Buckets and Babbles (June 3010) [Orodreth]
Mar 18, 2018 14:46:11 GMT -5
Post by Miriel on Mar 18, 2018 14:46:11 GMT -5
It was near the end of the day. The previous innkeepers had managed to keep the Edhellond Road Inn afloat, but they were older in age. Things were not quite up to the standards that her brother had wished when he had come for his first visit. His wife was undoubtedly ill, and for that sake the old innkeeper had extended their stay to the first of June, while Gilwen was cared for daily at the home of her Uncle Linnon, while Faeldor came day by day once his wife's health had improved enough that he would leave her bedside, to begin fixing things up.
The doctor had finally made allowance for Gilwen move about more, for them to take up their place as the innkeepers, and he had spent several days doing just that with the help of his Uncle. Faeldor himself outside was working upon the roof of the stables, content as any man who now had a roof to call his own and no longer needed to depend on the hospitality of his family. She could hear him outside, hammering away, singing as he went. It was good to hear him sing again.
She knew Mother was doing heavy work in the kitchen, cleaning out the old ovens, scrubbing everything she could reach, and making the place her own. Meleth had been one of the finest bakers in Minas Tirith; her foods placed before the Steward on a daily basis. If anyone was going to draw attention to this old inn again, it would be Mother and her cooking. Meleth's own song drifted down the hall from the far end of the inn which was the kitchens.
Meleth was keeping Gilwen preoccupied in the kitchen, probably seated at the table to chop vegetables for the evening meal. Her sister-in-law, as she had come to be, was not well enough to tend to the housekeeping work yet as she would have wished, and though Miriel did not favor manual labor, and never had, she felt it her place to step in. It was, afterall, entirely her fault that Gilwen had become so ill and suffered such trauma. If she would not have sent her away on the day she had come seeking help… Miriel could feel a veil of suffocation come to her throat at the thought, and she worked while frowning. She blamed herself for the whole of it. She had nearly died.
Today she was washing down the walls, taking down the dusty curtains and tossing them into a pile at the end of the hall, dusting the furniture. The place was not entirely in disrepair, nor was it filthy, but it was not ready for the influx of guests that the summer weather would bring out as people took their excusions to the seaside, and one could tell that it had been an old lady with a sore back who had been caring to the housekeeping, quite unable to keep up with it all.
Near all the windows of the inn were cast wide open to the breeze letting out the air that had built over time. Miriel could smell the sea breeze. It send a vigor flowing through her veins that she could not compare to anything she had felt while living within the White City. There was some peace to their new homeland, and though the breeze filled her lungs it did not set her to singing as it did with her family. Miriel did not sing any more. Only in lullabies to her daughter as she drifted to sleep.
She carried Melian from room to room as she went, each time settling the baby down on the floor on her little blanket, a toy in hand. The little one was five months old, and very active. Melian would gurgle and coo, and roll and crawl. It was more than once that Miriel would turn about to find the child not where she had been left, but beneath a bed, stuffing dust bunnies into her mouth, laughing and gurgling.
Miriel sighed, crawling down onto hands and knees herself, and pulling the little child out. Melian grabbed at her Mother's nose, leaning forward and opening mouth wide to try and suck at it. “Hmm… I know you'll be hungry soon,” she hummed to the little one. “But a single room left, and then we shall be done for the day. Tomorrow we shall wash all the floors.” The thought was droll. Her hands in a scrub bucket all the day was perhaps just what she had deserved though.
Her brother had given her instruction quickly for the room nearest the front doors to the inn last. That was, what she had been told, where the night watchman lived. He would often sleep at times during day but he should be rising by the time evening was drawing on, and though the room was occupied, Faeldor had asked her to attend to it as well.
Miriel moved her buckets and rags outside the room, then trailed back to the last, to fetch the black haired babe who was crawling again under bed. The plump child in arm, Miriel listened at the doorway for a moment and then gave knock.
“Master Orodreth,” she called through the heavy wooden door, knowing the name the man bore, yet nothing else about him, and she hoped he was awake. “My brother has sent me to tend to your room.”
The doctor had finally made allowance for Gilwen move about more, for them to take up their place as the innkeepers, and he had spent several days doing just that with the help of his Uncle. Faeldor himself outside was working upon the roof of the stables, content as any man who now had a roof to call his own and no longer needed to depend on the hospitality of his family. She could hear him outside, hammering away, singing as he went. It was good to hear him sing again.
She knew Mother was doing heavy work in the kitchen, cleaning out the old ovens, scrubbing everything she could reach, and making the place her own. Meleth had been one of the finest bakers in Minas Tirith; her foods placed before the Steward on a daily basis. If anyone was going to draw attention to this old inn again, it would be Mother and her cooking. Meleth's own song drifted down the hall from the far end of the inn which was the kitchens.
Meleth was keeping Gilwen preoccupied in the kitchen, probably seated at the table to chop vegetables for the evening meal. Her sister-in-law, as she had come to be, was not well enough to tend to the housekeeping work yet as she would have wished, and though Miriel did not favor manual labor, and never had, she felt it her place to step in. It was, afterall, entirely her fault that Gilwen had become so ill and suffered such trauma. If she would not have sent her away on the day she had come seeking help… Miriel could feel a veil of suffocation come to her throat at the thought, and she worked while frowning. She blamed herself for the whole of it. She had nearly died.
Today she was washing down the walls, taking down the dusty curtains and tossing them into a pile at the end of the hall, dusting the furniture. The place was not entirely in disrepair, nor was it filthy, but it was not ready for the influx of guests that the summer weather would bring out as people took their excusions to the seaside, and one could tell that it had been an old lady with a sore back who had been caring to the housekeeping, quite unable to keep up with it all.
Near all the windows of the inn were cast wide open to the breeze letting out the air that had built over time. Miriel could smell the sea breeze. It send a vigor flowing through her veins that she could not compare to anything she had felt while living within the White City. There was some peace to their new homeland, and though the breeze filled her lungs it did not set her to singing as it did with her family. Miriel did not sing any more. Only in lullabies to her daughter as she drifted to sleep.
She carried Melian from room to room as she went, each time settling the baby down on the floor on her little blanket, a toy in hand. The little one was five months old, and very active. Melian would gurgle and coo, and roll and crawl. It was more than once that Miriel would turn about to find the child not where she had been left, but beneath a bed, stuffing dust bunnies into her mouth, laughing and gurgling.
Miriel sighed, crawling down onto hands and knees herself, and pulling the little child out. Melian grabbed at her Mother's nose, leaning forward and opening mouth wide to try and suck at it. “Hmm… I know you'll be hungry soon,” she hummed to the little one. “But a single room left, and then we shall be done for the day. Tomorrow we shall wash all the floors.” The thought was droll. Her hands in a scrub bucket all the day was perhaps just what she had deserved though.
Her brother had given her instruction quickly for the room nearest the front doors to the inn last. That was, what she had been told, where the night watchman lived. He would often sleep at times during day but he should be rising by the time evening was drawing on, and though the room was occupied, Faeldor had asked her to attend to it as well.
Miriel moved her buckets and rags outside the room, then trailed back to the last, to fetch the black haired babe who was crawling again under bed. The plump child in arm, Miriel listened at the doorway for a moment and then gave knock.
“Master Orodreth,” she called through the heavy wooden door, knowing the name the man bore, yet nothing else about him, and she hoped he was awake. “My brother has sent me to tend to your room.”
