Grey Eyes [Late March 3010] {Gilwen}

“I know. I know, he always talked about all the babies he's wanted… it's almost all he's said to me with a smile on his face since Melian came, and...”

Another heave, a long whine, and a gasp resounded as Morwen shuddered free another sob. Her heart hurt; her stomach was clenched and knotted in a way that she could never recall experiencing before. She knew the smile Miriel meant. Faeldor had worn it with her as well, whenever he ventured to speak on his future, his desire for a full house and large family, and later the home they would build together and fill.

His eyes had been like the polished silver in the shops of Minas Tirith, joy and hope had rung in the lilt of his voice. His heart had been bared upon his face; Morwen had been able to see it glowing, more golden than the sun itself. So long ago, it seemed now. She had carried a different name then. Gilwen was to be the mother of his children. Morwen was an empty husk, a failure to his dream. Barren, like the deserts of Haradwaith she had never wished to see.

“I'd give you Melian if I could...but I can't. She's all I have. You have… you have Fael.”

Morwen twisted further, burying her face into the pillows and coverlets to hide the additional contort of her face. Melian, that perfect gift, was not hers. Would never be hers. In fact, Morwen would never have a gift of her own, and Faeldor…

With as much as he had made known his desire for children, she was not certain she would have him either. “He-he-he will…” She could not get out any other words, though her thoughts came forth in another wrenching sob and long whimper.

“Gilwen, no, Gilwen, Gilwen…Gilwen… Fael isn't… oh, Fael is going to be upset about this.”

The baby was beginning to cry too, though Morwen felt deadened and could not find the strength to reach for the child now. “He’ll be mad,” Morwen agreed through her shuddering breaths, the words coming high-pitched, almost unintelligible for the uneven way the syllables spilled forth. She sought to wrap her arms tighter about her gaunt frame, pressing her hand more wildly to her stomach.

Faeldor was going to be mad; she deserved it. She had failed him in the only thing he truly desired. Papa had always told her she would make a poor wife, unable to fulfill the duties needed. He had been right. Not even Miriel’s desperate, gentle tugs were able to right her.

--

The visit to Grandfather Calaeron’s home had gone, Calon thought, reasonably well—despite what seemed to be Faeldor’s best effort. In part, the blacksmith could understand, for while Calon himself seemed to have met the rigid, plentiful standards Calaeron had set for the spouses of his family, it seemed his expectations of his own blood were even higher. When the first remark to Faeldor had been about his beard, Calon knew why his Nightingale had been so insistent that they go alongside him; despite the fact Faeldor hardly wished to look on them, it was clear that Beleth still cared for him deeply and wished him to not bring further unhappiness down upon his head. Truthfully, Calon could not recall Faeldor ever being so stern of face. The entire time he had served under him in the stables, the man had been music and whistles, smiles and laughter.

It was almost sobering how things could change.

It had been a time of various interventions, and even though Beleth had been absolutely instrumental at keeping their grandfather from prying too deep into questions, Faeldor had yet to smile at them or offer any form of thanks, and it had been a rather long coach ride.

Beleth flew from the carriage like a bird from a cage, and laughingly Calon followed. A song, as was often the case, rose from her lips in a crisp and clear voice. It was fluid, a tune that Calon could recall from around Dol Amroth that was known well enough that he could have sung along with some of the words. Yet there were some he did not; his own name had been placed in spots that the smith knew it did not quite belong, but did fit, and he found himself grinned boyishly and reaching for his wife’s hand. He relished the light she spread from her person like the sun itself, his heart soaring despite Faeldor’s storm cloud.

“An innkeep came by us and saw;
And just as our bliss we began with a kiss,
He laugh'd out with A ha ha ha ha!”
“I am not laughing.”

Calon was, though. He quietly though boldly snorted, ocean eyes sparkling as he looked to Faeldor and his seemingly perpetual frown. There had been a time Calon had been a stable hand well respected by Beleth’s brother; now, though, it was like the man had never cared for him at all. As if the past was erased entirely and Calon was but a criminal from the streets of the White City that had stolen Beleth away. Calon waffled between anger and amusement on it, hoping in part the man would move beyond such petty grievances, yet kindled still in anger by the memory of the way Faeldor had acted first upon his arrival to Dol Amroth.

Beleth lifted to her toes, arms comfortably and familiarly cast about his neck, and on instinct the man’s arms went around her waist, tugging her close.

“Kiss me, my lover. Let us have bliss!”

“Is this the part where I say, ’A ha ha ha ha!’?” Calon wondered in jest, though eagerly dipped to take them. She tasted sweet, and the energy he adored flooded from her lips like the charge of an incoming hurricane; he smiled against her, wondering perhaps if his Nightingale was as ready to leave and see their bear rug as he was.

“I already told you, none of that in my carriage.” “We're in Uncle Linnon's stable.”

“Next time, then, we should bring Uncle Linnon’s,” Calon remarked pointedly. He looked to Faeldor in a form of smirking defiance; he was not going to refrain from his own wife, no matter how uncomfortable Faeldor seemed to be by their contact.

It seemed that was enough to set the innkeeper off, and not in the laughing way Beleth’s song had painted. With a shove, Faeldor moved between the two of them, and Calon’s eyes would have hardened had Beleth not been alight with laughter herself. “Come now, brother,” Calon remarked pointedly in song as he once more took Narbeleth’s hand and began to move for the door. “It was just a suggestion! Keeps your carriage happiness free, the way you want it!”

The front door slammed closed, Beleth’s finger caught at the doorframe. Calon frowned. He heard his wife mumble something as she slipped her finger to her mouth to still the throbbing, and Calon grunted. “He’s going to end up scaring that poor wife of his,” he remarked dryly. If he kept stomping and storming about—well, Calon wondered how well Faeldor realized he was going to remind Gilwen of her father. The poor thing had been through enough.

Beleth pressed open the door, and without any more affair, the two of them passed inside.

Calon was used to the sounds of Linnon’s home; with so many people under the roof, there always seemed to be something going on somewhere about the house, and most often the kitchens. This time, though, was the first time tears had been the first thing he had heard. The baby, Melian, was wailing. He could hear the strain and desperation, as if she had been crying for some time, or perhaps was worked up beyond simply being hungry. And while Calon knew he was no expert in babies—perhaps the opposite, despite his marriage to a midwife—there was a sound along side that came deeper, long and gasping. Not a baby.

Faeldor, who was standing at the foot of the stairs soon bounded upward, nearly two steps at a time. Calon, though, had his attention pulled downward to his wife. Beleth stood, a faint look of concern upon her face for the oddness of the situation as well.

“Oh no, the baby is crying. Come on, Cal, we'll go get her. You haven't even held your niece yet.”

Calon was not sure what you were supposed to do with a baby, being so small and fragile. He thought perhaps he might break her, and very well would have remarked on it if the other sound, sobs he was certain now, were not yet echoing down from the second story. “Is…that Miriel?” He asked in a mumble after a moment. His shoulders tensed. Something might be wrong. Maybe they needed to fetch Ladrengilon again.

“Bel,” he started. However, the sound of Faeldor’s raised voice filtered down, and the smith abandoned the threads of conversation he had sought to offer and instead offered a quick, “Hurry.”

They burst into the room mere strides after Faeldor, though the man was roaring about as a hurricane. Beleth was quick to pick up the baby, though it was but a moment before Calon saw the true source of the deeper cries he had heard.

His chest tightened, seeing the wet, ruddy, and scrunched face of the small, fragile woman upon the bed, though it became all the worse when she sought to sit up wildly. Wide eyes, brown yet ringed in pink, looked to Faeldor, and Gilwen’s gasps morphed into small coughs as she gasped.

“Get OUT of here! Out! All of you!”

“Faeldor,” Calon grunted, moving forward. He checked to be sure Beleth was far enough away, the babe safe in her arms. So fragile. Then, he turned back to Faeldor and Miriel, approaching with no hesitation to reach and grasp Miriel’s elbow to edge her out of the chair she had fallen into and toward the door. “You’re going to scare her,” Calon hissed as the man moved to the bed for his wife. He did not mean Faeldor’s sister.

--

Morwen’s tears had fallen greater the moment Faeldor bounded into the room. His face was already pinched, eyes sterner than steel and lightning, voice rolling like the thunderstorms that rattled her bones.

“What are you doing in here? You have no right to be in here. What did you do? What did you do to her?”
“Fael, please… Melian.”
“Get OUT of here! Out! All of you!”

“Fael,” the woman piped, the sound low and quick. He was angry; he had every right to be, but it was not Miriel’s fault. She knew what was coming. She knew.

Calon, the strong man that had taken Beleth to wife, herded the ladies from the room, though glowered darkly as he did so. He was angry too. They were all angry, and it was all Morwen’s fault.

She looked to Faeldor and shuddered. “I’m sorry,” she said first, dropping her eyes away from his face. She could not stand to see the look of disappointment, of anger. She had not wanted to hurt him—not ever. Yet Morwen had managed it anyway.

“I didn’t know. I-I didn’t—” Morwen’s whole body seemed to lurch with the sob. “I know you wanted babies!”

And she had wanted to give them to him, desperately.

Morwen’s eyes looked to the side table. A bottle, almost empty of wine, sat upon the top. Faeldor had been needing it to unwind, just like Papa had. Perhaps he could use it for her punishment like him, too. She shuddered and reached, quickly locking her fingers about the neck and pressing it toward him.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’ll sit still.” It was, after all, the least she could do now. Maybe Faeldor would feel better, perhaps he could think of a solution after his anger was spent. Morwen had wanted to be a good wife.