Lay of the land [Late June 3010] (Gilwen)

The night was a deep velvet outside, the golden lantern light like stars as they blinked through the darkness, lining the empty Edhellond Road. The night itself was balmy, cool air coming off the sea now that the sun had retired from his hanging place in the sky. The window to the bedroom was cracked, the breeze of salty air snaking in through under the raised pane and tickling Gilwen’s nose as she sat upon the bed. Her deep brown eyes cast a look toward the sky, then down to the sleeping form beside her.

Faeldor had returned to their cottage from the inn too exhausted to even eat the meal Gilwen had prepared for him, succumbing to the pull of the clean bed with weighted limbs and a heavy sigh. Gilwen felt guilty; even in the silver light of the moon she could see that her husband had not been adjusting well to the work of running the inn. She knew when he had worked in the stables he had been no stranger to hard work, but now he was doing far more than one man’s job now. She was supposed to be his wife, taking up the mantle of work with him. And yet, her body was slow in healing, and Faeldor had not relinquished the thought that she was not yet healed enough to exert that kind of energy.

She had settled beside him, for he liked to know that she was there and resting to allow himself such release as well. Now, though, his breathing had evened, and Gilwen was haunted once more. She was not doing enough, she was certain. This was going to prove too much for Faeldor; she needed to start pulling her weight as a wife, or he was going to regret taking the risk in marrying her. Her eyes flicked once more to the window, then the door.

Gilwen slipped from the bed carefully, dark blue cotehardie yet adorned, and glanced nervously back toward Faeldor. He was sleeping soundly and fully yet, and she let out a small string of breath in relief. She was not certain why she was concerned, for if there was one thing she had learned it was that the man was a heavy sleeper.

Truthfully, Gilwen was not certain what she could offer her husband in help other than to clean. And so it was she stole out the front of the master’s cottage and across the small footpath that led toward the side entrance to the inn.

The servant’s closet was well stocked. Well, perhaps here it was not the servant’s closet, simply the closet. And yet, Gilwen could hardly imagine calling it something else. She offered a shaky breath, her heart pattering heavily in her chest as her body tried to reject the exertion she was giving by moving around in such a way, but the young woman ignored it, lifting her arms and with deft hands applying a braid to her dark brown hair. It still felt thin in her hands, and for a moment the young woman shuddered

A vision of her father, blue eyes glowering flashed through her mind. He would have been furious at her for the way she had been stuck abed for the past weeks; so much work she had failed to do. She needed to fix it, before Faeldor got angry.

The lye, the bucket, and the washrag were taken and filled, the weight of the water causing the woman’s breaths to come harried and labored. She felt ill, and Gilwen had to relinquish the water bucket much sooner than she would have liked. It was no matter, she could start cleaning from here.

So late, the main lobby of the inn was devoid of people, though the gentle fire was indication it was not empty. The night watchman had to be around somewhere, though Gilwen was unsure where, precisely, he had gone or who else was supposed to have the inn while Faeldor got his rest. Hopefully, she thought to herself, nobody would come in a late arrival. She was not equipped to help. Not in that way.

She settled upon her hands and knees, and Gilwen began to methodically drag the rag across the floorboards, feeling release in the familiar motion however difficult it now felt to do. No, she told herself. She had not lost all of her worth. Not yet.

There was no way for her to tell how long she had been scrubbing; the lobby remained empty, the quiet lulling sound of crackling fire yet filling the silence with warmth and pleasant sound of kindled hearth. Gilwen was tired already, though, and she knew she should not have been. The room was not even close to being up to her standard of washed, though likely none other would think it lacking.

The door opened, and the young woman’s eyes flashed upward, a small gasp upon her lips. She nearly leapt to her feet, drawing her hands down the side of her cotehardie to dry the chapped red skin in quick, nervous movements. She glanced over her shoulder, hoping beyond hope someone would step from the back, though the room remained otherwise empty. Gilwen slowly looked back to the figure as it passed through the door. Slight, nearly as small as she was herself. The pants and shirt would have implied a male if Gilwen could not see the elegant, dainty features upon the woman’s darkened face.

Her heart stuttered, leaping into her throat. “G-good evening, my lady,” she murmured, quickly hurrying into a small curtsy and dropping her eyes away from the woman’s face. “Welcome to the Starlight Inn. May…may I help you?” She asked. The sound of water falling carried in through the quiet. Was it raining? "Please. Come in. The fire is warm."

Perhaps she should find someone else. She could not check anyone in herself, nor could she read the labels of the drinks. She had been too ill as of yet to really begin her studies on her letters. Uncomfortably, her stomach knotted and her hands wrung. Faeldor would have known what to do, she was certain. But Faeldor was not there; it was just Gilwen.

Gilwen could hear Faeldor’s words whispering to her, trying to help guide her in what to do. He had been trying to teach her it was all right to hold eye contact, but she was not certain that would ever be true. Perhaps he had married her, but she was just a lowly servant. She was no lady, not really.

Her brown eyes marked the trail the woman’s heavy boots trod, seeing though not despairing over the track of dirt paced from the doorway. Such had been Gilwen’s life for nearly as long as she could remember; cleaning was never done, and it was no fault of someone else’s the outside liked to come inside upon their boots. She would need to clean it before the morning, otherwise Meleth would need to. Or Miriel. Or Faeldor.

They took care of this plac; Gilwen wished to as well. She had to.

“How much?”

How much? Gilwen blinked, wide-eyed at the young woman as she walked her way to the fire, drawing off her sodden coat to drape by the flames. It must be for rooms, she assumed the woman would not think they charged to warm. “We have a place for any traveller,” she decided to say. She was unsure on which end of the spectrum the woman herself was: she had the look of someone who might wish to offer only a few tharni to take the backroom behind the kitchens. The cots lined there were never full, but were there for those who needed to pass through on little expense. Still, the last thing Gilwen wished to do was insult anyone. Not only would it reflect poorly on her, but also her husband and his family. A slip from her could damage the whole inn! Her heart rammed against her ribs, and she swallowed the nauseous feeling that was threatening to rise.

“A few tharni can get you a bed. A few castars can get you a room,” Gilwen tried to expound, for a moment lifting her brown eyes to look at the woman’s face, though such wash of confidence quickly faded and she dropped her eyes back to the floor once more.

The rhythm of the woman’s paces toward a small bowl of fruit at the counter resounded in the silence as Gilwen stood rooted. Her brow furrowed, looking as the stranger reached and took hold of an apple, taking a large bite from it as if on show. Gilwen supposed the fruit was there for the travellers, those checking in. She had asked about a room, at least. Faeldor surely would not mind.

Or, at least she hoped.

Her hands wrung as the dark-haired woman looked back to her. “You own this place?”

Gilwen’s eyes widened and she shook her head, though inwardly she knew Faeldor would be disappointed by such motion. “My husband does,” Gilwen answered quietly. It was his money that had purchased this place, his money that kept it stocked, his money that kept things running. So far she had been little more than a hindrance; no, Gilwen could not claim to own this place.

“I’ve got coin. You got any wine? Seems like I just made it just in time to your place here. Lucky me.”

“Oh, yes,” Gilwen gushed, glancing over her shoulder toward the kitchen door. Nobody was going to be in there to help read labels, though. Gilwen trembled a moment as she looked back to the young woman. She could not deny her wine—that was inhospitable. She also could not very well track someone down to read off the labels on the glass bottles in the back. For a moment, though, she wished Faeldor was there. He was much better with people, and much smarter than she was. Getting wine would be no trouble for him.

“White or red, my lady?” She asked in a murmur. She would just have to pick one, and hope Faeldor was not made in the morning.

Gilwen had never seen someone eat an apple quite like that before, though the young woman attempted to not notice. It was almost like the woman wanted to be seen, though. Gilwen looked once more to her bucket and rag, wondering if it was her place to even be interacting with someone that was a patron of Faeldor’s inn. She was nothing but a scrubber. Surely someone was here that was better suited for the work. Surely…

“There’s a few castars. Perhaps you can show me to it later on.”

Gilwen felt her stomach tighten. “Of course,” she agreed. She knew her husband took people to their rooms as well, though the young woman held reservations. She did not know her letters, so she was unsure how to take the woman’s information into the book as Meleth, Miriel, and Faeldor had been doing. At least the keys had rings she could use to match to the door numbers so she could get the guest to the right room.

Perhaps this was why Faeldor had not wished her working; it was not her health at all, it was the fact she was not able to do any of the work.

Hesitantly the woman moved to take up the two castars, and turned to shuffle her way behind the counter and sift through the available keys. Two castars was enough for one of the private rooms, though not the large, decandent suites that the Starlight Inn could boast. Gilwen’s little fingers hesitated as she looked upon the keys, trying to remember which ones were the correct keys, finally settling on the one she thought was correct and laying it atop the counter. “May…I get your name, my lady?” She asked. Perhaps she could not write it in the book, but surely she could remember it to tell Faeldor to do it in the morning.

“Got ya a rich one eh? Good for you girl.”

Got her a rich one? Gilwen blinked. She must have meant husband. “Oh…” The young woman stammered, though fell silent. Well, Faeldor was wealthy. But he could have been a beggar and she would have loved him the same. “I think it’s more right to say he got me,” Gilwen murmured, for a moment inflection warming a shade.

“Red please. The wine will be all. Please don’t let me stop you from what you were doing.”

Gilwen nodded, offering a small curtsy as she turned and skittered toward the kitchen door. Behind the wood it was silent, Meleth having long closed the kitchens for the evening, though having left an array of baked goods ready for any hungry guest who might call for something in the night. Her time with the Steward made prepping the wine quick work. Much to Gilwen’s delight there was only one bottle of red that she could see, making the choice easy for what to bring out for the young woman who was waiting in the lobby.

She grabbed a wine glass, filled it a quarter full as was proper, and turned to once more move back to the lobby.

The door swung open and as quiet as a mouse the young woman paced her way toward the young woman and set the wine upon the table. “Your wine, my lady,” she offered, attempting once more to smile and make eye contact as she set the glass down, though quickly began to retreat to the pail of water once more.

“If you need anything else, let me know.” Gilwen could feel the woman’s eyes upon her, and though she lifted her eyes to mark the strange way the woman stood, boot upon her husband’s furniture, Gilwen felt once more at a loss. Guests, she supposed, had never been her job. Her tasks had always been to make things beautiful, and keep things flowing. “I can take you to your room when you’re done.”

Gilwen slipped to her hands and knees, reaching for the rag with her chapped and reddened hand and picking up her scrubbing once more.

“Fíriel, my love.”

Her accent was strange. Perhaps where she was from it was common for someone to call everyone such names; she had heard some pet names here since she had come to Belfalas that she had not heard before. “It’s nice to have you, Fíriel,” Gilwen answered. She looked to the logbook of guests, wondering if she should attempt to put something on the list. Still, she was not sure if there was even a point. Neither she, nor Faeldor, nor anyone else who had been stepping up to assist would be able to make sense of whatever scribble she attempted to add, and Gilwen did not wish to ruin Faeldor’s book.

It seemed that talk of Gilwen’s husband had produced a hint of surprise from this Fíriel, though Gilwen listened as she explained how such matches were rare to find. Gilwen offered her a small smile, even if part of it was heavy in sadness. The young woman knew very well she was lucky. There were not many men who would have stood by her, or wished for her, or loved her like her Faeldor. She would spend the rest of her life with him, forever in debt. She only hoped that someday she could make up for even a fraction of the charity he had shown her, even though Gilwen was aware that he was no bound to a woman he had not actually intended on having.

Thanks to her father, the Gilwen Faeldor had known was never coming back, and the little wisp of a woman had a feeling that such pained Faeldor more than he was willing to admit.

Gilwen’s strokes upon the floorboards were rhythmic, and for a moment her mind was able to clear. Rote work often made things easier for her; her heart could not feel so weighted and heavy, and the sadness she felt became numb. Gilwen could feel the weight of eyes on her, and for a moment she flicked her attention to Fíriel. She was watching her closely, and the young woman felt her stomach tighten and chest flutter. She had done something wrong, she was certain.

It was a wave of realization that washed over Gilwen next. She looked back to her bucket and rag, heart falling and shoulders drooping. It was the cleaning—she was disturbing the guest. Quietly she stood, though the motion took far more effort than it should have, and she let out a small breath as she sought to haul it into hand and take it across the room. Perhaps she would be less of a disturbance there.

Before she had taken a few paces, though, the woman was speaking to her, and Gilwen had not the strength to hold the full pail. Once more she set it down. “Ya from around these parts love?”

“Oh…no,” Gilwen answered, shaking her head. “I’m from Minas Tirith.” She was surprised the woman could not tell by her accent. Still, before such thoughts could sink in, perhaps besmearing her husband’s reputation, Gilwen added quietly, “My husband is from Belfalas, though. He…missed the sea.” There was, perhaps, more to it than that. And, lately, Gilwen had begun wondering if perhaps he regretted leaving his job as the Steward's Stable Master to come work at the little inn, the one he had renamed the Starlight Inn after herself.

Perhaps he regretted that also. She had not been able to help much since he had taken his place as the innkeeper. Gilwen sighed quietly, looking down at the bucket of lye water with an almost mournful eye. She was having trouble even carrying nearly the same bucket she had worked with all her life; how was she going to be a good wife now?