The Thunderhead (May 2987) - [One-Shot] (CW)
May 29, 2018 8:10:37 GMT -5
Post by Gilwen on May 29, 2018 8:10:37 GMT -5
(Content Warning : child abuse)
The silver light of the moon and stars overhead mingled with the orange-gold hues of the lanterns that kept light upon the dingy, crumbling streets of the first tier of Minas Tirith, and scant streams of it made way into the quiet room. The pane of glass fogged and cleared in rhythm, in sync with the gentle breaths of the little girl that pressed her nose close to the window, head tucked behind the thin tan curtains. Brown eyes peered upward to the sky, the swirls of dark blues and blacks, and the twinkle of beads of light that were nestled within. This little corner of the sky was familiar; a blanket for the familiar sights outside the bedroom window.
“Gilwen,” a voice hissed as the door once more clicked shut behind her. “What are you doing?”
The little girl gasped and turned, frightening herself from her precarious perch as she turned. There was a small thud as Gilwen fell from the windowsill down to the hard wood in a tangle of elbows, knees, and the fabric of her dress. Her heart was encroaching on her throat, and the young toddler felt as if she could not breathe. “I’m sowwy, I’m sowwy. I—oh. Landeyon!”
The boy peered down at her, brow furrowed in lines that made him look far older than the seven years he carried. His dark hair was mussed, falling in disheveled strands about his face and frosted in wetness despite the dry skies and streets. A familiar form to the young toddler, and her heartrate began to drop once more as he hurriedly swept his lanky frame forward. “You know you’re not supposed to be up. Uncle Beregar said—”
“I know, I’m sowwy…” Gilwen murmured, climbing to her feet as her cousin’s hands hooked under her arms to help. Her brown eyes were large and watering as the looked up toward Landion, and the boy sighed. “I wasn’t sweepy, and the staws look so pwetty tonight.” She looked once more to the pane behind her, spying now only a sliver of the night behind the linen drapes. Slowly, her eyes peeled away, and she looked once more to her cousin, head hanging low. “Pwease don’t tell Papa,” she whispered.
The boy sighed, brushing his hand over Gilwen’s dark hair, his smoke-hued eyes honing in upon the faded remnant of dark, bruised skin upon the toddler’s cheek. He felt the lump in his throat catch and his heart plummet to the deepest crevices of the earth to sit with the dwarves in darkness. “I won’t, I promise,” Landion whispered. It had been what his uncle called an inside day for little girls; though, that was every day. Landion was unsure why his uncle endeavored so much to keep Gilwen cooped in the house; even Merilla and Verya were allowed to go out with Mother sometimes. Still, his rules were law in this house, as he was reminded by his parents—and Beregar himself—often. He could tell the difference even in the dark room between his own skin and that of his cousin’s. She near glowed white in the moonlight.
Gilwen toddled forward, throwing her little arms around Landion’s legs with a grip that was near as tight as a tourniquet, and the little boy sighed, gently pulling her closer. He felt tendrils of lead seeping through his arms and legs from exhaustion, and he glanced to the bed to see his sister Merilla’s sleeping form already curled into the pillows and covers. On the floor beside the sunken mattress, in the old drawer from a throw-away dresser, Verya, too, slept quietly. The baby’s face, though, was pinched, and her lip and brow were crinkling. Perhaps it was by some dream, or perhaps it was from the noise of Gilwen’s fall. It did not matter, for if she woke, she would cry; that was something they could not afford to risk. Landion’s heart stuttered.
“Come on. It’s bedtime for both of us,” Landion offered hurriedly. Gently, he pressed upon the toddler’s shoulders in efforts to start her steps, eyes intrinsically drawn to the door.
“But I’m not sweepy yet,” Gilwen said quietly. Despite her protest, though, her little feet complied. Even she, as young as she was, knew that Beregar’s house was one where you followed instruction. Her brown eyes flicked to the door too, and for a moment, her little hand with its chubby fingers brushed against her healing cheek.
“I know,” Landion offered morosely. All the girl could do was sit quiet and sleep all the day, peering out the window when she could sneak it. It was not fair, he knew. Still, if she did not lie down, if his uncle knew that his daughter was not sitting quietly in bed, the whole house would know his displeasure. The boy shuddered, the wrack of his bones followed by a wash of chill at the thought. Gingerly, they stepped around the drawer, and his eyes dropped to mind the baby’s face. At least the expression had not worsened. “I got us some food today,” he tried instead. “But you have to lie down for me so you can eat some tomorrow.”
That made the toddler brighten, and she peered upward with wide, imploring eyes. “You did?” She asked, hands clasping in front of her chest.
“Mhm,” the boy assured. His smile was askew, tilted only at a single corner, and his eyes held no light despite his honesty. “I got a goat cheese wheel this time,” the boy said, a lilt to his voice that ringed in song. Gilwen could not tell that it was forced.
She gasped in delight. “My favwite! Tank you, Landeyon! All wight, I’ll be gooder. I can be a good giwl.” She stood upon her toes, little arms reaching to pull herself into the tiny bed. She was yet too small, though; while the bed itself was narrow, the frame was intended for adults in height.
“Hang on, let me help,” Landion murmured, hooking his hands beneath her arms. She was easy to help lift; Gilwen was smaller and lighter than Merilla, even though his own sister was younger. Still, there was no graceful way to get her tucked in for the lack of room atop the mattress, and it took only a moment for them both to be reminded of it.
“Stawp it, Giwen!” Merilla’s voice whined loudly, a frown hard set in her bleary eyes. Her arm waved, as if to beat her cousin away. “Awf me!”
“I’m sowwy, Mewwy,” Gilwen whispered knowing well that little girls were meant to be quiet and unnoticed, and with slower, gentler motions wriggled her way beneath the covers. She wanted her piece of the goat cheese the next day; she could behave.
Landion, though, could already see Merilla’s frown strengthening, and his heart clenched tight, beginning to speed its paces. “There now, Merry, she didn’t mean it. Go back to sleep.”
His soothing tones were unhelpful. “No!” Merilla exclaimed sitting up. In her hand she clutched the stuffed dog she had gotten for her birthday past, knuckles white for the grip she held on it. “Giwen can’t sit aside me!”
Gilwen’s eyes began to water. “I’m sowwy, Mewwy, I’m sowwy...” She began to murmur.
Landion caught his breath, holding up his hands, as if such motions of surrender could help curb the thunderhead he could already see mounting on the horizon. “Merry,” he tried.
“No!” The girl shrieked, throwing the stuffed toy toward Gilwen in efforts to force her to move. “Sweep on the fwoor! Not aside me!” Landion gasped, reaching to pluck the doll as it flopped back onto the covers to press into Merilla’s hands once more. She never woke well, but she needed to quiet quickly.
“Please don’t scream,” the boy breathed. His heart was beginning to skip in worry, in fear. Verya was awake now, sputtering cracking cries as her discontent worked its way into wails. Landion knew he needed to hurry; if the noise reached the adults in the other room…
Gilwen flinched as the toy flew into her face, blinking against the sudden force and tingle that followed in its wake. “But beds awe for sweeps,” Gilwen said hurriedly, looking to Landion for confirmation.
It was too late. From across the house, all three of the children could hear Uncle Beregar’s heavy footfalls coming toward the bedroom door, and Landion’s limbs suddenly seemed made of liquid. The door opened, and Beregar’s pale, wintry eyes bore into the room as a raptor; Landion knew he saw everything, even in darkness.
“What is going on in here?” The man growled.
He almost filled the door with his bulk and height, though Landion could see Aunt Niniel hovering a few steps behind. Her eyes looked frightened too, and they caught his for a moment in silent assessment. He knew his parents would be rising soon themselves. “I’m sorry, Uncle Beregar,” Landion tried hurriedly. “I woke them up coming in—”
“I expect quiet,” the man interrupted, his face stern as stone and fiery like the blacksmith’s forge down the road. “You know the rule. Children don’t make noise after sundown.”
Verya was working up into a state, her round face darkening red. Landion looked to her hurriedly, chewing his bottom lip nervously. Gilwen glanced over the side of the bed herself, brow furrowed in concern. “Oh no, baby,” she whispered.
“And you woke the confounded cur,” Beregar rumbled, moving forward in quick strides, direct for the little drawer. Landion felt frozen, and though perhaps he wished to move and stop his uncle from reaching Verya, he knew he was no match for him anyway. Dread churned in his stomach.
Niniel leapt forward, and behind her was appearing his own mother’s angled face, his father’s dark, towering glower. He clutched a half empty growler in hand, grumbling. “Beregar, stop. She’s just a baby—I can feed her and she’ll—” Niniel’s voice was pinched herself, almost frenzied.
Gilwen knew the baby was important to her Mama, the most precious thing in the small house. “My fawlt, Papa! My fawlt! I was a bad giwl!” Gilwen interjected. She could be punished instead; that would make her Mama happy. “I was up. I was wooking at the staws!”
Landion gasped and looked down to Gilwen, hand reaching to try and catch the girl before she crawled to the edge of the bed. He whispered her name in warning and plea, though the sound of it was lost in the growl his uncle rumbled, and the yelp from his baby cousin as she was ripped from the bed by her arm.
“You know what happens to little girls who don’t behave,” Beregar said. His face was like ice, and Landion felt the bite of his eyes as if winter was seeping through his clothing there in the bedroom. Gilwen was silent now, though her eyes were welling with tears. The little girl nodded, dark hair spilling about her face from her unkempt braid. “Get the belt. Tomorrow will be an inside day, too. If you can’t listen to my simple instructions, you aren’t ready for the city.”
Gilwen’s mouth fell open in gasp, and she looked to the window with regret upon her face. “I’m sowwy, Papa. Pwease wet me go with Mama to the mawket. I’ll be—”
“That’s enough out of you!” Beregar grunted, shoving the girl toward the door. “You aren’t going for a long time,” he declared definitively, voice firm as the foundations the city itself was built upon.
Landion could see the light fade from his cousin’s eyes, and she offered the window and the baby one last look with heavy eyes before she silently filed her way out of the room to pick up the belt that hanged by the mantle.
Beregar looked to Landion now; frown pinched. “Now. Another word out of any of you, and you’ll all have the belt, too. Niniel, shut that thing up.”
“Confounded kids,” Landion heard his father rumble as he turned back for his bed. His own mother was at his heel.
As a whirlwind passes, so did Beregar. His dark shape moved from the doorway, away to the sitting room once more. Landion knew what was coming next; the sick crack of the leather, the cries and yelps Gilwen would try and curb but would choke free anyway. He knew what the belt felt like. He, too, had been forced to endure it by his parents and uncle alike. It would sting like the wasps of the fields, and it would mar the skin with pain and bruise until it felt as if one could not move. The boy felt sick, though stood helpless there beside the bed.
Niniel moved forward, not daring to look over her shoulder. Merilla was staring out the door, arms now clutching her toy back close to her chest. Her skin was paling. “Oh no,” she whispered.
The woman heard the young toddler’s words, and after a mere moment of deliberation shut the door behind her as if such a barrier would keep the horrors away from the bedroom and moved toward the drawer to scoop up the crying baby in her arms. “There now,” she hummed. “It will be all over soon. Back to sleep,” she tried.
The first crack like lightning sounded beyond the wood of the door, and Landion felt his muscles spasm at the sound. There was a yelp and a sob that followed, the sound worse for the house than utter darkness. Niniel’s face grimaced; Landion could see it in the darkness. “I’m sorry, Aunt Niniel. I—”
“It’s not your fault,” the woman interrupted, though the words seemed snipped and tired themselves. “Please. Just…lie down. Both of you.”
Landion said nothing else, and climbed into the bed beside his sister, drawing the covers up to their chins as if a blanket could keep away the storm raging beyond their little room. Still, the little boy already knew there was no sleep he would find this night, for even once Gilwen had climbed into bed and cried herself to sleep and silence returned once more to the home, it would not be one of peace but of a tomb.
Dawn, perhaps, could wash away the darkness for a time. Gilwen certainly deserved her goat cheese.
The silver light of the moon and stars overhead mingled with the orange-gold hues of the lanterns that kept light upon the dingy, crumbling streets of the first tier of Minas Tirith, and scant streams of it made way into the quiet room. The pane of glass fogged and cleared in rhythm, in sync with the gentle breaths of the little girl that pressed her nose close to the window, head tucked behind the thin tan curtains. Brown eyes peered upward to the sky, the swirls of dark blues and blacks, and the twinkle of beads of light that were nestled within. This little corner of the sky was familiar; a blanket for the familiar sights outside the bedroom window.
“Gilwen,” a voice hissed as the door once more clicked shut behind her. “What are you doing?”
The little girl gasped and turned, frightening herself from her precarious perch as she turned. There was a small thud as Gilwen fell from the windowsill down to the hard wood in a tangle of elbows, knees, and the fabric of her dress. Her heart was encroaching on her throat, and the young toddler felt as if she could not breathe. “I’m sowwy, I’m sowwy. I—oh. Landeyon!”
The boy peered down at her, brow furrowed in lines that made him look far older than the seven years he carried. His dark hair was mussed, falling in disheveled strands about his face and frosted in wetness despite the dry skies and streets. A familiar form to the young toddler, and her heartrate began to drop once more as he hurriedly swept his lanky frame forward. “You know you’re not supposed to be up. Uncle Beregar said—”
“I know, I’m sowwy…” Gilwen murmured, climbing to her feet as her cousin’s hands hooked under her arms to help. Her brown eyes were large and watering as the looked up toward Landion, and the boy sighed. “I wasn’t sweepy, and the staws look so pwetty tonight.” She looked once more to the pane behind her, spying now only a sliver of the night behind the linen drapes. Slowly, her eyes peeled away, and she looked once more to her cousin, head hanging low. “Pwease don’t tell Papa,” she whispered.
The boy sighed, brushing his hand over Gilwen’s dark hair, his smoke-hued eyes honing in upon the faded remnant of dark, bruised skin upon the toddler’s cheek. He felt the lump in his throat catch and his heart plummet to the deepest crevices of the earth to sit with the dwarves in darkness. “I won’t, I promise,” Landion whispered. It had been what his uncle called an inside day for little girls; though, that was every day. Landion was unsure why his uncle endeavored so much to keep Gilwen cooped in the house; even Merilla and Verya were allowed to go out with Mother sometimes. Still, his rules were law in this house, as he was reminded by his parents—and Beregar himself—often. He could tell the difference even in the dark room between his own skin and that of his cousin’s. She near glowed white in the moonlight.
Gilwen toddled forward, throwing her little arms around Landion’s legs with a grip that was near as tight as a tourniquet, and the little boy sighed, gently pulling her closer. He felt tendrils of lead seeping through his arms and legs from exhaustion, and he glanced to the bed to see his sister Merilla’s sleeping form already curled into the pillows and covers. On the floor beside the sunken mattress, in the old drawer from a throw-away dresser, Verya, too, slept quietly. The baby’s face, though, was pinched, and her lip and brow were crinkling. Perhaps it was by some dream, or perhaps it was from the noise of Gilwen’s fall. It did not matter, for if she woke, she would cry; that was something they could not afford to risk. Landion’s heart stuttered.
“Come on. It’s bedtime for both of us,” Landion offered hurriedly. Gently, he pressed upon the toddler’s shoulders in efforts to start her steps, eyes intrinsically drawn to the door.
“But I’m not sweepy yet,” Gilwen said quietly. Despite her protest, though, her little feet complied. Even she, as young as she was, knew that Beregar’s house was one where you followed instruction. Her brown eyes flicked to the door too, and for a moment, her little hand with its chubby fingers brushed against her healing cheek.
“I know,” Landion offered morosely. All the girl could do was sit quiet and sleep all the day, peering out the window when she could sneak it. It was not fair, he knew. Still, if she did not lie down, if his uncle knew that his daughter was not sitting quietly in bed, the whole house would know his displeasure. The boy shuddered, the wrack of his bones followed by a wash of chill at the thought. Gingerly, they stepped around the drawer, and his eyes dropped to mind the baby’s face. At least the expression had not worsened. “I got us some food today,” he tried instead. “But you have to lie down for me so you can eat some tomorrow.”
That made the toddler brighten, and she peered upward with wide, imploring eyes. “You did?” She asked, hands clasping in front of her chest.
“Mhm,” the boy assured. His smile was askew, tilted only at a single corner, and his eyes held no light despite his honesty. “I got a goat cheese wheel this time,” the boy said, a lilt to his voice that ringed in song. Gilwen could not tell that it was forced.
She gasped in delight. “My favwite! Tank you, Landeyon! All wight, I’ll be gooder. I can be a good giwl.” She stood upon her toes, little arms reaching to pull herself into the tiny bed. She was yet too small, though; while the bed itself was narrow, the frame was intended for adults in height.
“Hang on, let me help,” Landion murmured, hooking his hands beneath her arms. She was easy to help lift; Gilwen was smaller and lighter than Merilla, even though his own sister was younger. Still, there was no graceful way to get her tucked in for the lack of room atop the mattress, and it took only a moment for them both to be reminded of it.
“Stawp it, Giwen!” Merilla’s voice whined loudly, a frown hard set in her bleary eyes. Her arm waved, as if to beat her cousin away. “Awf me!”
“I’m sowwy, Mewwy,” Gilwen whispered knowing well that little girls were meant to be quiet and unnoticed, and with slower, gentler motions wriggled her way beneath the covers. She wanted her piece of the goat cheese the next day; she could behave.
Landion, though, could already see Merilla’s frown strengthening, and his heart clenched tight, beginning to speed its paces. “There now, Merry, she didn’t mean it. Go back to sleep.”
His soothing tones were unhelpful. “No!” Merilla exclaimed sitting up. In her hand she clutched the stuffed dog she had gotten for her birthday past, knuckles white for the grip she held on it. “Giwen can’t sit aside me!”
Gilwen’s eyes began to water. “I’m sowwy, Mewwy, I’m sowwy...” She began to murmur.
Landion caught his breath, holding up his hands, as if such motions of surrender could help curb the thunderhead he could already see mounting on the horizon. “Merry,” he tried.
“No!” The girl shrieked, throwing the stuffed toy toward Gilwen in efforts to force her to move. “Sweep on the fwoor! Not aside me!” Landion gasped, reaching to pluck the doll as it flopped back onto the covers to press into Merilla’s hands once more. She never woke well, but she needed to quiet quickly.
“Please don’t scream,” the boy breathed. His heart was beginning to skip in worry, in fear. Verya was awake now, sputtering cracking cries as her discontent worked its way into wails. Landion knew he needed to hurry; if the noise reached the adults in the other room…
Gilwen flinched as the toy flew into her face, blinking against the sudden force and tingle that followed in its wake. “But beds awe for sweeps,” Gilwen said hurriedly, looking to Landion for confirmation.
It was too late. From across the house, all three of the children could hear Uncle Beregar’s heavy footfalls coming toward the bedroom door, and Landion’s limbs suddenly seemed made of liquid. The door opened, and Beregar’s pale, wintry eyes bore into the room as a raptor; Landion knew he saw everything, even in darkness.
“What is going on in here?” The man growled.
He almost filled the door with his bulk and height, though Landion could see Aunt Niniel hovering a few steps behind. Her eyes looked frightened too, and they caught his for a moment in silent assessment. He knew his parents would be rising soon themselves. “I’m sorry, Uncle Beregar,” Landion tried hurriedly. “I woke them up coming in—”
“I expect quiet,” the man interrupted, his face stern as stone and fiery like the blacksmith’s forge down the road. “You know the rule. Children don’t make noise after sundown.”
Verya was working up into a state, her round face darkening red. Landion looked to her hurriedly, chewing his bottom lip nervously. Gilwen glanced over the side of the bed herself, brow furrowed in concern. “Oh no, baby,” she whispered.
“And you woke the confounded cur,” Beregar rumbled, moving forward in quick strides, direct for the little drawer. Landion felt frozen, and though perhaps he wished to move and stop his uncle from reaching Verya, he knew he was no match for him anyway. Dread churned in his stomach.
Niniel leapt forward, and behind her was appearing his own mother’s angled face, his father’s dark, towering glower. He clutched a half empty growler in hand, grumbling. “Beregar, stop. She’s just a baby—I can feed her and she’ll—” Niniel’s voice was pinched herself, almost frenzied.
Gilwen knew the baby was important to her Mama, the most precious thing in the small house. “My fawlt, Papa! My fawlt! I was a bad giwl!” Gilwen interjected. She could be punished instead; that would make her Mama happy. “I was up. I was wooking at the staws!”
Landion gasped and looked down to Gilwen, hand reaching to try and catch the girl before she crawled to the edge of the bed. He whispered her name in warning and plea, though the sound of it was lost in the growl his uncle rumbled, and the yelp from his baby cousin as she was ripped from the bed by her arm.
“You know what happens to little girls who don’t behave,” Beregar said. His face was like ice, and Landion felt the bite of his eyes as if winter was seeping through his clothing there in the bedroom. Gilwen was silent now, though her eyes were welling with tears. The little girl nodded, dark hair spilling about her face from her unkempt braid. “Get the belt. Tomorrow will be an inside day, too. If you can’t listen to my simple instructions, you aren’t ready for the city.”
Gilwen’s mouth fell open in gasp, and she looked to the window with regret upon her face. “I’m sowwy, Papa. Pwease wet me go with Mama to the mawket. I’ll be—”
“That’s enough out of you!” Beregar grunted, shoving the girl toward the door. “You aren’t going for a long time,” he declared definitively, voice firm as the foundations the city itself was built upon.
Landion could see the light fade from his cousin’s eyes, and she offered the window and the baby one last look with heavy eyes before she silently filed her way out of the room to pick up the belt that hanged by the mantle.
Beregar looked to Landion now; frown pinched. “Now. Another word out of any of you, and you’ll all have the belt, too. Niniel, shut that thing up.”
“Confounded kids,” Landion heard his father rumble as he turned back for his bed. His own mother was at his heel.
As a whirlwind passes, so did Beregar. His dark shape moved from the doorway, away to the sitting room once more. Landion knew what was coming next; the sick crack of the leather, the cries and yelps Gilwen would try and curb but would choke free anyway. He knew what the belt felt like. He, too, had been forced to endure it by his parents and uncle alike. It would sting like the wasps of the fields, and it would mar the skin with pain and bruise until it felt as if one could not move. The boy felt sick, though stood helpless there beside the bed.
Niniel moved forward, not daring to look over her shoulder. Merilla was staring out the door, arms now clutching her toy back close to her chest. Her skin was paling. “Oh no,” she whispered.
The woman heard the young toddler’s words, and after a mere moment of deliberation shut the door behind her as if such a barrier would keep the horrors away from the bedroom and moved toward the drawer to scoop up the crying baby in her arms. “There now,” she hummed. “It will be all over soon. Back to sleep,” she tried.
The first crack like lightning sounded beyond the wood of the door, and Landion felt his muscles spasm at the sound. There was a yelp and a sob that followed, the sound worse for the house than utter darkness. Niniel’s face grimaced; Landion could see it in the darkness. “I’m sorry, Aunt Niniel. I—”
“It’s not your fault,” the woman interrupted, though the words seemed snipped and tired themselves. “Please. Just…lie down. Both of you.”
Landion said nothing else, and climbed into the bed beside his sister, drawing the covers up to their chins as if a blanket could keep away the storm raging beyond their little room. Still, the little boy already knew there was no sleep he would find this night, for even once Gilwen had climbed into bed and cried herself to sleep and silence returned once more to the home, it would not be one of peace but of a tomb.
Dawn, perhaps, could wash away the darkness for a time. Gilwen certainly deserved her goat cheese.