s asked for an examination this morning. He and Niniel will be there! Come on. We will cut through the wharfs and head toward the Houses,” Calon exclaimed. And they took off.

The Erufalas was pulling from her slip, white sails unfurling into the morning air. It drew Calon’s eye, and the blue seemed icy like winter as he glared toward the docks. Perhaps this was good, though; it meant Beregar and Niniel could not slip away. He would be at the Healing Houses, not aboard the vessel.

Still, the thought did not last long. There, upon the stern of the ship was the beady-eyed captain. He pulled Fundaroch to a halt, though, seeing the tall, towering figure beside him conversing. “No,” he muttered.

Istor pulled up beside him. “What is it?”

“No!” Calon cried again, frustration and agony in his tone. Istor followed his eyes, and saw the man himself, and though he did not recognize him, he seemed to know what it meant.

A woman was pressed forward; she was small, with dark hair and a face that looked like how Calon remembered Gilwen looking in the garden those months ago. “Is that her, then?” Istor asked, voice low and mournful.

“He’s supposed to be checking Gilwen this morning! What in Eru’s name—” Calon could not finish. His heart was beating against his ribs like a battering ram. No. No, he had promised Beleth he would not let Niniel escape from his grasp. He was going to save her, he was going to bring her to the Warden for his wife, and for his wife’s friend.

“I…suppose he decided she wasn’t worth the trouble,” Istor offered tentatively. He felt his own shoulders slump, and shook his head. “I…Calon? Cal?”

Calon had heeled Fundaroch forward, and with fury in the wake of his stallion’s thundering hooves, he took off once more for Linnon’s, Istor opting to trail behind.

--

They took a stop at Istor’s house, gathering the hearty and massive breakfast Arobes had prepared and heading off once more for Linnon’s. The sun was risen by the time Calon and Istor had arrived, and Calon gave a light rap upon the door. Linnon shuffled to the door, unlocking the latch and opening the door for them to enter.

“I’ve got food, compliments of Arobes,” Istor said with a small, tired smile.

“Where’s Bel?” Calon sighed as he walked in. “Did Faeldor leave already?”

“We understand,” Calon assured Linnon as he apologized for the locked entry. It was even more warranted, what with the sick woman in the bed upstairs. Perhaps Calon now knew that Beregar was sailing off from the port as they stood in front of the door, but neither Linnon nor any in his household did.

“Never finer neighbors.”

“We will bring as many meals by as we can while you’re dealing with this,” Istor assured. His own family was smaller now, and when compared to Linnon’s it was miniscule. Arobes, though, had the heart to feed an army if she could find a captain that would let her.

Calon asked hurriedly, “How is she?” He could not save Niniel; he prayed Gilwen was still here, on this side of the hall. If she was, then at least everything was not lost—yet. He cringed, unable to keep his thoughts from wearing upon his face so profound was his exhaustion. His mind wandered on, reminding himself as if in a nagging whisper that even if the young woman had survived the night, it was unlikely she would last much longer.

“Faeldor's upstairs. Ivren had them up an hour or so ago to get Gilwen to drink something. She's made it through the night well enough; the rest did her well. Strong girl.”

Ivren descended the stairs, coming to join them and speaking with hope, though disgust was lingering still at the surface of her words. Calon grimaced, as did his father beside him. Yes, Gilwen was used to deplorable things; they had both seen the state of her hovel, Calon twice in the past day’s time. If he never saw someone else living in conditions like that, it would be too soon yet.

“Come on, Linnon, don't keep them standing here talking. Let's bring this down and let Istor get home. They've not slept a wink! I'll send my thanks to your wife later. When we've gotten things settled I know Meleth will want to come meet her.”

Linnon moved, and Calon nearly shot into the living room, despite his exhaustion. Istor, though, smiled to Ivren. “Arobes will be happy to meet Meleth as well. We’ve heard much about her from that precious girl of hers. Hope she likes venison—we have a lot left; going in a pot this afternoon.” The man was moving down to the kitchen to set down the haul of food his wife had sent along with them.

Calon did not hear a single word from his father’s mouth, and instead was moving with haste further from him. There, upon the chair, was a bundled form. He sighed in relief; as if the man feared somehow his Beleth might not be there.

“Your wife's right where you left her. Had a little… disturbance… in the night but I sent her off. Don't think I've ever seen the girl so tired before. Ivren gave her a fairly heavy drink from the look of it. Been sleeping all night.”

Calon nodded to Linnon, tiredly rubbing a hand over his forehead as if to wake his eyes back up. “Thank you, Linnon—I…I owe you much,” he said lowly. Calon was unsure if he had expected the man to be successful in keeping Beleth’s grandmother from her beside during the night, but he was greatly relieved he had been. Bel was a gem, a bright fire in his world. No woman, regardless of blood, should speak ill of her integrity. They had done nothing wrong.

“I'm awake.”

“Beleth,” Calon sighed. He drank her in; bandage and all, she was the most glorious thing he’d ever seen. So healthy, and bright, quick to heal, and full of energy and song…

The man blinked, fighting off his exhaustion once more. He did not wish to sit down here. The moment he did, he would be asleep, and he wished to bring Beleth to their bed, in their home. Away from Tinuves and her accusing glares. Faeldor and Gilwen would be on their way down soon; perhaps he would help with moving the woman to the horses before going.

“Come here, Cal.”

Beleth reached for him, but he sighed, and leaned to press a kiss to her lips. “If I sit down right now, I won’t be able to get back up,” the man chuckled with exhaustion. “I…scoured every inch of the city,” he sighed as he righted himself, blue eyes morose and pained. “I’ll tell you on the way home. Let me just help Faeldor get Gilwen onto his horse, and we can head home.”

It felt wrong to speak of Niniel here, beneath the room where Gilwen was waiting. She was going to be downstairs any moment, he was certain. Whether Beregar was there to take her or not, Faeldor and she would need head to the Healing Houses.

Calon frowned, looking to the window. The sun was higher than it should have been for them leaving to make it there in time. “Where’s Faeldor? Linnon, is he not on his way out yet?” He asked hurriedly, wheeling to face him with a shade of panic and distrust in his eye.

“I know you did your best.”

Calon’s arms wrapped around the woman with a heavy sigh, though he said nothing, merely kissed the top of her head, wrapping his arms about her as well. Did he do his best? Perhaps he should have barged onto the ship, scoured every inch of the Erufalas and sat upon the deck if they were not there until they had shown their faces. His lip turned downward and he grunted a quiet, “I should have gotten out of here sooner. I should have hauled her out the first time. She—”

He stilled himself. There was nothing for him to do on it now, and he had already promised himself he was not going to utter a single word regarding Niniel near her daughter. Gilwen had enough to mend from as it was. The torture of knowing her mother was gone, and what with her loyalty to that foul beast that was her father, knowing that he left her behind, discarded was likely enough for her to succumb.

Beleth mentioned the cart, and Calon nodded tiredly. “I can hitch it up—you’re right, it would be best.” Still, that would mean Faeldor needed to be heading downstairs. The sun was well past the time in the sky when Faeldor had promised he would bring her before the doctor for the examination that was ordered.

Linnon, though, seemed to misunderstand Calon’s sudden worry and piqued frenzy.

“Son. Now if you want to take her home, you have every right. Don't worry about what he says. I know Faeldor is older than you, and her brother, but don't let him dictate what you're to do. You're your own man. Everyone here knows she's happy with you, and I'll try to talk to him about it when he's feeling a it better. Linnon looked out through the hall to the stairway. “I doubt he'll even trouble you this morn. Ivren said they went back to sleep even before she left the room. Doubt they'll leave at all today. Hard on them both.”

“Confound it,” Calon cursed under his breath at the same time Beleth made a fairer exclamation of the same make. “Her father ordered an examination this morning—he was supposed to have her to the doctor’s!” Calon felt something hot bubbling in his blood, and he turned to watch as Beleth vaulted up the stairs in quick spurts, suddenly alive with the same frantic tumult that Calon himself felt.

He could not understand. Faeldor said he loved the woman, and indeed he had apparently been quite the sour mess about the home and family since losing her. He could read it in the way his family looked at him, the way they sighed, and stole long glances. Still, for all Faeldor’s supposed love, he had not done a single thing since finding her to help him keep her. Perhaps Calon knew Beregar was on his way to golden coast of Haradwaith, but Faeldor certainly did not. “Please tell me they at least made their marriage bed,” he grumbled irritably.

First, Faeldor had all but seemed to want to leave Gilwen with Beregar. If Beleth had not been there, Gilwen, too, would be on her way to foreign lands. Then, it was the almost frantic and dullard refusal of heading straight to get their marriage set. Beregar had been right after them. Any slower, and he would have been able to sweep her away right then. The guards had said that the girl needed to be taken to the Healing Houses for the proper exam, since it was requested by the father. Failure to comply, in the eyes of many, would mean that Gilwen would be automatically handed back over to Beregar.

He sure risked much for someone he claimed to love. “They’re drastically late, I wouldn’t be surprised if—” Calon’s words were interrupted by a firm knock upon the door. “Well, if they came looking.” He finished with a grunt, looking to Linnon once more. “Did Faeldor not even tell someone?”