Red Strings of Fate (Open) [January]

“It will just be for a few hours,” Lathron assured the faces of the tailor shop, though perhaps it was mostly for himself. The bright January day was crisp, though the greyness had left the sky over Gondor in favor of bright cerulean; a welcome change from the driving rain that had been steadily falling seemingly all the previous week.

“Father, we’re fine,” Haleth sighed, dropping the cloth she was working on to settle in her lap. Her brown eyes reflected her weariness of her father’s rambling. “We need the new fabrics. Go, while there are still silks and linens to get, hm?”

Grandmother and Grandfather were master weavers in their own right, and Eruli had, on occasion, seen fit to assist in crafting fabric. Still, the demand of the city was high, and not even her own family could weave with enough speed to satisfy all demand. The silks from Haradwaith were indulgent, though often sought after nonetheless. If they wished to have stock of some bolts, then her father needed to go visit the traders that had come to the White City, preferably before all of the best options were snatched up by some of the other tailors.

“I know,” her father sighed, running a hand through his already mussed hair for what must have been the hundredth time since their conversation had begun. He sighed, looking from Haleth, to the back room where Eruli could be seen in glimpses working with the shears to cut the fabric for their latest commission, to little Rovain who was hand-stitching a trim to the sleeves of a coat that was to be picked up the next day. His youngest daughters.

But it was the tall, lithe figure at the far end of the counter, taking the measurements Lathron had collected from Gwaedholon and turned them into pattern dimensions. The dress was meant to be a gift, ordered by someone who was heading to Lossarnach for a wedding celebration in a few months’ time; though, since none had seen the intended recipient of such a dress, assumptions were being made based on recall of the client, and Lathron had designed the whole gown to be size adjustable with the use of lacing.

Niphredil was concentrating, brown eyes looking to the sheet of measurements and then to the drawing that her father had designed. Deliberation was hanging on the pout of her lip and furrow of her brow. The front of the bodice seemed to be correct, though she needed yet to add in seam allowance. The back of the bodice would be the same, though slight alteration taken at the neckline to raise it.

She was working as silently as her world had fallen, as if the absence of her hearing had robbed the woman of sound as well. Lathron eyed the girl and sighed sadly, a pain in his own expression that he could not fathom ever leaving. “Don’t leave her up at the counter by herself, Haleth,” he murmured, as if he needed to mind his volume to keep his eldest from hearing. In truth, it seemed as if the young woman had not even realized he was there at all; she was not seeking to read his lips, and she was not extending to him the slate she now carried in a harness at her belt to help her understand.

“We won’t,” Haleth answered, equally as sadly. While she knew Niphredil would never intentionally ignore a potential client, since last November she had been unable to hear when anyone walked into a room. There was a short pause and Haleth, too, sighed. “I miss her music,” she admitted.

“I do too,” the man agreed.

“You best hurry,” Haleth added quietly, shifting her eyes from Niphredil and back to their father. “Try and get some of that jade silk we liked last time. Perhaps the people of Minas Tirith will want a reminder of springtime.”

Lathron nodded, moving toward Niphredil as he plucked his cloak from the counter where he had strewn it. “Niffy?” He said, reaching and lightly pressing against her shoulder.

--

The pressure to her shoulder drew Niphredil’s brown eyes from her paper and measurements, and the frown upon her features dissipated. “Father,” she murmured in acknowledgement.

“Ahm oohwee ow,” her father seemed to say. It was not his lips, but his fastened cloak that delivered his message. Niphredil nodded, though glanced behind her to be certain she was not the only one still remaining in the store.

“All right, Papa,” she said. Perhaps he wished her to move; while perhaps the eldest of the sisters, she was also now the least equipped to help with anything that arose while Lathron was away.

The man looked to her, brown eyes pitying. It made Niphredil’s stomach knot, and her chest feel heavy. She knew how she must look to him as a musician who was now entombed in quiet, but Niphredil did not like to see it upon his face. It merely reminded her that she, too, was weighing heavy on his already troubled heart.

“I’ll have the pattern cut by the time you’re back,” she assured instead, dropping her eyes away from him and back to the drawings and scribbles upon the counter. It was now the only way she could signal the end of a conversation; if she was not looking, if she was not trying to read lips, then whatever was being uttered was passing her unnoticed.

She did not hear her father sigh, or assure Haleth once more that he would hurry before slipping out the front door, and Niphredil tried not to notice the weight of her sister’s own pitying eyes before the girl sighed and picked up her sewing once more.

The front door to the shop opened, and Haleth looked upward immediately, hearing the sound of the small bell singing above the entry door. She caught her breath, and reached hurriedly to grab her sister’s arm. A man in gleaming armor, one that looked of the Steward’s legions, was in the doorway. Her heart clenched. It was never a good sign when the Steward sent his men to knock upon your door, and surely the man was carrying out duty, so heavily and overly burdened with armor and weapons.

Niphredil looked up as well, her large brown eyes widening faintly. She dropped the quill she was working with and stole a glance to her sister, a silent question in her eye. Has he said what he wants? Haleth seemed able to read it properly, and she hurriedly shook her head.

The elder sister stood, eyeing the—well, he appeared a boy now that he had removed his helm. Perhaps there was no worry; maybe this was not official business, but rather a stop on his way to. Or from. The red hair spilled over the gleaming metal, and she took one more glance to Haleth. If only she had not gotten sick. If only she could have handled this herself, and not need risk her younger sister as an interpreter of sorts. She paused, trying to draw back her shoulders to feign assuredness that she was not sure she felt; had they missed their payments? Niphredil thought Father had brought the renter’s pay to the landlord on time. Though, so much had been going on, perhaps…

The man’s lips moved, though Niphredil could not hear a sound.

"Excuse me my ladies"

“Welcome. It is not often we receive the king's men on duty. How can we help you, my lord?” Niphredil asked, her voice low and tone genteel. Perhaps she did not need to know what he said; a greeting, she was certain. My lord. He appeared far too young for such addressing, though perhaps his station with the Steward’s army was enough to earn such referrals.

Niphredil felt Haleth come to stand at her side, a smile on her lips, though confusion in her brown eyes as well. "Lathron, our father," Haleth offered, though Niphredil was unaware, "has but stepped out to purchase some silk from the trader. H-has he missed his payment?"

"Payment, oh dear. No, I am not here as a debt collector, nor am I on any official business.”

So began the solider’s words. Niphredil furrowed her brow, trying to watch his lips, but the man kept speaking, and quickly. More words had come upon her at once than she had attempted to sift through before, and slowly the young woman’s heart began to sink. Whatever he was saying was completely lost upon her, and she glanced to Haleth before the flood had even finished being given, the look in her brown eyes helpless and sad. At the very least, the man in armor did not look angry.

Haleth pinched her lips together in a pitying look toward her sister, though smiled back to the man at the entry. “We are glad to know your uncle enjoyed our work,” she offered. “And we’re happy to help you find what you’re looking for—we have a chokeberry-dyed woolen piece. It was meant as a custom order, though the client changed their mind last minute,” she added. Thoughtfully, she looked over her shoulder, toward the back room where she could see Eruli working away at cutting the fabric for the piece she was working on. “I can get it, if you’d like to see it. If it’s not to your liking, we can look into getting an order placed for something more suited to what you’re looking for?”

Niphredil’s thin shoulders slumped. Her sister was also speaking too quickly for her to follow, face angled just right to afford no chance at reading her lips. The tall young woman felt a small, strained sigh leave her in a long string, and one she hoped was as silent as the world was naturally to her.

"My lord is a bit too formal by the way"

Niphredil had barely lifted her eyes in time to catch the words, though they looked far different than they sounded. Oar? His oar? “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Can you…can you repeat that?”

Haleth reached for the slate fastened to the belt at her sister’s hip, casting an apologetic look to Gwathion for the motion. “Forgive my sister,” she said gently. “She hasn’t…been the same since the fevers hit this winter.” Her own heart felt sick, and she did not wish to speak on it further. Niphredil had been a talented, lovely musician. Now she was robbed, a husk of what she remembered her sister to be. There had not been much that could make her smile now, save perhaps Finlach. He was always endearing enough to get through Niphredil’s storm.

Very quickly Haleth wrote upon the slate in a small, though crisp script:

My lord too formal.

“Oh,” Niphredil immediately said, taking the finished note in hand and looking up to the young man. “I’m sorry, I…won’t use it again.”

Haleth pressed a hand to Niphredil’s shoulder, calling her attention back. “I’m going to get the cloak from the back,” she said, careful to form her words slowly and motioning with her arms as if clasping a cloak about her shoulders.

Niphredil nodded, then turned and smiled back to what she was now certain was a client. “She will have it out in a moment,” she assured, even as Haleth slipped into the back room to fetch it.

Niphredil had been content to sit once more, eyes falling back to the list of measurements and her father’s drawing. She was almost done determining the size of the pieces she would be needing to cut for him; then, she could move on to mapping them upon the fabric. Still, as she reached for the quill, she found it already gone.

She looked behind the counter, about her feet. Perhaps, she was musing, she had dropped it. She would not have heard such rustle.

It was the tap upon her hand with cold metal that made her gasp and look upward, spying the shine of armor right there at the edge of the counter. Paper was pressed into her hand, and curiously, the young woman looked down, quickly raking over the scripted words. Once. Then twice.

Her eyes flashed upward, and the soldier, Gwathion was awaiting her gaze. She placed the paper back upon the counter top, feeling her stomach knot uncomfortably. It was rude, perhaps, to withhold her name from a potential client, though the manner of his asking was not quite settling well within her.

“Excuse me, Niffy,” Haleth hummed without thought as she emerged once more from the back of the shop, bright red, woolen cloak hanged over her arms. Niphredil did not move, so Haleth used her hip to announce her presence and press the young woman aside. “The cloak,” she added.

Haleth’s eyes dropped to the scribbled parchment, taking it up in hand in nearly the same motion as she lowered the cloak. She glanced to Niphredil, her brown eyes for a moment lightening in the same instant her sister’s pale cheek turned red. “Her name is Niphredil,” Haleth sang to the man placing the paper back upon the counter, though for the way she was turned away Niphredil did not know. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Let us know if you care for the cloak. If not, I can take a custom order.” Perhaps he was older than he looked? A king’s man was not, perhaps, the finest match. Though, Niphredil was in need of someone. The same as all the family seemed to be.

“You…bestow great compliment,” Niphredil offered in a low murmur. Her words were tumbled and tangled in her mouth, her tongue tied beyond her speech. She had not felt such a knot in her stomach before, such reluctance. “I fear it is misplaced. I’m…Niphredil, the…eldest daughter of Lathron.” She strained the word eldest pointedly. Perhaps he might realize she was older than he thought her. Surely he was no older than her younger sisters; his face, while square-jawed, was incredibly youthful.