Boyish Play [June 3006] [Finlach]
Mar 17, 2018 13:56:18 GMT -5
Post by Narbeleth on Mar 17, 2018 13:56:18 GMT -5
Miriel had called her shameful. It was enough to make Narbeleth depart the house without even changing from her jerkin and breeches. Her elder brother had taken her to ride upon the Pelennor for a short time that morning and she had only just returned.
Her riding habit was boyish in cut; similar to what Faeldor wore to work among the stables, though wearing breeches instead of dress sent her elder sister into a frenzy. She wished not to be seen with the girl, and Narbeleth had snipped back that perhaps nobody would even notice she was in fact a girl. She could be looked to, mayhaps, as Miriel's younger brother, if her sister wished it. She had even suggested changing her name.
Narunir, Naruchon, Nargothrond… What did it matter?
It was perhaps the perhaps a small trace of vanity that had sent Narbeleth into her mood. She was already fifteen years old; though being a Belfalathrim descent, blood of the Numenoreans, she looked a shade younger than most of the girls her age in the city. Stick thin, she had not yet begun to fill out in the least. What was worse… the episode of the week previous, when she had been dancing and singing in the kitchen while they were baking. Well, perhaps that was the most shameful of all.
She had been dreadfully clumsy, drawing too near the open oven door while loading the trays. A flame licked her black hair which had come unbound. It was only her mother's quick thinking at dumping the washbasin over her head that had not disfigured the girl entirely. Of course, her hair was a loss. It had been charred all about, and Mother had needed cut it so short to make it even again. It did look a boy's cut. Miriel was right. She did not look feminine in the least.
Flat chested as a boy and gangly limbed, short hair as a boy, and even dressed as such, Narbeleth had set back to the street, ignoring Miriel raging after her in the doorway.
“Call me Narunir, sister! Brother dearest will be out of your hair soon,” she larked back, waving.
Miriel raged further, though did nothing of the sort and stormed back into the house. There was no way in all of Arda that she would have trailed her younger sister outside behaving as badly as she was.
Young Narbeleth was light of foot. It took a great deal of perseverance to not skip as she walked, though she was fast paced as any youth, and was laughing to herself as she went, though trying to still the lyrical sound. She hummed to herself, instead of her usual singing.
What would it have been to be born a boy anyway? Boys got to do all the things girls could not. Her brother had worked in the stables since he was her age, taking care with the horses all day long, working his way up to a fine position. The Stable Master. It was, for someone who enjoyed horses as much as she did, the fairest position in the city for such a hobby. Every horsemen in the Calvary or otherwise knew Faeldor's name, and knew how he was able to work with the Steward's own horses, day in and day out with the gentle beasts.
Narbeleth's options were much shorter. Mother was a cook. Grandmother a midwife. Seeing to babies was more exciting than seeing to meals, so she had taken after her Grandmother. At least she was able to walk about all over the city while apprenticed to her. It gave her chance to talk to people, and meet people. The blood did not bother her. She had seen mares giving birth long before women.
She looked down upon herself, smoothing the jerkin over her straight figure. Her sister was only a few years older, and looked like a woman already. Her friends as well. She shook her head, feeling the tendrils of black hair trimmed short around her ears. She could easily pass for a boy.
If she could not, for sake of being a girl, act in a way that was pleasing to her sister, it might be fun to play.
Wondering if she could pull it off, Narbeleth voiced the name aloud. “Narunir,” she hummed. Her voice was pitched too high. She was a fine singer and had good control of it, and so she dropped the sound a few keys. “Narunir,” she repeated, then giggled, then covered her mouth.
It was only a game of course. A game for a day like today, to make her feel better. Miriel always said she was growing far too old for games, but Narbeleth thought it could never be the case. If Miriel would not play her games, she could find someone else to do so. Someone she had not yet met.
Narbeleth had wound through the city streets, eyeing the shops, deciding carefully of which she had never entered with her family. Eventually, settling on the glazier. She'd never taken need to buy a pot before, and she did have a little coin in her pocket. Perhaps she could search out a vase to gift her Mother. In thanks for at least saving her face from burn the week previous.
She tried to set her face to stern; the way so many of the young men in the city walked about. She tried to temper the gait of her walk, making to more of swagger than a skip. Her voice would be the dead giveaway, if she lost focus. She spoke and larked in near song most of the day. Perhaps she should play the strong and silent type, and grumble a bit. Though even so, she looked a boy and not a man. Would it sound off kilter to have a boy grumbling? Perhaps not.
As she entered the shop, eyes quite in wonder with life tried their best to not look so awestruck at the creations before them, the shining, colored glass. As boyish as she looked, she had never been able to avoid looking upon something beautiful, and it was with greatest temperance that she cleared her throat, deeply as she might, and trying not to let the corner of her lilting smile show through, she stated firmly to the shopkeep, “Good afternoon, sir.”
Her riding habit was boyish in cut; similar to what Faeldor wore to work among the stables, though wearing breeches instead of dress sent her elder sister into a frenzy. She wished not to be seen with the girl, and Narbeleth had snipped back that perhaps nobody would even notice she was in fact a girl. She could be looked to, mayhaps, as Miriel's younger brother, if her sister wished it. She had even suggested changing her name.
Narunir, Naruchon, Nargothrond… What did it matter?
It was perhaps the perhaps a small trace of vanity that had sent Narbeleth into her mood. She was already fifteen years old; though being a Belfalathrim descent, blood of the Numenoreans, she looked a shade younger than most of the girls her age in the city. Stick thin, she had not yet begun to fill out in the least. What was worse… the episode of the week previous, when she had been dancing and singing in the kitchen while they were baking. Well, perhaps that was the most shameful of all.
She had been dreadfully clumsy, drawing too near the open oven door while loading the trays. A flame licked her black hair which had come unbound. It was only her mother's quick thinking at dumping the washbasin over her head that had not disfigured the girl entirely. Of course, her hair was a loss. It had been charred all about, and Mother had needed cut it so short to make it even again. It did look a boy's cut. Miriel was right. She did not look feminine in the least.
Flat chested as a boy and gangly limbed, short hair as a boy, and even dressed as such, Narbeleth had set back to the street, ignoring Miriel raging after her in the doorway.
“Call me Narunir, sister! Brother dearest will be out of your hair soon,” she larked back, waving.
Miriel raged further, though did nothing of the sort and stormed back into the house. There was no way in all of Arda that she would have trailed her younger sister outside behaving as badly as she was.
Young Narbeleth was light of foot. It took a great deal of perseverance to not skip as she walked, though she was fast paced as any youth, and was laughing to herself as she went, though trying to still the lyrical sound. She hummed to herself, instead of her usual singing.
What would it have been to be born a boy anyway? Boys got to do all the things girls could not. Her brother had worked in the stables since he was her age, taking care with the horses all day long, working his way up to a fine position. The Stable Master. It was, for someone who enjoyed horses as much as she did, the fairest position in the city for such a hobby. Every horsemen in the Calvary or otherwise knew Faeldor's name, and knew how he was able to work with the Steward's own horses, day in and day out with the gentle beasts.
Narbeleth's options were much shorter. Mother was a cook. Grandmother a midwife. Seeing to babies was more exciting than seeing to meals, so she had taken after her Grandmother. At least she was able to walk about all over the city while apprenticed to her. It gave her chance to talk to people, and meet people. The blood did not bother her. She had seen mares giving birth long before women.
She looked down upon herself, smoothing the jerkin over her straight figure. Her sister was only a few years older, and looked like a woman already. Her friends as well. She shook her head, feeling the tendrils of black hair trimmed short around her ears. She could easily pass for a boy.
If she could not, for sake of being a girl, act in a way that was pleasing to her sister, it might be fun to play.
Wondering if she could pull it off, Narbeleth voiced the name aloud. “Narunir,” she hummed. Her voice was pitched too high. She was a fine singer and had good control of it, and so she dropped the sound a few keys. “Narunir,” she repeated, then giggled, then covered her mouth.
It was only a game of course. A game for a day like today, to make her feel better. Miriel always said she was growing far too old for games, but Narbeleth thought it could never be the case. If Miriel would not play her games, she could find someone else to do so. Someone she had not yet met.
Narbeleth had wound through the city streets, eyeing the shops, deciding carefully of which she had never entered with her family. Eventually, settling on the glazier. She'd never taken need to buy a pot before, and she did have a little coin in her pocket. Perhaps she could search out a vase to gift her Mother. In thanks for at least saving her face from burn the week previous.
She tried to set her face to stern; the way so many of the young men in the city walked about. She tried to temper the gait of her walk, making to more of swagger than a skip. Her voice would be the dead giveaway, if she lost focus. She spoke and larked in near song most of the day. Perhaps she should play the strong and silent type, and grumble a bit. Though even so, she looked a boy and not a man. Would it sound off kilter to have a boy grumbling? Perhaps not.
As she entered the shop, eyes quite in wonder with life tried their best to not look so awestruck at the creations before them, the shining, colored glass. As boyish as she looked, she had never been able to avoid looking upon something beautiful, and it was with greatest temperance that she cleared her throat, deeply as she might, and trying not to let the corner of her lilting smile show through, she stated firmly to the shopkeep, “Good afternoon, sir.”
