A Night There Was When Winter Died (Gilwen) {February 3008}

“Of course. Instead of being confined to small circles, the horses are free to take more of a lead on the path.”

Faeldor began to weave words, and Gilwen intently listened. It sounded like riding upon the Pelennor would feel different, sound different, but require the same skills. They must use the same saddle, she reasoned. She had not known of Herion’s horse having separate tack from the corral to the fields. At the mention of Lumiel preferring the soft earth to the stone, though, Gilwen’s brow furrowed in concern and she looked to Faeldor with inquiring eyes.

“She likes it better…does it hurt her to walk inside the city?” The woman’s words were ringed with distress, and she looked to the horse almost apologetically. She wondered if Melda, Herion’s mount from those years ago, had been in pain taking her in slow circles around the corral. The thought was troubling, in part because Gilwen never desired to hurt another soul, and in part because she could not think of a way to fix it. Stone was everywhere; even to get to the plains Lumiel was going to need to navigate all the way down the city!

Faeldor though, was already asking her to follow him to get Lumiel’s tack, and obediently, and like a shadow, the young woman followed behind. A young boy, one who had passed her earlier on her entry to the stables announced he had finished work, and Faeldor immediately dismissed him. The mention of the bakery, though, seemed to shift Faeldor’s thoughts slightly.

“Well, I don't know about you, but I have not had supper. I think the bakery sounds like a nice stop on the way down for us too. Have you had Lady Herthril's cinnamon rolls before? Not to be missed. You'll love them. Come, you can carry the bridles. I'll get Lumiel's saddle first.”

“Oh,” Gilwen started, wringing her coarse hands in front of her apron. She had never had the funds for such indulgences, and she certainly did not have the wage that day. She had skipped meals before; it would be no trouble for her to do so, and she could eat some cheese and bread when she got home once again. “I think Papa has had one.” She did not want to say she were so poor as to never have had something sweet from the bakery, but Gilwen had walked by the baker’s windows countless times, and never once been able to get inside to buy anything. At least for herself. “We can stop for you, though.”

Bridles were handed to her, and Gilwen took them quickly and carefully, keeping her hands from sight and touch. The leather was smooth and fine in feel, and far better quality than the standard issue tack Herion had owned for his Melda. For a moment, Gilwen wondered how fine a wage Faeldor must have kept to afford such beautiful pieces and go to bakeries for cinnamon rolls.

Faeldor reached for the first saddle, working his hands beneath it and hoisting it from its stand with ease, all the while looking over his shoulder to her. “Lumiel will be glad to see this. Watch how her ears perk, the moment she takes a sight of it.”

Indeed, the moment Gilwen rounded the corner, Lumiel peered to her with excitement and interest, ears perked forward and drawing a giggle from Gilwen as she finished crossing.

If she had known Faeldor was going to want to open the door immediately, she would have done so for him. Still, with skill that came from years of service and labor, he lifted a knee and was able to work the stall door open, and bring the saddle inside.

“Do you know how to put the bridle on?”

Gilwen looked to Faeldor around Lumiel’s neck and nodded. “It’s been a long time…but, I think…” She did not know which tack belonged to Lumiel, and which to Thissel, though they seemed the same in design. She set one over the manger for holding and slowly, carefully, approaching Lumiel. She did not think the mare would spook, but she had never tried to put tack upon her before either.

“May I dress you?” She asked the horse, her voice a quiet, gentle hum. She came forward, and Lumiel even lowered her head to make it easier. Over the ears, upon the head, bit in mouth. Buckle…

It was, perhaps, not the most quick of securings, but the woman had managed to get the bridle on at least. “You may want to check it, Master Faeldor,” she said quietly. The last thing she would want to do is do a poor job on something so integral to horsemanship. If it was secured wrong, she might hurt Lumiel with her guidings, and if the stones were already going to be a bother, Gilwen did not wish to do a single thing more to make her miserable.

Lumiel had shoes as she had shoes, so Gilwen understood that the horse was fine to walk upon the cobbles after Faeldor’s explanation. She had, of course, seen horse shoes, though did not realize it was to save their hooves from the very city they lived in. Her own shoes wore out sometimes; she wondered if horses also had need of new shoes from time to time.

“And Lumiel here has a nice life; hardly a work horse. Her life is given to free exploring and leisure riding, save a trip to Lossarnach for the Steward here and there.”

Gilwen gave the horse a gentle smile, and as Lumiel pressed her head forward into the bridle, she whickered a tender sound of her own and touched their foreheads together. Gilwen giggled, nuzzling against the mare the same as Lumiel offered. “That sounds very nice,” Gilwen offered quietly. She herself could have envied the mare if she had cared less for duties and roles. It was her coin, truly, that kept the family fed and housed, and the long hours at the Steward’s palace was so familiar a thing that the woman was unsure what she would do beyond such duties. Her mother did not bring in much by way of wage, and her father’s was his to spend as he saw fit.

Faeldor’s eyes were sparkling as he moved to ready the horse for the ride, and Gilwen did not miss the laughing light they carried at her words. Her cheeks flushed brightly, though she said nothing. It was, perhaps, why she spoke so rarely. Or, at least in part. Her father explained that many thought the folk who lived upon the first tier were fools, and uttering nonsense was going to do nothing to help her. Gilwen wondered if asking a horse to be dressed counted as nonsense.

As if sensing her sudden anxiety, Lumiel reached her muzzle forward, nose blowing a warm whicker against Gilwen’s face. “There,” the girl giggled. “All done.”

“Oh no. I am no Master to you. Just Faeldor.”

“Oh,” Gilwen stammered. She did not understand. “No, it’s all right. You’re my better. I called Master Faelon the same.” Gilwen was, of course, happy to help him take his horses out. Perhaps a part of her was even pleased this assignment was going to allow her leave to see the plains beyond the walls, but the young woman was aware that in the hierarchy of the Steward’s halls, she ranked perhaps only a little above the youngest stablehands.

“If it has been a long time, I see you remember well. Lumiel will be glad to go… look at her muscles twitching under her skin. She knows she's going to get a good ride today, I can tell. And I am going to be glad for the company.”

She could see the muscle twitches as Faeldor pointed them out. Gilwen had not known that such was indication of anticipation, and for a moment, the young woman marveled at it. Horses had always seemed intelligent in the eye, at least to Gilwen. Though her father had said they were but dumb beasts yet. Perhaps, though, if Lumiel knew what the bridle meant for her, Beregar was wrong. While she mused she could not tell her father what she had learned—he would have been cross to know she dawdled in the stables rather than helping keep the household running—her mother might quite like to know. She, too, held a fond eye for the creatures when they passed them in the market.

Faeldor was, it seemed, even more talkative than Gilwen could remember Faelon being. Weaving in and out of thoughts with ceaseless energy, rambling to fill the quiet…

It was not that Gilwen minded; in fact, she was quite content to sit in silence and let him carry the weight of conversation wherever he deemed fit. Gilwen was good at listening. It did appear he thought their level of work similar, though Gilwen could not fathom such a statement. She knew the stable master often was called to speak with the Steward, or the Captains, consulted on matters of import for the horses, and the stable. If they ever spoke to Gilwen, it would have been indication that she had done something wrong. She was not to be seen, and not to be spoken to. She was there to work, like a shadow in their gilded hall.

Suddenly, Faeldor interrupted himself. “Do we need to stop and fetch your cloak somewhere? I suppose you left it in the Palace. I've been in trouble myself a time or two, going to visit my Mother up in the bakery and trekking with some hay and dust on my cloak. I know the Mistress there does not like it.”

She had indeed left her cloak, worn as it was, in the servant’s closet. Gilwen had fully intended on picking it up after the horses had been visited in earnest, so as to not dirty its hem and so give way the leisurely time she had passed in the stalls. “I can get it,” Gilwen assured him. He though did not seem to hear.

“Though if we want to save time, and you do not mind, Beleth… she's my sister… she always has one or two hanging back in my quarters. Brings her things down here and forgets them once she gets inside. Fire blooded, we call her.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Gilwen assured. She did not want to be trouble, and she did not know if this Beleth would even wish for her to borrow her things. “I can just run back and—”

Faeldor, though, seemingly already made up his mind.

It was not long before he had fetched Thissel’s saddle as well, and was asking Gilwen to follow him down the hall. “They're all ready; now for us. Come. Let us go fetch something warm to wear; the air will be freezing the moment the sun has set, and I shall show you on the map where we will ride.”

Freezing? Well, Gilwen supposed she had not been out long past sundown before, save for the times when work at the Hall required extra shift work. Before festivals and balls, important meetings with lords of the land. Gilwen was never certain the cause, though was certainly keen on the hours spent tidying. It was the topic of the map, though, that had her gasping, near skipping after him down the hall.

“You have a map, Master Faeldor?” She asked quietly. Only the very rich had access to such a thing. Maps were hard to make, and took many hours of work. Or, so she was told when the mistress said only she and her second would take cleaning shifts in the record room at the palace. If something ruined, it would be more than their lifetime salary’s worth of pay to replace it, and would automatically lose the women their job. “I promise, I won’t get too close.” She was a very tidy person, and she would not touch it save with her eyes. Truthfully, she was not sure what she was expecting to see, for the woman had never learned to read herself. Still, she knew that maps had pictures also, and perhaps she could see what the world looked like, and how large it was beyond her home.

Once more, Faeldor assured Gilwen that he was not her better. He spoke so earnestly, and with such consideration in his eyes she felt as if he was indeed weighing her inner worth. She flushed faintly, as she had already done many times before, this time dropping her eyes away from his that he might not witness it. Or at least she would not know if he had.

“Just… Faeldor. I am calling you Gilwen, am I not? Call me by my name. I work here and you work there, but neither of us are working now. We need not procedural titles for an outing together.”

Perhaps he intended the duties to be filled in a casual way. Gilwen was unsure of how to do that; long had she been a silent fixture to the halls, bound nearly in chains by rigidity and decorum. Still, he was calling her Gilwen…though, her Mistress did as well. He caught her elbow at the doorway, and the little woman stilled and lifted her eyes to him in surprise. It seemed to be what he desired, for silver pools of light and joy were looking back upon her. For a moment, her heart fluttered.

“I would not have you act as my servant. You are to be my lovely riding partner this eve. Let us be as equals to one another.”

“All right…Faeldor,” the woman mumbled quickly with a quick curtsy. While truly the woman had not intended to offer such a show physically, it came at second nature. Faeldor moved toward on, and the woman gasped in delight.

The map.

Gilwen nearly danced over the floor, keeping her feet a fair distance away and leaning slightly for better view with her dark hair spilling over her shoulder. Her eyes were dancing in the lantern light of the chamber, and Faeldor nearly presented a map of tan and brown for her inspection.

“Here now, a map of the Pelennor.”

“It’s amazing,” the young woman gasped. This was just the Pelennor? The map was a fair size, and she could see many sorts of marks upon its face that she could not quite understand. When Faeldor pointed to the small blotch of ink that was meant to be the very city they stood in she gasped. “That’s Minas Tirith?” She marveled. Faeldor’s finger next trailed along the Rammas Echor, marking the perimeter of the Pelennor itself. There was much beyond, little bundles of circles, veins of something winding through the rest of the plain. “The world is…so big!” She trilled excitedly in giggles. “The city is so small…”

A hand came to her back, a gentle press bringing her forward. A sound like a small squeak slipped from her as her feet shuffled forward, and she hurriedly looked to Faeldor in apology. She knew she should not be that close; maps were delicate.

“Come now, you can stand closer, darling.”

“Oh, no,” Gilwen murmured lowly, innocence in every word she formed. Indeed her eyes looked not cross, but apologetic. She knew she was hard to remember; indeed many forgot her that she met. “My name is Gilwen.” Not Darling. Whoever that was, though, was clearly trusted with maps.

Faeldor drew a line over the map, showing her where they were themselves soon to ride. It seemed no great distance from the way his fingertip trailed the parchment, though Gilwen wondered if such a path would feel grander upon the ride. Indeed the city was hardly a blotch of ink upon the map, and Gilwen walked Minas Tirith enough to know that she was indeed living in a large, grand city.

“Does that sound a nice route to you?”

“Oh,” Gilwen stammered, surprised of the sudden turn of question. It was not often people cared what she thought. In fact, Gilwen rarely formed opinions at all. “Anything will be perfect!” She was going to love, she hoped, every moment of being out of the city. Where they went was of little consequence. Though, she could not tell based on the drawings on the map where the cave trolls or orc lived. Perhaps that was what those circles were.

“Master Faeldor?” She asked. Now that she had been removed from the request a few moments to call him by his name alone, she slipped once more to what was familiar. “These circles,” she asked, pointing to the clumps of small shapes, sure to keep her finger far away from the ink. She did not long want her finger examined either, so she quickly pulled her hand away once more. “Are….are those the orc?” Papa had said that orc were rampant outside the city. It would stand to reason their locations were recorded. Though, why any were able to live within the Rammas Echor was a mystery. The Steward’s men were easily dispatched there.

Something heavy was placed upon her shoulders and the woman startled. Something deep blue wrapped around her shoulders, a fabric so heavy and thick the heat of the stables immediately was trapped within the fabric. Her wide eyes looked up to Faeldor, whose eyes were beaming and bright. His fingers worked to fasten the cloak chain.

“This should do. Are you ready for our adventure? The Pelennor waits.”

She had never worn anything so rich in her life, and the woman balked. “I don’t think this should be taken outside the city,” she said sheepishly. It was too fine a garment. “I can run and grab my own…” Hers was nicked and frayed, stained at the hem beyond repair of lye or wash. That one could traverse the Outside far better than this should. She wondered if Faeldor perhaps did not know how often women liked their clothes to be intact.

Once she had her own, though, she would be ready. Her curiosity was singing to her, and for the first time in many years Gilwen felt as if there were excitement to be had. “I’ll be quick,” she promised. “I’m ready otherwise!”

Faeldor was waiting on her, too. Not just the Pelennor. And Lumiel. And Thissel.

“Just Fael.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to fail…oh.” It took a moment for Gilwen’s mind to catch up to what the man had said. Her pale cheek flooded red, and she dropped her eyes in embarrassment. She had done it again; made a fool of herself. And on top of that, she slipped once more to speech that the stable master had requested she stop. “I’m sorry. I’ll…get it soon.”

Why he did not wish for his title, though, she did not understand. She knew he worked hard to keep it. Was it offensive to hear from her lips? Perhaps she said it strangely. He seemed to have a different lilt to his voice, something…less harsh. So had Master Faelon. Perhaps Faeldor, too, had been born outside of Minas Tirith.

“And no... those are not orc, well, they are not marked upon the map. They move... but not with the Rammas Echor. They cannot breech the great walls. See, here beyond the wall, beyond Osgiliath, and the Anduin; that is where they bring troubles upon us. In the forests of Ithilien. Not within the safety of the Pelennor. There are homes and farmsteads scattered about. We'll pass some on the road, with candles burning in the windows. They are safe every night upon the plain, as we will be. Those circles show where there are a cluster of trees. We will pass through these ones.”

Gilwen’s brown eyes slid back to the map as Faeldor began to speak of it once more. The orc, it seemed, were too mobile to be on the map. Perhaps it made sense. She was not on the map herself, and orc were creatures of similar size. Or, so her father said. She had not seen on in person, and the young woman was thankful her father was willing to go fight, pressing her to stay safe inside the city.

Likely, that meant trolls were not marked either.

Troubled, Gilwen frowned faintly.

Trees? “Are there…that many?” She gasped. Faeldor had said they were going to pass through one of the clusters, and her heart sped ahead in wonderment. If there were that many, she was soon going to see them. She tried to imagine the small White Tree, though with enough brothers and sisters that the whole family could be marked on the map. Once more she looked to the small blotch that was the city, noting the absence of the tree indicator in the center of the many circles. Perhaps there weren’t enough to note in the city. She tried to wonder what tree families looked like. Clearly, they were bigger than hers.

She was ready to see them, though. As soon as she could get her cloak. Faeldor, though did not want to let her do such a thing.

“Do not trouble yourself over it, it will suit the task at hand just perfectly. My sister has worn that out and about many times. Outside the city, on the horse; to the very place we are going to ride tonight I am sure. I wish you to be warm and comfortable.”

She had a hard time imagining that this was a cloak for every day things. This was a beautiful fabric, heavy and rich. The clasp itself was worth more than her own tired clothing, she was certain. Still, it did not seem he was going to allow her a chance to protest. Gilwen, though, heard something else in the statement, threaded in between the excitement. She paused. “Where is it we’re going?” She asked. She glanced back to the map, even as they began to turn and head for the door to the quarters. “Is it to the tree family?”