Empty Heart, Empty Home (July 3002) - [One-Shot]
May 1, 2018 9:18:51 GMT -5
Post by Gilwen on May 1, 2018 9:18:51 GMT -5
The sun was setting, the light overhead pinkish-orange upon the white stone of Minas Tirith. Gilwen paused as she exited the Steward’s hall, brown eyes lifting to mark the streaks of color in the sky. The sunset was beautiful, and perhaps that made her heart hurt worse. Quietly, steps soundless, the young woman passed forward, chapped red hands clinging tight to the stems of the bouquet she had purchased that morning.
The petals were a little wilted now, for they had sat in the dark of the servant’s closet in a small bucket of water for all the day while she had worked, though they were nice enough, she hoped. It was all she could do.
Her steps faltered as she passed the stable, looking with warm eyes to the gentle light that was already lit and pooling from inside. It looked the same as it always did when she was leaving, and Gilwen’s heart panged and writhed in her chest as a silent sob welled in her chest. It was not the same. It would never be the same. Master Faelon was gone, felled by orc upon the plain.
Gilwen had learned yesterday, for she had stopped into the stables like she always did. She had not expected him back from his errand so soon; yet, even with Master Faelon gone on errand to Ithilien—the only soul in Minas Tirith that she could have called ‘friend’—Gilwen enjoyed time in the stables. She wondered now if ever she would cherish her time there again, for now it would be empty without Master Faelon, his kind words, his singing and his laughter.
She had not wanted to think of him like a father, but he was kind, and warm, and looked to her almost as if she had been one of his many daughters. She knew her father would be cross if he knew she had grown to love Master Faelon in her own way; her heart often whispered to her that she wished he was her father instead.
He had introduced her to all the horses, and had brought her food to share with him on lunch, prattled on about his family and the adventures they took; it was not like her own home. His daughters were free to explore this world, for it seemed constant that Master Faelon spoke on camping trips, and fun excursions to the market. Gilwen had cherished the stories, oftentimes going home to ponder what it would be like to have such freedoms herself; yet, guilt would overwhelm her, for it was wrong to covet that which she did not have. She had it better than many upon the first tier; both of her parents lived, they both loved her very much, and she had a constant roof and enough food in their pantry to keep them happy and fed.
She worked hard, it was certain. Splurging for the flowers would make things tight for the month, but Gilwen could not pass them by. Not when Master Faelon had done so much for her; not when he had made the cold stone of the city a better place. If she could bring even a drop of comfort to his wonderful family she would. His son, Faeldor, worked in the stables too. Though they had not spoken, Gilwen felt as if she knew him at least in passing; Faelon had often spoken of his son, remarked on how alike the two of them were, and Gilwen herself had heard the young man whistle about as he worked.
If the stables were going to be strange for her, how much more so were they going to be for him. A warm tear streaked down her cheek, and the teen brushed it away with the hem of her sleeve. Truly, flowers did not seem enough. She had already made up her mind tomorrow, before her shift in the Palace, she would take care of cleaning the stable master’s quarters; they were going to be short staffed for a time, for Faeldor surely was going to need time away.
It took only a few small questions to find which house was his, though by the time her small frame darkened the door, it was night. The house itself was lovely, flowers blooming around it far fairer than the ones she had been able to afford from the market. Voices wafted from the windows, the sound heavy. Gilwen’s fist hovered near the door.
She knew them, she reasoned. Meleth, Faelon’s wife had been a cook in Steward’s kitchens for many years, and Gilwen herself had begun seeing her in passing almost daily now that she was being asked to serve at the table. She knew Faeldor, as well. Still, nerves pressed upon her chest, and Gilwen bit her lip. What if they did not wish to see her? This was a time best spent with family, and while she had perhaps dreamed for some time Master Faelon was her father, she knew very well he was not.
More than this, Gilwen had never spoken to them. It was, perhaps, strange to offer her condolences; they did not know she and Master Faelon had lunch daily, nor did they know that she knew the family far better than they knew her. Their family, perhaps, would not wish to be disturbed. She had never lost anyone like this herself, and she did not know how it was it felt, or what it was she herself would want. The thought of her Papa dying seemed so impossible; Faeldor and his siblings, though, had likely thought similarly before this, though.
Slowly, Gilwen’s hand lowered to her side, and she looked down at the flowers in her hand. A baby was beginning to cry inside, and her heart twisted even greater. “I’m sorry, Master Faelon,” Gilwen whispered quietly to the blooms. Her eyes were burning now, the world wavy through her tears. A part of her felt empty as she stooped to set the flowers on the front step, and set beside it a small pouch of coin she had been able to gather in spare.
With Master Faelon gone, the family might need it for food; it was not much, perhaps, but it could help, and Gilwen could do without.
She stood, staring for a moment at the flowers, wiping her eyes with her fingertips before she became aware of eyes upon her from the window. A young woman with graceful features and dark eyes and hair was there, looking at her curiously from behind the curtains. Gilwen gasped, lowering her eyes and quickly turning her back to the home to move off down the street. She had not intended to bother the family; after all Master Faelon had done for her, after all the lunches they had shared, the last thing she wished to do was upset those he held dearest.
Quick steps whisked the teen away into the night, away from the disruption she had caused unintentionally, though her heart lingered yet upon the stoop of the somewhat empty home of Gilwen’s closest friend.
The petals were a little wilted now, for they had sat in the dark of the servant’s closet in a small bucket of water for all the day while she had worked, though they were nice enough, she hoped. It was all she could do.
Her steps faltered as she passed the stable, looking with warm eyes to the gentle light that was already lit and pooling from inside. It looked the same as it always did when she was leaving, and Gilwen’s heart panged and writhed in her chest as a silent sob welled in her chest. It was not the same. It would never be the same. Master Faelon was gone, felled by orc upon the plain.
Gilwen had learned yesterday, for she had stopped into the stables like she always did. She had not expected him back from his errand so soon; yet, even with Master Faelon gone on errand to Ithilien—the only soul in Minas Tirith that she could have called ‘friend’—Gilwen enjoyed time in the stables. She wondered now if ever she would cherish her time there again, for now it would be empty without Master Faelon, his kind words, his singing and his laughter.
She had not wanted to think of him like a father, but he was kind, and warm, and looked to her almost as if she had been one of his many daughters. She knew her father would be cross if he knew she had grown to love Master Faelon in her own way; her heart often whispered to her that she wished he was her father instead.
He had introduced her to all the horses, and had brought her food to share with him on lunch, prattled on about his family and the adventures they took; it was not like her own home. His daughters were free to explore this world, for it seemed constant that Master Faelon spoke on camping trips, and fun excursions to the market. Gilwen had cherished the stories, oftentimes going home to ponder what it would be like to have such freedoms herself; yet, guilt would overwhelm her, for it was wrong to covet that which she did not have. She had it better than many upon the first tier; both of her parents lived, they both loved her very much, and she had a constant roof and enough food in their pantry to keep them happy and fed.
She worked hard, it was certain. Splurging for the flowers would make things tight for the month, but Gilwen could not pass them by. Not when Master Faelon had done so much for her; not when he had made the cold stone of the city a better place. If she could bring even a drop of comfort to his wonderful family she would. His son, Faeldor, worked in the stables too. Though they had not spoken, Gilwen felt as if she knew him at least in passing; Faelon had often spoken of his son, remarked on how alike the two of them were, and Gilwen herself had heard the young man whistle about as he worked.
If the stables were going to be strange for her, how much more so were they going to be for him. A warm tear streaked down her cheek, and the teen brushed it away with the hem of her sleeve. Truly, flowers did not seem enough. She had already made up her mind tomorrow, before her shift in the Palace, she would take care of cleaning the stable master’s quarters; they were going to be short staffed for a time, for Faeldor surely was going to need time away.
It took only a few small questions to find which house was his, though by the time her small frame darkened the door, it was night. The house itself was lovely, flowers blooming around it far fairer than the ones she had been able to afford from the market. Voices wafted from the windows, the sound heavy. Gilwen’s fist hovered near the door.
She knew them, she reasoned. Meleth, Faelon’s wife had been a cook in Steward’s kitchens for many years, and Gilwen herself had begun seeing her in passing almost daily now that she was being asked to serve at the table. She knew Faeldor, as well. Still, nerves pressed upon her chest, and Gilwen bit her lip. What if they did not wish to see her? This was a time best spent with family, and while she had perhaps dreamed for some time Master Faelon was her father, she knew very well he was not.
More than this, Gilwen had never spoken to them. It was, perhaps, strange to offer her condolences; they did not know she and Master Faelon had lunch daily, nor did they know that she knew the family far better than they knew her. Their family, perhaps, would not wish to be disturbed. She had never lost anyone like this herself, and she did not know how it was it felt, or what it was she herself would want. The thought of her Papa dying seemed so impossible; Faeldor and his siblings, though, had likely thought similarly before this, though.
Slowly, Gilwen’s hand lowered to her side, and she looked down at the flowers in her hand. A baby was beginning to cry inside, and her heart twisted even greater. “I’m sorry, Master Faelon,” Gilwen whispered quietly to the blooms. Her eyes were burning now, the world wavy through her tears. A part of her felt empty as she stooped to set the flowers on the front step, and set beside it a small pouch of coin she had been able to gather in spare.
With Master Faelon gone, the family might need it for food; it was not much, perhaps, but it could help, and Gilwen could do without.
She stood, staring for a moment at the flowers, wiping her eyes with her fingertips before she became aware of eyes upon her from the window. A young woman with graceful features and dark eyes and hair was there, looking at her curiously from behind the curtains. Gilwen gasped, lowering her eyes and quickly turning her back to the home to move off down the street. She had not intended to bother the family; after all Master Faelon had done for her, after all the lunches they had shared, the last thing she wished to do was upset those he held dearest.
Quick steps whisked the teen away into the night, away from the disruption she had caused unintentionally, though her heart lingered yet upon the stoop of the somewhat empty home of Gilwen’s closest friend.