Malintended Murk, Mud, and Mire

“Marry you? T-today?”

“Yes,” Faeldor answered swiftly, his eyes both anxious and excited.

“Not at an inn?”

“No... I did not mean work in that way...” he said.

“Like Beren and Luthien...Fael…”

“Yes, like they,” Faeldor nodded, watching the way her eyes seemed to delve into thought.

“Papa…You mean it? Stay here, with you?”

Faeldor watched as Gilwen's eyes moved back for the door. She mentioned her Father, and his hand released hers, sliding up her forearm and holding her in place, as if she were to flee his hands and return to the first tier without him.

“We can tell him. When he’s calmed down, he…”

“Of course... we will have to tell him. He can learn after,” Faeldor told her quietly. “When you are safely with me. Bound to me. When he will not be able to take you away. I desire you... with me.”

“Faeldor,” Miriel hissed from aside them, and Faeldor looked at her, wide eyed, as if he had forgotten she was there. “Faeldor, I don't think--”

“Miriel, no,” Faeldor answered his sister, raising his palm for her to still her speech. “You have no say in this.”

“Fael, I--” she tried again.

“No,” he repeated, and hefting a sigh with her brow furrowed deep, Miriel turned and whisked away back to her bedroom, the door slamming behind her. For a moment, Faedor's fingers clenched, and he stood, looking behind him.

He felt anxious, though instead of fiddling with his own hair he turned again and reached out and brush Gilwen's aside. He could not take her back to her Father's home. Not after what he had just seen. He had not thought well of the man from the moment he had met him, and less each time thereafter, though he had tried not to speak on such things to Gilwen. He was her family after all, as Miriel was his and she never offered harsh words of his sister. The bruise on Gilwen's cheek was beginning to darken, and Faeldor did not want to bring mention to it at the moment; he did not wish to let his anger loose. Not on Beregar's behalf, and not on Miriel's. He could not take that bruise away. He took a breath, and continued.

“Yes, you stay with me. A woman leaves her parents, and resides with her husband. I will take care of you.... one less mouth to feed in your Father's house? Hm?” he tried to appeal to her sensibilities.

“Eventually, we'll move... have our own home. I've imagined it. Us together. All evening, just us. At first. I'll sing to you. We can dance. And later... little ones...”

His hand dropped from her hair to her shoulder. “Gilwen,” he said seriously. “I know you desire it. You have told me as much... on the mountain. I...” He paused, knowing well she did not like him to reference such things that had happened those months ago on the mountain. He had not realized how little wine would push her beyond herself. He smirked for a moment, and then grasped hold of the railing with a hand, leaning down enough to press a kiss to Gilwen's lips. Chaste, for his Grandmother was eyeing them from below, though slow. “Say yes,” Faeldor whispered, “And we will go. Today. Right now.”

“Yes...Yes... I want to stay with you.”

“Twice yes.” Faeldor's eyes were shining. “It is more than I asked. I will make you happy, Gilwen. I promise you. Together we will be glad.” He could not promise that they would not endure hardship, for even Faeldor with his bright spirit knew that anything could happen, yet he would do his best to keep Gilwen safe and content. He was certain he could do well. In comparison to the way he had found her at her own home this afternoon... he could do exceedingly well.

“Is…this why you told Marileth to make a cake? … Today.”

Her laughter was endearing to him, and Faeldor could not help but bend to kiss her again, and then embrace her, holding her tightly against his chest in the way he had wished to since the incident that very morning. “It is why we need a cake,” he grinned. “I knew you would say yes at least once. Twice though you have said it! I am a blessed man. Blessed.”

“Yes, today. Right now, we will go to the archives right now, and have it recorded.” His hand pressed against her hair, and finally Faeldor released her, taking up Gilwen's hand again to lead her down the stairs.

“Congratulations are in order,” Melanir called from the sitting room as he heard them descending the stairs, for what had been taken of his sight had not been lost to him in hearing, and enough of the conversation had drifted down to him that he could presume the rest.

“Grandfather,” Faeldor paused a moment, his breath hitching as he realized someone else had overheard. He did not wish to be delayed. Not with Beregar as he was... if he should find them, and reach them before it was made official, things could certainly go downhill. Faeldor did not wish to dwell upon Beregar at the moment; for the scene of earlier was still fresh in mind, and he gripped at Gilwen's hand all the more gently as if to cover the force that he had seen her Father use against her. He could smell the ale yet upon her dress. “Yes. When we return.”

“I'll have Marileth tune my fiddle,” Melanir hummed in response. Tinuves' scathing look could not reach her husband through his lack of sight.

It was no time before Faeldor had led Gilwen back out the street, talking to himself, and to her, though there was no distinction in between, about the Citadel libraries, and how he was certain that this time of day would lead to plenty of witnesses to be drawn present.

“Master Turgon will be there for the records, half asleep by this time of day, I am sure. We may have to wake him from his nap. He sometimes falls asleep entirely at the books. He's almost two hundred years old...” Faeldor whispered as if his age were something not to speak upon; though Master Turgon made certain to comment on such a thing most often when it came down to matters of authority and matters of history.

Faeldor was not certain how many times he had crossed into the libraries and had been told the detail of the Battle of the Crossings of Poros, where the combined forces of the White City and the Rohirrim had beat back the Haradrim, and where Turgon had lost the pointer finger of his right hand as a Haradric warrior cleaved is weapon straight from his grips. For a moment he was silent and he hoped that Turgon would not waylay the grisly details of that particular incident upon Gilwen. Should anyone look upon his hand too long, or should he look upon his own hand too long while inking the documents, Faeldor was not certain they would find their way away from such conversation. They might be able to hurry him along, for afternoon was waning.

The walk through the stone archway of the precipice to the last tier took almost no time, for Faeldor's steps were light and Gilwen's pace was quickened to meet his. He restrained himself; slowing a slight as they walked through the archway together. So often had they walked through the echoing hollow from the citadel to the stables, or the stables to the citadel. From her home to the place, or back the other direction. Faeldor could not have counted the times nor the miles they had walked together just within the city streets.

This was the last they would walk through them in the same way. Faeldor looked down at Gilwen; the darkening bruise upon her cheek angering him, but he did not speak upon it. There would be a moment for it, he told himself, but not at this time. Not now, but when they were alone. When she was safe and comfortable in his arms.

Faeldor moved his mind onward as they entered the tower. He had never taken her to the archives before. Not for lack of interest in reading, but he had many stories upon his own bookshelves, and he had not yet read all of those to Gilwen. Straight to the desk did he take her, and found that the Archivist was half asleep as he had suspected.

“Hm-man, man? Faeldor...Anann chen ú-gennin! Ar i no dess?”

“No i Miriel? Ah!” Faeldor tried to interrupt, for Gilwen was the furthest from Miriel that any could be though, there was no time in bearing for it as Master Turgon continued and he was only given the chance to shake his head in the negative. “Ú no i—brennil nîn, díheno im.”

He could have noted to the Archivist that Miriel was at home, but he did not wish to dwell on the state of Miriel's health should such a thing come to the question. Not all in the city knew her yet as being with child and Faeldor was more than happy to keep such news swept under the rug. As it was, he was not fond of rumors. Even if the state Miriel found herself in had more truth than rumor to be said.

He frowned faintly at her, as if studying one of the books upon his table, and he lifted the hand from her shoulder to rub against her bruised cheek roughly. Gilwen gasped, partly in startle, partly in discomfort. Still she looked to Faeldor, pleading he helped. The draw was yet there for her to look upon Turgon’s hand, and she wished not to fall to such petty staring.

Master Turgon had swept forward in more greeting than Faeldor cared for, brushing against Gilwen's cheek, and Faeldor heard her gasp. The bruise he had not even fained to touch, though it should have some gentle care of a cool cloth upon it; there had been not the time.

“Ennas est waur…”

“I’m sorry, sir. I…don’t understand.”

“She-” Faeldor tried to give answer for Gilwen, who was seeming uncomfortable, yet there was no chance for such words to be offered as Master Turgon was swift as speech as he was slow of movement.

“Ah! She doesn’t speak Sindarin. Faeldor, why didn’t you say so?”

“I apologize, Master Turgon,” Faeldor answered, his voice coming quickly, finally given a moment, though he could do nothing but smile at the moment, clasping Gilwen's hand against his side. Faeldor knew that Gilwen had become used to those who came upon them speaking Sindarin. It was a common occurrence on the upper tiers of the city; the language of the Nobles, and Faeldor could dart between the two with no difficulty.

Even Quenyan, though it was never commonly spoken, the man could navigate if by need of reading some old record; though more often simply for the sake of seeking out poetry or lyric which had been recorded of distant lands long ago. “This is Lady Gilwen,” Faeldor introduced her. His Lady.

“Ah, and a Lady I have not yet met. I see you've noticed…” Faeldor's shoulders shrugged slightly. Of course Gilwen had noticed, with his hand all over the place as it was, the lack of the pointer finger. The nub of his middle finger.

“Ah, Dagor Ethraid Poros,” Master Turgon began, as he rifled through a shelf beside him. “There are many records kept kept here, and many I have recorded myself. But this. This one! My book…” His fingers came to rest on a book upon the shelf bound in red leather and imprinted with the words he had spoken. And I've translated it in Westron as well. Battle of the Crossings of the Poros.” He grabbed a second book from the shelf, bringing it to rest down on the table with him.

Faeldor stood motionless, watching. He knew that such would come to be; a new person could not be brought to the archives without listening to the recanting of such memories.

“I doubt you have ever seen the glory of the beacons as they are razed in call, nor the swiftness of the horse which bears the red arrow to the king of the Eotheod.Túrin II was the Steward in those days. Son of Thorondir. I remember him in my youth. I was not such an old man back then, you see?” He winked at Gilwen. “And I had a full hand of fingers.” Turgon raised his hand and waved it in the air as if to show what had already been noticed.

“But nevermind these. Just scars to me now, and scars tell a story. They were well earned and I would take them again if the need came. Do you wish to hear a story?”

He gave almost no time to answer, though looking upon the eager eyes of the young woman, he continued. “In those days we were well past the height of Gondor. I will admit it; though some may not, but the greatest days of Gondor were under the reign of King Hyarmendacil. Surely you know of him?”

His steel eyes flicked to Faeldor, and the man nodded, “Yes, the Ship King. He--”

“The South Victor!” Master Turgon announced emphatically. “King Hyarmendacil's father too was a Ship King, and he captured the Havens of Umbar at his ending, but he could not hold them. It was his son Hyarmendacil who declared war upon Harad as soon as he took up his reign, and King Hyarmendacil won victory over him. Even the men of Harad remaining recognized him as King and none contested his victory. In all the years of his reign… one hundred and thirty four years… none contested the strength of Gondor. The passes of Mordor were watched; the passes to the South were at peace. Oh if I would have lived to see such days,” Master Turgon trailed off in thought, and his lips moved but no more sound came from them for a moment as he looked with glazed eyed expression upward to the books on the shelves of the record room.

The talk of Haradwaith was frustrating Faeldor, for he had heard that name spouted earlier upon Beregar's lips, and it was all the more reason he had wished to hasten here.

“Master Turgon,” Faeldor interrupted the old man's thoughts. “We've come to put our names down in the records. The marriage records.” The words were stated briskly.

“Ah yes, the records,” Turgon hummed to himself as he turned behind him and pulled a well kept scroll off the shelf. “Ah yes, it is almost the end of the year. What is the date… Hithui...”

“Not yet. Narbeleth 31,” Faeldor said, peering over as Turgon unrolled the bottom of the scroll onto the table. He glanced back toward the doorway they had entered, as if at any moment Beregar would come red-faced and shouting after them. Yet now they were close.

“Hithui tomorrow… Then Girithron. I need to start thinking about a gift for Yule for my wife. What do you get the woman who has everything?” he laughed slightly.

“A kiss?” Faeldor grinned, able to let go of his anxiety for the moment as he watched Turgon settle back into his seat and uncork the bottle of ink, readying his quill pen.

“Ah! That will make the most of it!” Master Turgon laughed. “Even the youth know that much. I knew that back when I was your age,” His eyes glittered up at Gilwen for a moment, and then back to Faeldor. “I was about your age I'd guess when the red arrow was sent out, and the beacons were lit. It was an Oath sworn by Eorl that had that arrow sent. You know, the arrow we sent then was an honorary one. Black with barbs, and a tip painted red. The Red Arrow. It was merely a representation. Yet the very first arrow which was sent to the King of the Eotheod in early days was a true orc arrow, and it was red and dripping with blood in the hands of the rider who carried it. This time it was just painted red, and the Rohirric King took sent his greatest warriors to Gondor's call. His twin sons, Folcred and Fastred. Never had I seen better Horsemen, and I know I'm speaking to one of the greater ones it the city,” Turgon laughed.

“It's no affront to me,” Faeldor answered. “I'd never claim to be a better horseman than the Rohirrim. They're born to it in their blood.” The topic of blood seemed to remind Turgon of what he had been earlier speaking.

“I was never sure the name of the man who's blood covered that first orc arrow. It seems his name should go down in records somewhere. A pity it's been forgotten...” Turgon sighed. He liked to keep records of such things. It was an honor to have your name written down into record.

“I'm not sure,” Faeldor began, glancing down to Gilwen. He wished to cover her ears. Speaking of blood and orc arrows. His fingers clenched and unclenched for a moment, and then his arm was drawn around Gilwen's back, letting his fingers rest against her side. “Our names, could you put down our names in the record?” he asked, trying to bring attention back to the recording of the marriage.

“Of course. Faeldor. Son of Faelon,” Master Turgon answered, dipping the quill and beginning the slow scratch of letters as he held the quill pen in his own odd way, with his thumb, and the nub that was left of his middle finger. “Faelon. You know, your Father told me they keep a special horse trained up in that stable of yours to run the arrow for days of need.

“We do. Rimpalagon we have now,” Faeldor answered Turgon, and then to Gilwen, as he often did now without question. “His name means Flying Storm.”

“I never thought to… hm...” Turgon quickly grasped an edge of parchment and jotted down a note. “I will have to make it as a footnote. I never added the horse's name that bore the arrow to Rohan in 2885. I wonder if it was kept in record here, or in the Stablemaster's records?” the old man questioned. His eyes were alight at the concept of a new piece of information.

“Limruin was his name. Swift Footprint,” Faeldor answered. He had searched the records himself at a point not long after he'd first heard Turgon recant the tale.

“Limruin...” The name was scratched down beneath Turgon's note, and his eyes glanced to the leather covered book, and his mind moved as well to the Sindarin copy still left upon the shelf. “And I shall have to send a note to the libraries of Pelargir and Dol Amroth to take down the books and add it. Oh… this always happens...” Turgon flustered for a moment, his memory trailing off to the last time he had needed to send a note to the other archivists, and it was Faeldor taking a step nearer his desk which had caused him to look up again.”Where was I?”

“Gilwen. You were putting down her name...” Faeldor urged.

“That's right. Gilwen… daughter of...” Turgon glanced to Gilwen.

“Beregar,” Faeldor answered for her instead.

“Ah,” Master Turgon mumbled, beginning to write the name. Berega-… he stalled before the last letter, looking up to Gilwen. “There was a man named Beregar in my company then. I wrote about him in my book. He slew the great Haradric Chieftain Diya al Din with only a broken spear. I learned the name of the Chieftain from one of the men who had been taken captive, and my, he was a vicious one. Diya al Din rode with the skull of a Gondorian warlord dangling from a rope on his saddle. I never could find the name of the Gondorian from any there who would speak with me. Most of the captives spat upon me, and said the Haradric tongue was not meant to fall upon the lips of the pale skinned northerners unless they be paying allegiance to the Cheiftains. Even in captivity they were proud, and most of the prisoners found ways to take their own life. Grisly manners...”

Faeldor's breath came in a huff as he looked at the unfinished letter of Beregar's name, and Master Turgon slipped back into his recanting of the tale. He wanted to pluck the quill from his hand and finish jotting it down himself. One letter to the finish.

“But as ferocious as Haradric warriors are. They were no match, we pushed them back across the River Poros and held it. The Army of the Lords of Gondor was ten thousand men at arms. Bearing sword and spear. And five hundred of the Steward's footmen made the best infantry seen in Arda. Never since then has there been a better infantry. I was among those five hundred,” Turgon stated rather proudly. His hand hovered over the page in the records.

“And there were six thousand Knights of Rohan who came at the call of the beacons and the arrow. It is said that the Rohirrim are born on the backs of their horses. Some were so fresh faced I'd believe they were born of shieldmaidens as they crossed Anorien, and took up their own horses before they reached the lands of Gondor. And to join those knights were the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth.”

“East to West, North to South, We had eighteen thousand men, to their forty thousand. Less than half, yet we had strategy which they did not. The Haradrim have sand mixed with bloodlust for brains it's said. If you tilt their head to the side, you can see it pour out their ears. Red sand. I keep a jar of it… here,” Turgon bent over and reached across the desk to hold up a clear corked bottle, filled with the red sand of the south. He held it out to Gilwen.

Faeldor's eyed the jar with a slight grimace upon his face, but soon looked back to Turgon before he could again grow distracted. “One more letter… an R at the end of the name,” he pointed out.

“Ah!” Turgon answered, picking up his quill again and with a swoop making the last letter on the page. He reached for a stick of sealing wax and using the burning candle he allowed it to drip onto the page aside the new markings. Faeldor watched as Turgon took his ring and pressed it into the wax while it began to harden, and pulling back, the word was sealed. Faeldor held his breath, and looked quickly down to Gilwen, his curly hair swishing with the motion. His wife now by law, holding the jar of Haradric sand.

“As I was saying,” Turgon started again. “There were eighteen thousand men, and Beregar took down Diya al Din just as we were pressing them back across the river. I was knee deep in water when I came face to face with the one of which someone said his name was Farooq. None of Farooq made it across the river before I was finished with him, though neither did my finger make it across.”

She thought it was brains. With her gasp, Faeldor realized that Gilwen thought the jar of red sand she clutched in her small hands was truly filled with brains. Uttering his name in trepidation she looked upon him and Faeldor settled a hand on her shoulder, about to speak though the archivist carried on and he hid his sigh, listening politely. The seal was set. No matter how much he spoke, the deal was settled.

As the story of Farooq and the monster of a crocodile in the Anduin was placed into his wife's imagination, Faeldor stood still, his lips pressed together, listening and thinking on how his first moments with his new wife were being dawdled away in a story of blood and brains, of missing limbs, which grew ever more fanciful as he carried on. In fact, the story had grown to greater proportion now than the time he had brought his younger brother Faelon alongside him to seek out a scroll.

Gilwen was leaning on every word, as the story came to the portion of carving bodies.

“Master Turgon,” Faeldor noted, trying to interrupt before he began on the portion where the Gondorian army fought against the night ghouls of Harad. Surely it was coming next, or perhaps it was further along in the book. Either way, Faeldor was worried the language the man was using could make Gilwen either afraid or ill, and he did not wish her to be in such a state on their wedding day, such as it was. “You're giving away the whole of the tale. However will we be surprised when we read it in your book?”

“Ah yes,” Turgon gleamed, as he slid the copy of his book across the desk and Faeldor took it in hand, then nudged the glass jar of sand which Gilwen held back toward the tables. Not brains. He would tell her it was not brains. That look in her eye, for the love of the Valar, he had some backtracking to do as soon as they stepped outside.

“And you'll be back once you've read it, I hope?” he nodded to Gilwen. “Then… we can discuss! Come along while your husband is at work. I don't mind the company, in late afternoon. Will keep me from sleeping.” Turgon nodded his head a few times.

“Thank you for your services,” Faeldor gave a brisk nod to the man, a slight nudge of Gilwen in the back of the shoulders to turn her towards the door. Done. All done. The leather book under his arm for… later reading, and outward back into the sunlight, away from flickering candles and tall tales and onto the street, far from the ears of the old man.

“It was not brains,” Faeldor told Gilwen, a light smirk in his eye despite the annoyance. It was all done and overwith after now at any rate. The rush to have the matter settled was finished, and he took her hand. “It was only sand in the jar. Just sand from the earth, which he keeps in memory of the southlands. Sand which any person could go and gather from any place in Harad. The sand sets red where the rocks which grind down by wind are red. It has nothing to do with blood.”

Of course, there was more falsity than naught that had been spoken, though one by one he would need explain to her, and the book was more truthful than the lips of the old man. Perhaps it would explain just as well.

“That's it,” Faeldor whispered to Gilwen, as they walked back toward his home. He pressed a kiss to her temple even as they walked upon the street. “We're married, on the records, by law.” The cumulation of seeking after her, for nearly two years had he desired this moment and it seemed profoundly… simple. Normal. As if he were waiting for a change on the air, on the wind. As if he waited for a torrent to rise up, or the firmament to declare Gilwen his. Yet no such thing occrured, and it were as if it were an every day thing; as if she had been his all along, yet now, she truly was.