Malintended Murk, Mud, and Mire

The little girl had stilled her laughter, done playing in the mud. But it appeared that Rosiel had just started. She restrained her laughter behind her palm for the time being, though certainly it could not be withheld after she retreated.

What Rosiel did not see in her mirth was the man who had come from behind. Faeldor was, on rare occasion, running late for a scheduled meeting with the Steward, and had just come upon the courtyard. He stilled his steps when he heard the raised voice of the Matron of the palace servants, and stopped in his tracks as he, and a few others about in the surrounding area, stopped to watch.

The Matron urged Rosiel get a handle on the child; and the young woman merely rolled her eyes at her. “I'm no servant in your halls, do not order me,” she snipped back. She might be the Matron of the housekeepers in the palace, but that was only a hair's breadth above the housekeepers themselves. Her lip curled in disgust, yet still she held Barahel for she was not interested in the threat about the steward to mar her reputation.

Faeldor’s fists clenched at his side when he saw Rosiel standing so near Gilwen. He had not seen what had ensued with that dreadful woman, though he knew from the moment he recognized her that this was her doing. He wished to wipe the grin off her face with the back of his hand; in front of others; in front of all of Minas Tirith did she deserve it, though his thoughts turned from her instantly, as he overheard what Gilwen’s supervisor stated.

A mockery. Find her work elsewhere. She had taken her job.

His face fell, knowing that this was the greatest insult that could have been cast on the woman after all they had done to get her re-hired into gainful employment in the first place, and even as her supervisor retreated back toward the palace, Faeldor quickened his steps. “Gilwen,” he said firmly, his voice in frustration that he had not been able to intercede on her behalf.

“Oh, I was looking for you Faeldor. Sounds like Gilwen here is going to have to sleep with the dogs tonight. I doubt she can show her face in her household now. How will her family survive?” The malicious tone ringing in Rosiel’s voice was displayed as sweet and succulent as honey. “Why, she’d have to sleep with the Steward himself to make up for what she has lost now. Little harlot,” she spat.

Faeldor’s eyes shot spears through the prideful woman before him. “It would be in your best interest to not speak in such a way in public, Rosiel,” he said carefully, minding his tongue. A few people nearby also held looks of horror for the degrading way in which the woman had spoken of the Steward Denethor. Yet, Faeldor’s eyes burned more for Gilwen’s sake. “You and the child go home now,” he said harshly. “You have no business here.”

“Oh, hm… perhaps I don’t…” Rosiel preened. She was rather satisfied with what she had already done, in fact. “Faeldor, have you met my cousin Barahel yet?” She attempted to change the subject, though Faeldor was not to have any of it.

“No, hello, child,” he said, sparing a glance for the little girl, who was rather adorable in her little dress, though a bit muddy herself. Faeldor did not wish to think in how it might relate to Gilwen’s state. He ignored Rosiel now, for some moments, and finally the woman saw that he would not be distracted, and made a comment for the little girl to follow her. She would meet Faeldor later; satisfied she was now with her work.

Faeldor paid her no more heed, and placed a hand on Gilwen’s shoulder. She looked as if she were about to cry; and her muddied cheeks were beckoning for the touch of his hand. Her shoulders slumped, and he had not the time to comfort her now. He desired to with all his heart, though, an appointment with the Steward missed, if the man was on a foul day, could not give him favored accord with the man. He needed his job as well as Gilwen had needed hers, to support his family, and someday her own. Perhaps that day had come sooner now, than later, he realized.

With the woman in her state of dress, he certainly could not wrap her up in his arms for comfort, and so the most he did was touch the wet cloth of her dress. “I… did not see what happened…” he started slowly, his voice now gentled from the harsh tone he had used upon Rosiel. “And I am late for meeting with the Steward, I cannot stay.” I cannot comfort you or protect you as you need at this time. Faeldor was torn! His sweet love needed him and he could not be with her. He took a breath, his mind returning to his hurried state. From his pocket he pulled his handkerchief and tenderly reached to wipe the mud and water from the woman’s cheek. Though, he could do not much else. There were still onlookers.

“Go home, darling, I will meet you there as soon as my meeting is finished,” the man promised, his voice strained with the fact that he could not take her away somewhere safe and assuring at this very moment. And to know what had happened! What had Rosiel done? “I do not know how they can believe such lies,” he added, just above a whisper, and the man leaned to kiss Gilwen upon the forehead, unconcerned for the misconstrued judgment. With that, he painstakingly turned, looking sorrowfully back at Gilwen once, before making a hurried retreat for the palace, taking the steps two at a time. He could not bear to turn around and look back again, for fear that he would abandon the Steward’s meeting at her sake, and lose his job. That was not a needed prospect.

Faeldor’s smile throughout his meeting with the Steward was halfhearted. Of course nothing could be taken on good accord when asked to meet with the Steward Denethor, so most of the higher authority in the city of Minas Tirith would have had the same feeling. It was either for Lord Denethor to tell them that they were not up to standards in their work, that a severe change or accommodation needed to take place, or for an added responsibility.

He could think of nothing other than Gilwen's sad brown eyes as the Steward spoke to him, and difficult was it for him to keep concentration. She had barely even looked at him! Faeldor did not think ill of the lovely woman, by any means. If she thought so, he would surely inform her otherwise. It was not her own fault that her job had been taken from her. She had worked diligently, and hard. Her exhaustion over the past months, the state of her health, and her hands; they all gave testimony that she was working with all her might.

It was the fault of others; many others, who had played into rumors. Miriel had started it; Durion had accelerated it. Rosiel had done enough to add. Countless others had been involved. Gilwen’s coworkers… the other servants, the men on the streets. Faeldor sat in contemplation as Lord Denethor spoke to him. At rights he wanted to change the subject from horses and breeds to the fact that employed by him were so many slanderous, lying souls! Though, the man knew in his heart that a single servant in the palace halls would not bring great concern to the Steward of all Gondor. Nor did Lord Denethor have time to worry about matters which were, in the greater scheme of things; superfluous to the Realm of Gondor.

He tried to refocus his attention, nodding as the man spoke. By the end of the session, it was evident that indeed, he had been given an added responsibility, and that was to begin business dealings in Lossarnach, where a man had apparently a breed of horses that famed to be descendent of the Mearas breed of Rohan. Whether it was true or not, was for Faeldor to decide. He was to be sent out upon the week, and spend a few days in Lossarnach working with the horses, and purchasing them if they lived up to the word of mouth. The captains of Minas Tirith deserved only the strongest, and fastest, war horses afterall.

Some hours later, Faeldor made his way from the palace halls, exhausted, though eager to make arrangements for his departure. A man in love with horses was keen on seeking this breed. Though, Faeldor’s love for Gilwen had become greater than that which he bore for the equines and he was aching to jog immediately down to the first tier to take her up in his arms. His mind was muddled. The loss of her job was another slight against her name. One more slight atop a pile of others that seemed ever growing. He pursed his lips and thought of what he was going to say. It could be that now was the time to convince her that she needed not a job; that she could rest herself and let him provide for her and her family in the way he had wished to for months.

A year, his Grandmother had told him. A year of official courting before engagement, to be true to courtly manners. Then a year of bethrothal following. A year and four months he had left to wait; but three years was the proper time for all things to happen, and he knew his Grandmother was hoping in a way that he would lose interest in that time. Rumors had turned her sour; though if she would simply take a moment to truly meet Gilwen; to listen to her and see her for who she was, he knew that Tinuves would love her.

He had to keep in mind the name of his Grandfather in Dol Amroth even while he was far removed. Faeldor sighed at the thought. It had been eight months, but Tinuves had made such talks with him to encourage him to wait to propose to Gilwen, though the rings were ready made in Faeldor's drawer.

There were a few days to prepare, and he wondered upon the idea of fetching Gilwen along to Lossarnach with him. Never had he taken her outside the Rammas Echor, but the road to Lossarnach was to the west and safe were the ways for the trade route. Surely her Father would not approve; he had been as ill mannered as ever when Faeldor had taken her from the city for only one night, yet maybe there was a way he could convince him… that he needed the accompaniment. That it was… a paying venture? Faeldor frowned; trying to work his mind to some grand idea, though Gilwen loved horses she was not yet a fine horsewoman. Though she was sweet, she would certainly not be of assistance in negotiations. There was no… housekeeping… to do along the way. He merely wanted her presence, yet unable to work a way in his mind to take her for company he knew he was going to have to settle for leaving her behind in the city.

Nonetheless, he had his own duties to perform, and Faeldor returned to the stables to as well put the head groom in charge and lay out the orders for the next few days that he might focus upon readying. Frustrated was he that one of his best grooms had recently departed on a visit to family. Calon may have given him some difficulties at the start pertaining to his little sister, but the man was no fool when it came to horses. He wondered if perhaps by the time Brannion had retired, the man of Belfalas might be given another promotion as his second in the stables, though in another way he feared losing him altogether if he should take a fancy to working his way up to being a Stable Master himself. There were good stables on the lower tiers that could use the fine hand of a Belfalathrim. Of course, Calon was young; he was some years off from such a venture for his age among the regular populace of Minas Tirith took not into account his heritage. Nonetheless, Faeldor could find himself supporting the boy in his ventures. He had a good temperament. With men as well as horses. Perhaps if he should wish to try again with his sister, when they were both of proper age, things could be different. After all, a Stable Master, or even a head groom, was a respectable job and one could provide for a family through it. Narbeleth and Calon would simply have to wait, and perhaps the fancy would vanish by then, but for now they were simply too young.

No sooner had he finished his rounds in the stable did he leave the warmly lit hall. It was not long before the man had made a stop at his own home, to inform his mother of plans upcoming, and change from from his fine clothes into his day wear. The sun was moving across the sky, and he hoped he would find Gilwen yet at her home, yet he needed the time to think. How was he to convince her he would provide? To start with, he made sure to have a months worth of her rent in his pocket. It was the least of all things he could do. He was not certain how he was going to force it upon her family. He had to be gentle mannered. Her Father was proud and Gilwen was… stubborn. Perhaps… if he could slip it to her Mother. She seemed to be more open to his assistance than the others. It was only the start! He could offer them anything they needed to live upon… if only they would accept it.

Upon kissing his mother and grandmother, and Miriel and the children farewell, he left for a moment in the back gardens. The sorrow that Gilwen must have held for loss of her position was paining him, and he did not know what he could tell her, and to let her know that in a few days he would be gone. She was proud of his work; she had told him as much many times; but he did not wish to leave her behind so long alone. He had a few days; and perhaps they could scramble something together. He knew she would work; she needed to for her own sanity and desperation to provide. Perhaps there was something… there were some fine inns in the city. Someone had to be looking for a housekeeper. If he could find a place untouched by ridiculous rumors, and speak on behalf of her, he might be able to find her some gainful employment… even closer to her home so she need not walk through all the tiers alone. Something to get her by for now, until he could return and work out a better plan with her. A year and four months. It seemed too long a time to wait; when he had loved her a year and eight months already. His mind worked over the dates. Yule perhaps; it was only two months away, but it was a fine and festive date. Certainly Tinuves… his Grandfather, who had of course been informed that he was courting a woman, though… not whom the woman was… he had been avoiding the direct topic. Certainly those two months could be forgone for the sake of offering the gift of… a ring. On Yule. That would speed things up a slight.

Finishing his thoughts, the man plucked some of the autumn blooms from the flowering plants in the garden, in hopes that he could draw a smile from Gilwen. To know that she would be well was his greatest concern, for now, the only thing he could picture of her was her downcast, weary face from the courtyard some hours past. He sighed, moving around through the garden gate, and starting on a walk down to the first tier.

***

The winding way of the tiers seemed longer than ever. Surely the man loved when he was presented with outings. Given any better time the Steward's task would have been a blessing, for to have the time of day to gallop across the plains was not often likely; and there were often family affairs on his days off. To be out of doors, and astride his horse while the fine months of autumn waned on, on mission to do work that he loved, would be an ideal dream of any horse master. Though, his heart could not be lightened! Even as he reached the first tier in the mid-afternoon, he anxiously wished to see Gilwen.

It was not long before he had neared her house. At least, it was not long to Faeldor, who could easily become lost in thought. What if Beregar answered the door? Would he turn him away immediately? Even if Beregar were to send him away immediately, he would force him to take the flowers he had for Gilwen, and he would call into the house for her; that she knew he had come for her and kept his promise.

Perhaps Beregar would not be home. He saw as he approached the windows opened to the breeze, and he knew from Gilwen's words that Beregar preferred the house closed up. He was not home. Faeldor heaved a sigh and his heart lightened. He almost could have sung. Perhaps he would first peer into the window and sing a song to her before his entry; to see if he could coax a smile from her lips.

Yet, the candle of his hope flickered as he neared, for treading heavily toward the house was a sight he wished not to see. Beregar too was approaching, bent on mission with a jug of ale in his hand. No doubt the man would drink the full of it this afternoon, for he was a drunk. Faeldor's jaw set at just the sight of him. For as little as he would offer help or assistance for their… living situation… he would think the man would buy less to drink and put more toward proper abode. Faeldor stopped in the street as he watched him throw open the door to the small house, and heard the sound of him dropping his sack upon the floor. The door slammed behind.

Now what was he to do? The thought of meeting with her foul Father was disconcerting. He wished to speak to Gilwen. If only he had not dawdled so long in his thinking and planning he might have hurried her away before Beregar's arrival. Faeldor ran his hand over his forehead, and through windswept curls as he thought. He heard the shouting begin; somewhat muffled, though Faeldor's eyes narrowed as he drew himself nearer the open window.

“You don’t listen to me, Gilwen. I’ve told you, time and again, you weren’t to see that ponce from the sixth tier. Time and again!”

Ponce?

If holding a steady job and caring for one's family made him a ponce than Faeldor would attest to being one. Of all things. A ponce. Surely he stood no might in a fight with Beregar by bare hand nor sword; but it did not make him a woman. Hold your tongue. Hold your tongue, he told himself. Beregar was a fool and he was not going to get in a fight of words with him. He knew he would not be a match for the fists that might fly if he even tried, and he gritted his teeth at the way he was speaking to Gilwen.

“I know, Papa. But—”

“And still, you’re too stupid to listen! Look what you’ve done! We’ll starve. We’ll be on the street. Is that what you want for us, Gilwen? After all I’ve done for you, you’re going to do this? You lose me my job, you defy my orders!”

Faeldor's heart began to quicken, and he tensed further, moistening his lips as if he were about to say something, though he could not bring forth speech. What was he-- the sound of the jar smashing and Gilwen's gasp. Where was she? Near the door? She had not spoken enough for him to determine where she stood. Beregar's booming voice gave way his position well enough. There was a pause, as if she had spoken, but Faeldor could not hear her quiet utterance.

“Will you? Can you? I raised you better than this. Defiant! I tried to protect you, Gilwen! Who’s going to hire you now, hm? Only women who mind their betters find jobs! Your mother’s a lost cause, you…you I thought I’d fixed!”

There was a sickening sound; which Faeldor recognized; the sound of skin upon skin. He had struck her. Beregar had struck her, and he thought he heard Gilwen whimper in response, though so silent was the sound.

“You're lucky Berthor got enough to pay the rent this month. I don’t want to see you the rest of the day, do you understand? I’m going to fix this mess you made. You’re never seeing Faeldor again.”

Then he crossed his vision through the window; her form being dragged by the cloth of her dress to the small bedroom. Faeldor's eyes flicked into the alleyway; narrow between the stone houses where a carven stone culvert ran between to help drain the city during harsh storms. Simply wide enough to toss out the used water into the culvert.

He knew where her room was. Beregar's words to his wife were ringing in his ears as he tucked himself into the alley and looked at the window. Not going to let her eat. Fix it? What was he going to fix… and the window now. Sometime since her nameday; when he had helped pull her through the window when last he'd found her locked in her room; it had been boarded up by Beregar's hands likely. If he the force to rage against the mighty arms of Beregar he would have wailed on him. His fists clenched against his side.

Faeldor huffed outwardly at the sight of the half rotted boards keeping his Gilwen from breeze, and the flowers in his hand dropped and fell upon the stone. Keeping her locked away from light and wind. And no food. What was this prison? Even convicts trapped in the city's jailtower were given food and light. He pulled the knife from his belt as he began to pry the wood around the iron pegs that had been hammered into grout. It was soft, and chipped and cracked easily with gentle, quiet prodding.

“Gilwen,” he whispered at the crack while he worked. “Darling, I'm here. You need to come with me,” he told her, and then worked in silence until the first board was loosed, and he was able to pull it down and see into the room. Until he could see her wide brown eyes looking back at him in the dim light, and the pink skin of her cheek where she had been struck.

“No, I will not go,” Faeldor stated in a whisper. He was not going to go. He stooped down to settle the broken board tot he ground without making a clatter on the stones and then he rose again, shifting the knife to his left hand, as his right reached in through the slat where the first board had been removed, finding Gilwen's hand pressed against the other side. He grasped it; her rough palm against his, and drew it out into daylight, kissing her knuckles, before releasing her and flicking his knife back to his right hand, to reach up and begin prying at the next board.

“He struck you,” he whispered; the words almost an agony on his tongue. “What kind of Father… no. I will not leave you here.” He pressed his lips together to still his speech before he became carried away; before his voice rose in frustration and anger. The wood cracked beneath his fingertips and he wretched his fingers to tug against it and help the knife work.

Strange words came through the locked doorway and Faeldor had heard them; muffled shouts about Haradwaith, about travel. The way he spoke to Niniel was almost worse than the words that he had passed to his daughter, and Faeldor's fingers shifted until the second board was pried loose in splinters.

He lowered it again, glancing down at the moldy wood. His eyes were immediately moving on to the next, trying to work more swiftly, giving a light tug this time that broke the mottled board before he had even pried it loose. The sound had been a small crack; not loud in it's own right, but he was worried that somehow it might have carried through the door to the man bellowing the main room.

The boards were so rotten and moldy and soft, Gilwen could have tossed her body against them and broken them. Faeldor refrained from snorting in disgust; that she should be trapped behind them and out of fresh air. The crack was wide enough now, that she might squeeze out sideways if she hoisted herself into the stone windowframe. “Gilwen, come, come,” he ushered in a whisper, reaching in to offer her a hand of assistance.

“You can't?” Faeldor questioned. What did she speak of? Locked in this room as she was; he had taken her from it before, and he was going to take her again. He settled the next rotted board onto the ground. The focus on his prying and silence had kept the words of poison from his ears, though Faeldor did not like the look upon Gilwen's face when he found her again in the light.

She looked pale. It was no wonder she had grown so pale; to be kept away all the day in the palace walls scrubbing, which was of course no dishonor, but to be kept in the dark, in a locked room.

“Darling… my Starlight...” he pleaded in whisper, and he reached into the window again, leaning in with his shoulder, enough to grasp her in her grey dress, to wrap his arm around her her back, and draw her against the window pane. He could feel the bones of her spine through her dress, and frowned at just the thought of them; for his fingers had known the feel of her before all of this… before her first demotion… before she had worked with Durion… before she had taken the job again.

Though not gaunt, it was clear she was not eating as much; and Faeldor thought it was for her lack of work, but he suddenly realized why. He refrained from grumbling, and half embraced Gilwen right through the window. He could not lean in fully for the breadth of his chest, but he knew well she could slip through. “Gilwen… I have already found you,” he whispered her name softly, and drew her nearer. Now he could kiss her cheek. He heard Beregar ranting onward, about leaving. About Haradwaith.

“He is not even drunk,” he murmured. “He is not slurring, the man has not even had drink and he treats you as such. “I am not leaving. You are not going to find me. You come out here with me. Come with me, Gilwen,” he whispered against her cheek, kissing it again.

“Or I will take off the rest of the boards, and wait inside with you.”

Without hesitation he released her and again grasped his knife, moving for the next board. He would give her no time to make a decision, simply continue to work. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of being found in her room by Beregar. Yet… he had no choice. And Gilwen, he knew, would not let it come to that. Even as he began to scrape at the wood of the next board that he might widen the window gap further, he stepped to the side, knowing that Gilwen would come out to him.