Thrill and Thrall {Narbeleth, Calon, Gilwen} [March 3010]
Feb 19, 2018 23:50:34 GMT -5
Post by Faeldor on Feb 19, 2018 23:50:34 GMT -5
Tinuves had wandered from her bedroom at the sound of the commotion in the hall once again, fearing that Gilwen had taken a turn during the night, her eyes were panicked and she gripped at her robe, though stopped in her tracks the moment she saw Calon making way up the stairwell, and Narbeleth exit the bedroom.
“He’s lucky, then, that I saw Beregar and Niniel leave port this morning... Excuse me, Bel. The guards are here. If she is dressed, we must go. You’ve kept them waiting long enough.”
“Leaving port...” Narbeleth whispered, her face falling. That meant that Niniel was indeed out of their reach. With no legal way to get the woman from Beregar, even a chase by sea would not be enough. The moment they set foot on land again, he would simply demand her back.
Where Narbeleth's expression had saddened, Tinuves' had darkened in anger. “You let him take her?” she snipped behind the man. She cared not that the metal clad guards were standing present.
“He didn't let him,” Narbeleth bit right back to her Grandmother. Though she knew not of what had happened upon the docks, Calon very well would never let a man foul as Beregar do anything on his watch, had he been given some alternative to stop him.
---
“Sweetheart,” Faeldor hummed, frowning. She understood nothing. She was a child in a woman's body; or perhaps… not even a woman's body. Her form was so shrunken. What could he do? There was nothing he could do, but appeal to the guards, appeal to the Healer who was to give the examination. He could do nothing to harm her further.
It was then that Calon had called into the bedroom to hurry them along.
“Starlight, you are not bad. You're good. My wife… my good wife. All right… I'm going to get this dress on you,” he hummed, trying to keep the anguish of his voice diminished. If the guards would not agree with his plea, if the healers did not… he could not lose her to the man. He'd let Beregar kill him before he took Gilwen from him. She would not make it; she'd die.
Faeldor could not imagine the Prince's Guard to be so heartless as to let Beregar lay hands upon her again; not in her state. And there were other witnesses to speak for them as well; they'd seen the squalor of her home, the disturbing state she had been found in. Narbeleth. Calon. Faeldor almost groaned as he thought about his sister and his… his brother-in-law, he supposed… those who had only the day previous banished him from their home. Now he owed them, Calon especially, for holding Beregar off long enough to get her away.
“I'm just getting… my wife dressed,” Faeldor called back toward the doorway.
He looked to the dress Narbeleth had handed him, and started to set Gilwen up and pull it over her nightgown. Even the dresses his Mother had stitched to fit her small form back in Minas Tirith were too large for her now, and it hung loose about her frame. The man tried his best to recall where the worst of the lashings had been upon her back; where the Doctor had needed to remove the skin entirely, and refrain from touching her there, though some of it could not be helped. Still, he marveled at the way Gilwen did not even squeak under his ministrations. Either her tolerance for the pain was great, or her need to remain silent was so beaten into her, she would not make reference to it.
The doctor would be there certainly. Ladrengilon. He had said he needed work in the morning. Had he known of the examination? No… he could not have known, he had ridden out so quickly.
“All right. I am going to try to be gentle.” The man swallowed hard. He did not wish to lift her from the pillow of a bed. He wished to keep the curtains drawn, the room dark, let her rest in silence, in his arms. Faeldor did not wish to draw Gilwen back to the busy city streets, yet he had to do so. If the guards were waiting.
“Beleth!” he called through the closed doorway. Calon had been the last to call in but he was not certain he could even find a way to say the man's name, nor address him in his state that placed the man somewhere between deserving his extreme gratitude for helping to deliver Gilwen from Beregar's bondage, and extreme disgust for taking and defiling his little sister in the manner he had. “Open the door for me, will you?”
The covers were already drawn back, and Faeldor bent to lift and cradle Gilwen in his arms, the door already being pushed open by Narbeleth. She was light as gossamer.
“Should we… let Calon carry her?” Narbeleth asked, looking between Faeldor, her husband, and the guards.
“I'm not as weak as that,” Faeldor snapped back to her, and Narbeleth frowned.
“No,” he stated, almost too forcefully. “She needs quiet, not a commotion,” Faeldor added afterward. In truth, Narbeleth's presence may have settled Gilwen; she had spoken for months on wishing to see her friend, yet still Faeldor did not wish his sister present. Only for the sake of if he needed to fight Beregar again, he did not wish her present to see his own death, or to try and intervene on his behalf.
Grey eyes met grey eyes, and where Narbeleth's hardened, Faeldor's softened, though he turned from her, his face set, and began to descend the stairs.
Narbeleth took a deep breath and stood back as the guards began to follow Faeldor down the stairway, one still waiting at the base of the stairs.
“Oh, the carriage!” Narbeleth suddenly remembered starting forward. “Take Uncle's carriage!” she called after her brother as she watched him descend, then gave her Uncle Linnon who was standing nearby an anxious look.
Linnon did not mind the suggestion, however, and patted his niece on the shoulder before following the silverclad guards and Faeldor down the stairwell. “I'll hitch it,” he offered. “I'll help get you to the city and back.”
The guards seemed to agree with the idea of a carriage, for the waif of a girl who had been brought forth from the bedroom seemed in no state to ride horseback, and it was swiftly that Linnon with the help of the men, had drawn out his horses and his smaller carriage and the procession had set themselves bound once more through the Lands of the Prince toward Dol Amroth, and the Healing Houses of of white stone.
“He’s lucky, then, that I saw Beregar and Niniel leave port this morning... Excuse me, Bel. The guards are here. If she is dressed, we must go. You’ve kept them waiting long enough.”
“Leaving port...” Narbeleth whispered, her face falling. That meant that Niniel was indeed out of their reach. With no legal way to get the woman from Beregar, even a chase by sea would not be enough. The moment they set foot on land again, he would simply demand her back.
Where Narbeleth's expression had saddened, Tinuves' had darkened in anger. “You let him take her?” she snipped behind the man. She cared not that the metal clad guards were standing present.
“He didn't let him,” Narbeleth bit right back to her Grandmother. Though she knew not of what had happened upon the docks, Calon very well would never let a man foul as Beregar do anything on his watch, had he been given some alternative to stop him.
---
“Sweetheart,” Faeldor hummed, frowning. She understood nothing. She was a child in a woman's body; or perhaps… not even a woman's body. Her form was so shrunken. What could he do? There was nothing he could do, but appeal to the guards, appeal to the Healer who was to give the examination. He could do nothing to harm her further.
It was then that Calon had called into the bedroom to hurry them along.
“Starlight, you are not bad. You're good. My wife… my good wife. All right… I'm going to get this dress on you,” he hummed, trying to keep the anguish of his voice diminished. If the guards would not agree with his plea, if the healers did not… he could not lose her to the man. He'd let Beregar kill him before he took Gilwen from him. She would not make it; she'd die.
Faeldor could not imagine the Prince's Guard to be so heartless as to let Beregar lay hands upon her again; not in her state. And there were other witnesses to speak for them as well; they'd seen the squalor of her home, the disturbing state she had been found in. Narbeleth. Calon. Faeldor almost groaned as he thought about his sister and his… his brother-in-law, he supposed… those who had only the day previous banished him from their home. Now he owed them, Calon especially, for holding Beregar off long enough to get her away.
“I'm just getting… my wife dressed,” Faeldor called back toward the doorway.
He looked to the dress Narbeleth had handed him, and started to set Gilwen up and pull it over her nightgown. Even the dresses his Mother had stitched to fit her small form back in Minas Tirith were too large for her now, and it hung loose about her frame. The man tried his best to recall where the worst of the lashings had been upon her back; where the Doctor had needed to remove the skin entirely, and refrain from touching her there, though some of it could not be helped. Still, he marveled at the way Gilwen did not even squeak under his ministrations. Either her tolerance for the pain was great, or her need to remain silent was so beaten into her, she would not make reference to it.
The doctor would be there certainly. Ladrengilon. He had said he needed work in the morning. Had he known of the examination? No… he could not have known, he had ridden out so quickly.
“All right. I am going to try to be gentle.” The man swallowed hard. He did not wish to lift her from the pillow of a bed. He wished to keep the curtains drawn, the room dark, let her rest in silence, in his arms. Faeldor did not wish to draw Gilwen back to the busy city streets, yet he had to do so. If the guards were waiting.
“Beleth!” he called through the closed doorway. Calon had been the last to call in but he was not certain he could even find a way to say the man's name, nor address him in his state that placed the man somewhere between deserving his extreme gratitude for helping to deliver Gilwen from Beregar's bondage, and extreme disgust for taking and defiling his little sister in the manner he had. “Open the door for me, will you?”
The covers were already drawn back, and Faeldor bent to lift and cradle Gilwen in his arms, the door already being pushed open by Narbeleth. She was light as gossamer.
“Should we… let Calon carry her?” Narbeleth asked, looking between Faeldor, her husband, and the guards.
“I'm not as weak as that,” Faeldor snapped back to her, and Narbeleth frowned.
“No,” he stated, almost too forcefully. “She needs quiet, not a commotion,” Faeldor added afterward. In truth, Narbeleth's presence may have settled Gilwen; she had spoken for months on wishing to see her friend, yet still Faeldor did not wish his sister present. Only for the sake of if he needed to fight Beregar again, he did not wish her present to see his own death, or to try and intervene on his behalf.
Grey eyes met grey eyes, and where Narbeleth's hardened, Faeldor's softened, though he turned from her, his face set, and began to descend the stairs.
Narbeleth took a deep breath and stood back as the guards began to follow Faeldor down the stairway, one still waiting at the base of the stairs.
“Oh, the carriage!” Narbeleth suddenly remembered starting forward. “Take Uncle's carriage!” she called after her brother as she watched him descend, then gave her Uncle Linnon who was standing nearby an anxious look.
Linnon did not mind the suggestion, however, and patted his niece on the shoulder before following the silverclad guards and Faeldor down the stairwell. “I'll hitch it,” he offered. “I'll help get you to the city and back.”
The guards seemed to agree with the idea of a carriage, for the waif of a girl who had been brought forth from the bedroom seemed in no state to ride horseback, and it was swiftly that Linnon with the help of the men, had drawn out his horses and his smaller carriage and the procession had set themselves bound once more through the Lands of the Prince toward Dol Amroth, and the Healing Houses of of white stone.
