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Cadil with Unalmis @Ercassie
Seeking adventure

"Well, she definitely looks cross," Cadil said, sparing another look at Iole. "I bet in this mood she would not come with us even if we offered gold for it. Well, each to their own... We can have a man-adventure without having to watch any girls' backs while out there." Whilst his words might sound proud and exclusive, yet he meant no bad towards the girl.

Adjusting the straps of his pack, he then looked Nal over more intently to note that he didn't have any stuff with him. "And what exactly do you mean to eat?" he asked, satisfied that he had at least thought of this aspect of travel. "Catch rabbits with your bare hands or dig for roots to gnaw? It is you who sticks with the Rangers and should be more experienced, rather than I..."

Having a good laugh at his own words, he then continued: "I was in Pelargir only in passing, but I suppose we would find enough entertainment there. Just that... if we don't find a ride we might get stuck with marching our way there for a whole week or something. Not that I don't mind walking or camping out in the open - I ain't got coin to visit countless inns on the road. Not sure about you."

For one reason or another Cadil seemed to take a rather reasonable approach to this adventure, though he was well known for being thoughtless and messing up even the simplest things, and not thinking of consequences. At any rate, here they were, and what would happen after would greatly depend on themselves, and maybe on whoever else they would happen to meet along the way.

Anorien - on the road between Edoras and Minas Tirith

The ride had been uneventful, and after about a week on horseback she had plenty of time to think. The giddy mood full of excitement for adventures had been replaced by a more somber mood. She had halted on the border between the two kingdoms, allowing herself to feel, for good and bad, the full weight of her choice. And there, alone on the road she had stood for what must have been a long time before she was unable to mount again and cross the border into Gondor.

She had not thought it would be like that, she had believed herself to be at peace with her life as it had turned out, that her husband and children had driven Tomassar into a pale memory. That the years passed since she married her handsome Gondorian, and since he disapeared and she had travelled and searched for him, that all this would only be a passing memory. But it was not. So she stood there on the road and on the border crying into the warm furry side of Lynet, believing for a moment that she was Disa.

She cried for all that had been and that was not, for the life she should have had with Tomassar, the children they should have had, she cried for the soldiers she had not been able to save on the battle fields and after the battles and war was over. She cried for Lailyn and for Eldrith and for friends found and lost and found again.

At the end there were no more tears and she mounted Lynet and resumed her travel towards Mundburg, now repeating the words she knew in the language of Gondor and practising thinking in the Common Tongue.

----
She approached Minas Tirith more slowly. Her green eyes took in the sight of the White City, Mundburg in her own language, how different and majestetic it looked compared to Edoras. Another flood of memories came over her, a mix of merry and sad memories of happy times here with her first husband, of merry celebrations, and of a desperate search for him. All mixed with excitement and a sense of adventure. What if the hælends, the healers would not allow her into their knowledge? Well, she wasn't really afraid of that scenario, she was a hælend and that gave a bond in common.

Her eyes glittered as she looked upon the gate with mixed emotions of hope, sadness, excitement, and hesitation. She halted outside the gate, wondering whether or not it would be acceptable to enter on horse back. She lightly jumped down from Lynet as she approached the gate leading into the first circle. People were busy going in and out of the city, passing by her as she hesitated. Then she squared her shoulders, straightened up, and led the horse into the first circle of Mundburg going in search of a stable for her horse.

Winter was long upon the summit of Halifirien. The darkness and cold seeped into the bones and settled there until spring sent the oak trees budding in the Firienholt and beckoned simbelmynë into bloom. Harlan noticed these subtle changes in the surrounding landscape for he spent hours and hours looking out from the beacon hill waiting for something to happen. Patience and discipline were everything up here. And the ability to cope with solitude.

The isolation of the lonely hilltop was not a burden for the Rider of Rohan. It was an honour to be chosen among Men of the Eastfold for the lookout duty and he wore the mantle with pride. It helped that he was the perfect candidate- a fit twenty-something young man with no family to miss during the long, quiet months spent with no company but his hound and the other fellow stationed here with him. They were not always entirely alone. Every so often, an errand-rider would pass through with news and take shelter with them for a night. The tree-lodgings made some of their visitors uneasy when the wind howled and set the boughs rattling against the roof while the eaves cracked and groaned above their weary heads. But Harlan felt more at home up in the trees than he ever did on the plains of his homeland.

The short days made winter the hardest time of year and the watchers on the hill looked forward to the light that would arrive with spring’s warmth. It was not that Harlan minded the darkness; watching the stars was a highlight of night duty but there was so much to be done during the brief hours of daylight. Maintaining the beacon-hill was more than watching for flames. He hunted, set traps and gathered food to add to their stores, maintained the path that was their lifeline to civilisation via the Great West Road and climbed up and down the hill felling trees and stockpiling wood. In addition to the kindling perpetually prepared for lighting the beacon, they also needed enough to stay warm. The work was exhausting even for one in the prime of youth.

In fact, nothing about life up here was easy. Long hours were spent waiting for a beacon that might never be lit, a duty that might go unfulfilled. Lonesome silence that reigned above the trees could become disquieting to one unaccustomed to such emptiness. Some men did not return after their first assignment ended. Harlan came back again and again. To him, it was a simple life; he could not ask for more. His responsibilities and duties were clear and self-reliance was essential. As an orphan, he learned self-sufficiency from a young age and it came as naturally to him now as flight to a bird.

Spring was on its way, so close Harlan felt he could almost smell the fresh morning dew that would coat the grass like lace, but good tidings did not come with the brightening days. An errand-rider arrived in late winter, bringing fresh steeds and ill news. There had been a battle at the Fords of the Isen. King Théoden’s only son was dead.

There was a growing tension within Rohan and shadows lurked on the edges of her borders, waiting to be cast forth and consume all. Gondor did not seem to be faring any better, poised as they were on the edge of the Enemy’s gates. The news was troubling but Harlan was only one man and he could not alter the harrowing course of events. He had his duties here on Halifirien and he went on with his life. There were too many things to occupy him here and now to worry over the wider world.

March seventh dawned like any other. Harlan rose late in the morning, having been on night duty, and then went about his tasks and spent the afternoon felling trees and gathering kindling. Beneath the waning late-afternoon sun, Harlan laboured his way back up the hill laden with another bundle of firewood. A tawny-coated hound bounded up before him in an effortless stride then raced back down and circled his master, close on his heels. The dog gave a gentle bark of mixed encouragement and impatience. Harlan understood it to mean something like “get on with it!”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not lugging anything on your back!” He laughed and gave the dog an affectionate scratch on the neck.

When he reached the crest of the hill, he added the wood to their stores, then paused to stretch his tired limbs. He slowed his breath, flicked a stray lock of ginger hair from his eyes and gazed out at the familiar landscape. The fading sun painted the sea of bare oak branches into a maze of spiraling, writhing shadows below. A clear gap in the forest was visible where the Mering Stream cut down the hill. To the west, the plains and fens of Rohan rolled rich and green as far as he could see and eastward the fertile lands of Anórien sprawled upon the edge of Gondor.

His watch would begin soon when the last rays of light fell beyond the snow-capped western peaks. He expected it would be no different than any other- a long night of looking at the stars and telling himself stories and pacing the station back and forth.

When night fell, Harlan took up his watch. He wrapped himself in a thick cloak and settled in with his dog curled up at his side. Soon, the hound's breathing descended into soft snores, providing a steady cadence in the otherwise silent night.

And then the most unexpected thing happened.

A flame arose out of the darkness. Red and orange flared, impossibly bright and harsh against the velvet night. The beacon upon Calenhad was lit. This was it. This was his moment. His purpose.

Harlan leapt from the ledge where he sat and sprung into action. Only after the beacon was ignited and flames greedily licked the wood and burned with a heat Harlan had never felt before did he shout for his fellow watcher to come see and share this moment with him.

No one living in Rohan remembered a time when the beacons had been lit. Here he stood on the top of Halifirien in a place steeped in history of not one, but two lands, and tonight, he lived a piece of history of his own. Little did he know somewhere far below, there was an even more unexpected sight. A mearas bore a wizard and a halfling east to Gondor and certain war. Even now, as he looked at the beacon burning bright did the unlikely pair spy those very flames and remark upon them.

Gandalf said war was kindled and so it was. Soon, the sound of many thundering hooves would herald the muster of the Rohirrim and Harlan would watch the great company pass below on their way to battle in Minas Tirith. When they did, he would feel the fire of his youth; a wish to ride with them, to wield a spear and shield, feeling pulled from this place of contentment for the very first time. But he was only Harlan, a beacon-watcher, and his duty was already fulfilled. Great deeds would be done and recalled by many and none would likely know who had lit the signal fires that night. His name would be forgotten and fade away as a small piece of a bigger story, unnoticed and unobserved like the falling of a single leaf in a forest kissed by autumn.

The Second Circle

The journey had taken more time that he thought, he was behind schedule. Beneath his deep, black cloak, he growled in frustration. He had made it through the Great Gates without issue, his cargo also passing through without much fanfare. He sat on a rickety, termite-riddled wagon with two draft horses that were far too old to leave the farm. The crowds had been light, most of the city dwellers had allowed him and his decrepit vehicle passage on the cobblestone streets. He kept his head down, but his ears were open, and sharp. He could hear the hushed whispers, the concerned tones, the half-stifled giggles. He knew how he looked. He knew his wagon was barely held together by hope and prayers, he knew his horses should not have been made to make this journey, but it had all been necessary. As he travelled through the streets, the crowds thinned and eventually dissolved into nothing. He was not sure what bothered him more: the dozens of eyes watching him, noting and commenting on his passage, or the empty silence, no eyes, no ears, nothing. Minas Tirith, when it was silent, was an eerie place. The sun had risen, but the light was still thin, weak, and gray. Maybe he was not as late as he had first thought. He could smell the bakeries and butcher shops as they went about their tasks, much of their work done before the doors of their establishments were flung open. His stomach growled reflexively. Beneath his hood he let loose a thin, wistful smile. He was hungry. He hadn’t eaten in some time. But he needed to work quickly and stopping at a bakery for a bagel would not do. His work today was too important. His fingers itched, wanting to spur the horses on faster, but even in his hurry, he knew he must be patient. The eyes and ears may have melted into the shadows, but that did not mean they were gone. He strained his ears to hear anything over the creak of the old wagon wheels. It was only the occasional bird, a rooster or a crow, that broke the silence with a rasping caw. Minas Tirith might as well have been a tomb.

He had set out days ago, starting in the predawn hours, when the stars wheeled in the firmament, unchecked and wild. Sometimes, he envied those stars. They were eternal, immutable, boundless. Yet, they were trapped, doomed to play out a morality play over and over and over again. That was not for him. He enjoyed his freedom too much. This task he was completing, his entire reason for being in the city on the first place, was an expression of that freedom and a warning to those that would try and take that from him. His cargo, lashed and tied in place, would be a monument to his will to power. He had spent hours crafting it, sculpting it, perfecting it. The work had been back breaking, but it was worth it. His attention to detail was exacting, but the end result was perfection in his critical eye.

He passed through the First Circle and into the second, the sight of a dilapidated wagon on the verge of falling apart at the least bump did not attract many eyes. The guards hardly even looked as he was waved on through. With a wavering voice, he thanked them, waving to them until his arms grew tired and he slumped back into his stooped position on the wagon’s bench. All things old and frail did not attract attention, more often than not it did the opposite. He had been on this earth a very long time and he had gleaned that bit of knowledge, filed it away in his mind, and promised to use it. He remembered the days of his youth, days spent by the harbor watching old men tie down their boats and in the frozen wastes of the north where he watched old men butcher and skin the spoils of the hunt. He had paid close attention to all of it, learning as much as he could in the time he had. The silence of the city, the slumbering beast, was heavy. He could feel the pulsing heartbeat of the city. The night’s fog was burning away already, ghostly finger disintegrating and shrinking until they finally blew away in a burst of eastern wind. Some of it still clung to his wagon, swirling about the wheels and clinging to his thick black cloak. He had seen more than a few necropoles in his long life, and Minas Tirith felt like one right now. Despite the potential energy swirling about the place like a coiled spring, the city felt dead. Empty windows like skulls peered out at him in the morning gloom before shrinking away into the shadows. He passed them, consciously avoiding their gaze, giving them no power to deter him from his goal.

Beneath his hood, Frost smiled wickedly.

He had passed through the walls of the enemy fortress without so much as a second glance from them. The spell he placed over the wagon and its contents had been successful. Rather than make the interior invisible, with which he would have had to account for everyone that might have been able to see it, the Númenórean placed a spell that made people’s gaze slide off the object, encouraged them to look elsewhere, that made their eyes feel weak and heavy if they looked too long. It was simpler and less flashy, less predictable than an invisibility spell. There might have be those in the city, too, that could see through the glamour and he could not afford that. Not yet. Not until he was ready to unveil his prize in its fullest glory. He’d chosen the wagon and the horses too because they would not receive a second glance. More often than naught, they would go out of their way not to even give him a first look. Deep within his hood, his face contorted into a mirthless laughter. Some people would crane their necks so far and twist them around so much it was a wonder they did not break their own necks. That was good, had someone stared for too long, Frost would have broken their necks for them. No one would recognize him. Not on this trip. Instead of going to his normal haunts, the opium dens, the seedy taverns, or the high-end brothels, he was heading for the library, as public a place as he could find that would not be swarming with Rangers like ants on sugar cubes. He was on a tight schedule and he didn’t have time to carve through the remnant of these so-called warriors today. There was no doubt in his mind that he could do it, and he might even enjoy it, but Sombelenë had been very clear in her instructions to get to the north as soon as possible so as to present himself before the Delgaran.

The streets were empty. The only sounds were the muted clipclopclipclopclipclopclipclopclip of the horses’ iron shod feet against the cobblestones. It was relaxing sound, one that helped him focus on the task at hand, helped him stay his hand. He could feel his blood pumping in his ears, adrenaline was rushing through his veins, urging him to act. His muscles were tense, ready to spring into action at the drop of a pin. Not so deep down, he wanted some Rangers to come upon him so he could cut them to pieces. He could feel the ecstatic rage building within him. He needed to release it soon or it was going to burst in a violent display of destruction that would hinder him from completing his goal. His breathing became ragged and short. He felt like an angry bull, penned in without an outlet for his wrath.

His hand touched the old violin and bow he had set beside him. He had forgotten it was there. He had not played a violin in decades, yet when he was preparing for his trip, he found himself inexplicably packing it with the rest of his belongings. He had forgotten about it the instant he set it aside in the wagon. He laughed, slow and deep. He picked up the instrument, placed it expertly under his chin and began to strum tunelessly, his fingers dancing along the neckboard as he experimented with the sound, grew accustomed to the instrument again and the sound it produced. The sound was deep and sonorous. He could feel the musical vibrations in his chest. Every now and then his fingers slipped, or his elbow dropped, a symptom of his decades long lack of practice, but overall the motions and the fingerings came back to him. The music he produced was haunting and droning. He used a bit of his thaumaturgical magic to increase the sound or length the time it was audible. The horses whinnied and stamped nervously. He growled at them in response. He flipped the bow over and in a disjointedly jaunty motion, began to tap the strings with the wood of the bow, extending their sound in the all the nearby alleyways, empty windows, and hidden alcoves of the street. The col legno bounded and reverberated off the stone, the pitch and timbre reaching an unnerving, anxiety inducing pitch. He teeth hurt as he played. His fingers danced back and forth along the strings; his left hand barely able to keep up with his right until finally he reached such frenetic state that his fingers gave out.

Frost let out the breath he’d been hold, forcing the air through his nostrils slowly until the sound ended in a growl. His muscles relaxed; his blood cooled. The air was still thick and heavy with potential energy, he’d only tapped into a portion of the available power these ancient stones. He laughed as the old horses whinnied again, their agitation and discomfiture plain. He shrugged. These were not his horses. They were old creatures long put to pasture by their owners. Until Frost found them, they had been able to live in a retirement relatively free from stress and anxiety. But the Númenórean’s aura was not one of peace and tranquility. Each day they seemed to grow weaker. They slept fitfully and ate less and less. He was surprised they had not tried to bolt already.

“Only a bit further now,” he said under his breath, reaching out a long, tattooed arm to touch one of their flanks. The horse skittered.

He kept the violin close at hand. He had forgotten how powerful it made him feel when he played his style of music. He was no bard or skald, he could not weave together melodies to tell stories or to entertain, but he could tap into the energy of a place with it and use it as an outlet for his emotions or as a way of conducting his magical impulses. As he neared the library, he began envisioning a way to use the violin to enhance the… performance he was about to display.

The wagon slowed to a halt and Frost leapt with feline grace from the seat. He stood before the great stone edifice, his dark blue eyes looking at the architecture with a critical, unforgiving eye. The place was grand, there was no denying that. A testament to the old days, when there was still fire in the blood of the blood of Númenor. It nearly matched the great library in Umbar for its greatness. Yet, all the same, it was tame and safe. The great building stood out like a pearl among stones, but it refused to shine the way it ought to. He clucked his tongue disappointedly.

He unhitched the horses and slapped each of them hard on their rumps, sending them neighing and running away. Frost leapt up onto the wagon and unfurled the tarp that had been covering his prize. Producing wickedly sharp knife, he cut the ropes that had held it motionless for several days now. He looked on his masterpiece with pride, his chest swelling as he pulled it off the wagon and onto the street in front of the library. He chose a prominent spot, one that would be seen from all angles, from all directions and all heights.

“I told you, didn’t I, that you would live on in a new, and elevated form?” His words were biting and cruel; he sneered.

The dead man’s sightless eyes still looked at him with panic, fear, and terror. Frost savored that look in the man, had ever since he’d ripped the wretch’s lungs out of his still living body, cooked, and served them to guests. The eyes were bloodshot, more red than white. The man’s formerly green eyes had gone milky and colorless, his pupils ruptured and leaking. There were deep gouges in the man’s face, claw like marks left by his guests in their turn at extracting pain. Once, the man had been hale and hearty, not strong and robust, but not a pitiful rat looking to scurry toward the nearest sign of food. Now though, his muscles had been carved away, Frost’s knives had made expert cuts and the man, living, had seen his own body ripped away from him. Frost had even forced the fool to devour a part of himself as psychological torture (his favorite kind) before finally ending his misery. But that was when the real work began. The Númenórean butcher had removed all the organ from the man and stored them for later use, either as sustenance or as substance. Hollowed out thusly, Frost jammed white painted branches down the man’s throat, pulling the jaw apart and using his knife to slice open the esophagus as wide as he could to force more white branches down into him. When no more could fit, Frost snapped every one of the man’s joints out of place, turning him from an almost tall figure into a twisted, crooked, broken mess. He could once have been called a tree, but once Frost was done with his bones, the man was nothing more than a bramble. But he was still a blank canvas, a format for Frost to work his monstrous art. He flayed the flesh off the arms and legs, exposing red muscle to the open air, and wound vines, also painted white, around them. He placed flowers in the vines, alfirin, though the man was hardly worth of the royal death flower and wove a crown of mesquite thorns and the flowers and placed it on his head, mocking the so-called royal line of Gondor. He wove more branches in and through the man, ripping out his spine and replacing it with the twisted, gnarled trunk of a willow tree. He had been drained of blood and his skin that had been left to him was now a sickly marble white, matching the white of the tree branches Frost had endowed him with. He stepped back and admired his artistry. The man's only crime: stealing from Frost.

“You look as wonderous as I had hoped,” he said, stroking the dead cheek. “You will serve as a reminder that the shadows will never stop encroaching, that no matter what these Tarks do, no matter who their allies are, that we can never been exterminated. We are eternal. We are everlasting. We are always here. No king will ever be safe. No false princeling will ever be able to walk through a shadowy hall and not fear that we are lurking there. No queen will ever sleep in her bed and not feel the raging pulse of our fingers around her throat. We are Legion. We are boundless.”

Again, he inhaled deeply, crossed his arms and admired his work. The Tarks would know what this meant. They would understand the mockery he was making of them and their white tree.

He smiled, throw off his cloak and bounded back onto the wagon. He took the violin from the bench and began to play. Again, the sound was rich and full, but the melody was discordant and malicious. His fingers moved with lightning speed along the strings producing a frantic melody while his right hand drew the bow back and forth so face that it was a blur even to him. The sound reached a fevered pitched then, using his thaumaturgy to draw the sound out, strummed hard on a note, nearly ripping the bowstring across the violin. His hair tore from its leather cord and floated free in the morning breeze. Frost’s chest heaved with exertion, but he did not stop. As soon as the sound died down, he began again, finishing the frenetic, frantic warbling drones with a violent, final pull of the strings. He twisted and bent and coiled like a serpent, entranced by the horrid melody of his own song. He spread the song out until the sound reach every corner of the waking city. It seeped into the dreams of sleepers, turning pleasant, happy dreams into nightmares. He could hear shrieks of terror from his vantage point already.

He laughed.

Frost took one more look as the sun finally began to exert its power over the sky. Golden beams of light filtered through the landscape. The shadows lengthened but their strength was sapped. The songs of a dozen varieties of bird filled the air. His song had faded, along with the power it had within it, but the damage had been done. The light caught the white branches and they gleamed, a blinding light like molten silver. Nodding his final approval, Frost walked at a brisk pace until he back in the leaning streets. It would not do to have all his work undone by his getting caught!

With a spring in his step, Frost began to whistle. Soon, leaving behind the scene of his majesty, he made his way out of the Second Circle and to a stable he used from time to time. Standing there, bleak and resplendent, was a black stallion.

“Well lad, ready for a trip north? I have a stop to make in Rohan but we can be off home quick. You remember way?”

The horse neighed and stamped his foot eagerly.

Frost smiled.

Cadil’s observation caught the young Ranger glancing one last time after the sullen young woman, with only a sigh in response. He could run after Iole of course, but he didn’t see honestly why he should have to. She may have gotten it into her head to assume they ought to be a couple, just because all other people their age were settling down, and just because he was someone she knew well. Well, he knew her too well. She might as soon be his sister in fact, and he certainly knew what happened when people who shouldn’t marry young do exactly that. His parents, for a start. No, let her calm down. She had to calm down at some point and see sense. After all, of the two of them, Iole was the one that everybody always said was ‘sensible’. He was under no illusion that he need worry about her.

In the meantime, the open road beckoned. And sensible was not exactly the companion that Nal had in mind. So it was something of a surprise to him when Cadil suddenly spouted some very responsible questions. “By the tree, what has your father been filling your head with ?” the other young man laughed. “This should ‘be’ an experience ! And after all, isn’t being unprepared just an actual means of preparing yourself to manage when you don’t have the time to prepare ? I mean, what if you were robbed and all that you depended on was taken ? What if we have to cross a river and you lose your gear in the current ? What would you do then ? Wouldn’t it be wonderful, to know that you can manage, without, just in case you ever have to ?”


Unalmis might have been pushing his luck honestly. For all he knew, poor Cadil had been left to languish in his parents’ home and in pubs, growing soft since he had left military service. Nal was very keen to convince his friend to return to the armed forces. He knew the other youth came from a somewhat wealthier background than he did, so perhaps this sort of thing had never occurred to Cadil before. But had the other young man fallen fond of such comfortable living ? Such understanding bred relief that his friend had brought along some small means of preserving his comfort, in case the former soldier should happen to need it. It was not like they had undertaken any great plan for this expedition, so there was no way that either of them could have guessed what the other expected.

“I mean to have an adventure !” Unalmis took his own turn at amusement now, in the face of the other youth’s concern. “I mean, if you don’t ever test yourself, you can not know what you are really capable of. It’s not like we will die or anything. I mean, it’s Pelargir. Practically just the town next door, isn’t it ?”


This was not entirely accurate, and only suggested a concern for the Ranger’s map-reading skills, or lack thereof, but nonetheless he hoped that Cadil would not now join Iole and leave him to this mad idea all by himself. In case it helped his case any, the young Ranger produced and shook his (empty) waterbottle which at least held the promise of gathering water on the way should they come across any. And perhaps to avoid further hesitation, he clambered with no warning or great trouble back into the tree, where he harvested a further pair of apples. Tossing one over to his friend, Unalmis pocketed the other, satisfied.

“I left my coin at home. It was done on purpose.” he shrugged. “Men and Women survived in a world far more dangerous than this one before there was ever coin in the world. And who knows, we could enter some gamble den and win enough to put you up in such great storied inns your father would be impressed ! Or else we help some random passer by who turns out to be a great nobleman and he rewards us .. Even if we don’t though, even if we find ourselves hungry and chasing rabbits through hedgerows all the way, walking our shoes bare the whole way there and back … it will prove we can. I mean, Come on, where is your sense of adventure ?”

"Daddy, Ellin does not need this many toys, I imagine!" Aileen Camlost rebuked Beren for the umpteeth time, looking at the gift-wrapped toys clustered in the back of their shiny lebethron wagon.

"Are you jealous of a seven-year-old, baby?" asked Beren Camlost, her father, with a nervewracking grin. Aileen vehemently opposed the absurd notion. When Beren noticed her pale face turned the colour of a ripe Pellennor tomato, he launched his head back with a strident laugh so loud Narradir and Sorrel could have heard it in Ithilien. "You're a teenager, honey!" criticized Beren through boisterous laughter. His daughter kept harmlessly swatting his broad shoulder in outrage, biting her own lip to keep herself from smiling in silly embarrassment.

"They're all imported Dale toys," mumbled sulky Aileen, folding her arms . "Quality stuff."

"I get you plenty of quality stuff," Beren defended himself with a chipper tone. He took one gloved hand off the reins of the draft horse and took a hidden package out of his red gold-embroidered coat. Aileen, smiling openly now, snatched it and tore the brown paper off with the giddy zeal of a pampered girl several years younger. She gasped in gleeful surprise, discovering a small finely wrought toy insect of mithril and silver. It was made in the image of a blue spectre, a kind of firefly of the Tumladen Valley of Lebennin.

It flickered with a bluish light in the meads of the river valley. Aileen was not too surprised to see its luminous glimmer when she touched the magical Dwarvish rune Beren encouraged her to rub. The glowing firefly toy idly arose from Aileen's palm, flitting through the morning air until Beren lowered it onto his daughter's palm and closed her fingers over her present. His smile broadened when she kiss his square stubbled jaw. He patted her. "Quit your fussing, sheila," said Beren not unkindly, calling her by an Ithilien name for a young woman.

"I know the real reason why you got Ellin a bunch of toys," remarked Aileen, gliding inky silken hair off her doll-like face. "It's not just because she's a sweet lass either."

"She's like a wee niece to me," Beren replied and meant it but he did give her a sheepish grin. It was no secret between them that he felt guilty about skipping out on Nessa's therapy visits. He wanted to make amends and there wasn't much he could do for her personally. Nessa was a wedded woman of honorable position in the City and he was infamously known for his roguish past. People would whisper lies if he gave her gifts; no one would gossip if he gave ones to the healer's child. "Well, angel, a man can't say he's sorry to a married gal with a boquet of Lossarnarch roses so this ought to do nicely."

Beren settled back against the upholstered seat of the wagon. The Camlosts continued their serene journey along the white marble streets of the Fourth Circle. Passing silver fountains and olive trees on the way to Nessa's house, he whistled Vincent's Tune with Aileen. It was a melody Annabelle Snapdragon composed for piano; she penned the lyrics once after hearing her husband humming a random pretty melody he devised while shaving. It was soon shared with playwright friends of theirs, Scott and Allison Primrose, working for the Sparrow Theatre in Bree; Vincent's Tune was then commissioned as the main orchestral theme of The Realms in Exile, a saga chronicling the history of Arnor and Gondor, with royalties to the Snapdragons. Whenever Beren thought of the North and the South divisions of the Reunited Kingdom, of everything that he loved before the War of the Ring and everything he now cherished after, he heard the dreamy song.

Eventually, father and daughter came to a large stone house near the lower court where silk merchants of Lond Col did business. Beren doffed his black tophat - a new kind of head apparel a halfling milliner fashioned lately in Bree - and waved it gaily, whooping hello, when he saw joyous Ellin with Hannah and Oswald in the atrium. "They'll like you, my love," Beren assured his figeting daughter with one of those charming smiles which banished anyone's anxiety. "I'm sure everyone will wax lyrical about your beauty, dear." Aileen resembled her late mother, small and porcelain with flowing sable hair and pink dimples. Her eyes though, those emerald orbs she shared with her father. Aileen wore a black lace sequinn dress and a crystal headband flaming with prismatic splendor.

Beren smirked, hearing Hattie made one of her strange moo'ing groan for the thousandeth time in her cage, when he brought the wagon to a smooth stop. The Camlosts tried letting her roam the wagon unfettered but the energetic Patterdale kept trying to hop out of the vehicle every five seconds. Aileen reached back to swing open the gate of Hattie's kennel. The glossy black terrier with the soft eyes and spirit of the wind darted from her prison like an arrow shot of a bow of yew. She licked Aileen and Beren with her adorable ebullience and then hopped out to alight in Ellin's waiting arms. The tiny lass came running toward the wagon like it was Saint Nick's sled cruising into Bree-town.

Beren nimbly emerged from the wagon. He knelt to embrace Ellin once she had enough of Hattie licking her face with tenderly eager strokes for the moment. Beren scooped her up by the waist and lifted her high in the noon air. Ellin's caramel curls caught the light of the high sun, shining like Harad amber. "Hello, starshine!" Beren kissed her brow. "You might not see me for a few days if I have a new quest." Beren didn't wear his Ranger uniform around Ellin; he didn't want the girl to think he was stealing her away from his father. Beren wanted her to know him as her parents' spiffy friend who brought her candy and interesting things to play with, a traveller with many fables who bounced her on his knee singing merry songs. "Oh, I know you'll miss me," when Beren saw how melancholy she seemed, tugging his heartstrings, "which is why I have given you many toys to remember me by until I'm back." He had her nestled against his chest but set Ellin down in the wagon. "You'll like this one the most," he predicted, rapping a large tall box with his knuckles. "My daughter, Aileen, you can call her 'Leen, she'd like to play with you if that's okay? If you're still keen?" said Beren, hugging Aileen against him as she took Ellin's hand gently in her own. They had been expected.

Cadil with Unalmis @Ercassie
Adventuring

Cadil should have foreseen that Nal would be up to no good, and yet the barrage of words that was forthcoming from his friend took him somewhat by surprise. He crossed his arms defensively and furrowed his brow in a frown.

"And what do you mean... I just remembered my training," he grumbled, though if asked he would not be able to explain how come that he never used the knowledge while soldiering and yet ended up using it for unplanned adventures. "My father just wants me to find some work, but meh... he knows nothing about this."

The youth adjusted the straps of his pack, and muttered: "You should have warned me that this is a survival adventure, Nal. But now I ain't gonna leave my food supplies behind, as I'm always hungry. I bet you'll want to share in some of it no matter how adventurous you feel."

Shaking head at the empty bottle his friend presented as the only means of preparation, Cadil took a hearty drink from the flask he had with him, and replaced it just in time to catch the apple that came flying from the tree.

"Perhaps we won't die, no, but hunger and thirst, and no shoes might as well be a possibility, I figure," he concluded, taking a bite out of the apple. "At least I hope you got a leave from the Rangers else you'd end up being counted absent without leave and endure all the relevant consequences. So... should we get on the move then before I decide to set up a picnic right here and now?"

Unalmis had long since learnt that it served him well to simply keep talking until he’d worn people down from hurling alternatives at him. It worked particularly well if your Grams was tired and couldn’t quite keep up with all the reason you were giving her why you needed to go somewhere. And, guaranteed, it would always rouse a father from his hangover just long enough to groan “oh just go. Just don’t slam the … door’. So Cadil’s initial hesitation did not quash his friend’s resilient optimism. And he had scarcely scraped the surface of all the reasons he might conjure for shenanigans as yet.

“What exactly did you tell your father you were off to do ?” he wondered quite what creative excuse the other young man had conspired, that would allow him to flee from the pursuit of gainful employment. “You know, if you just came and re-enlisted, all that training you are making such good use of would have him leave you in peace.” the Ranger put in, none too subtly.

Scrutinising the long dusty road that stretched out before them, Unalmis sidestepped to allow a wagon to pass them by and on it’s merry way. What he would not give to already be as was that wagon. “I shan’t apologise, but neither shall I ask you to forego your feeding bag,” he shook his head at Cadil although a grin went along for the ride.

It was not untrue, that he always felt more adventurous at the start of an adventure. The conclusions tended toward some rather semi-conscious state that allowed him to ignore the worst of resounding lectures about his own stupidity. Right now the canvas of their day was still bare, and full of promise. As soon as you started throwing a choice of certain shades and shapes upon it, you were defining something, undeniably more distinct with every detail added. Until there was only the one obvious outcome. And all that possibility discarded.


“Would it make you feel better to learn that if I don’t show up for duty, they’ll come looking ?” Unalmis supposed a rather precarious circumstance, mostly to gauge the other’s reaction. “I mean, in case we’ve got into some truly terrible trouble ? Guaranteed rescue party !” he teased. And granted what he had learnt about quite why Narradir had gotten discharged from the Rangers, ought to have taught him to take this kind of consideration far more seriously. “Of course I have leave,” he consoled Cadil. It was in fact true. He might have spent this time better in a more conventional mode of ‘training’, of course, but therein stood a difficulty that required focus and discipline. These being both things which his superiors tended to dish out in spades when Unalmis persistently proved quite how lacking in them he was.


“You do know .. all those supplies of yours are simply going to slow you down ?!” the Ranger served up a warning, or a challenge, setting himself off in a run after the wagon down the road, even as Cadil made good on his own threat to resort to a picnic. The better-equipped youth had already begun to consume the apple just this minute gifted him, so Unalmis was forced to admit that the gear might prove of more worth to Cadil’s stomach than merely proving the former-soldier was clearly the stronger of them two, able to bear it with so little concern. “So who now is better prepared ?” Unalmis launched into a graceless landing on the back of the extensive-sized wagon, it’s contents well-covered. One hand indicated the space left beside him.

He wasn’t sure if his friend had heard this last question, but there was only one way that Unalmis would hear Cadil’s answer. If his friend’s stubbornness did not speak a resounding ‘no’, on his behalf.

Falaneth, Third Circle, at home
After hours of tossing and turning, reading the most boring texts she had to try to lull her mind to rest, Falaneth had finally found sleep. But her rest did not last long. In her dreams, she was dancing. Not alone but with a green-eyed, dark-haired young man. “Tandarion,” she whispered his name.

They were in a city square dusted with rose petals, scarlet and pink, a carpet of floral snow. The noon sun shone impossibly bright overhead and made the fruit in the trees sparkle with life. Birds sang joyous melodies and a white swan landed in a tree. Swans did not usually perch in trees did they? It was the first clue something was amiss in the dreamscape.

Tandarion pulled out a yellow rose from nowhere and presented her with it, leaning closer to plant a kiss on her lips, like so many times before, but then something in his expression changed...his green eyes became black, pupil-less orbs, his skin paled to snowy white and he leered at her. The leaves of the swan’s tree turned yellow, orange, brown and were ripped from the branches. They surrounded her with a flurry of decaying rot. The swan’s plumage was coloured black, and suddenly there was a crow there in its place, who cawed and took flight and circled around and around her, as if she were in a cage.

“Are you happy with what you have done?” Tandarion asked her but it was not the voice of her lover. It was a low growl, almost that of a beast, and it frightened her. Falaneth wanted to run away but she was caught among the leaves and his grasp and there was music...a deranged melody unlike any she had heard and it hurt her ears and she tried to scream to drown it out...

Falaneth awoke covered in a sheen of sweat, heart racing, her fists clenched around the sheets. When she threw off her blankets, she was overcome with unpleasant shivers. She rose, rinsed her face with cold water and opened the shutters of her window looking out onto the street below. There was a tension in the air despite the sleepy dawn hour. She tried to slow her breathing, to tell herself it was just a dream but the music that trickled its way into her dream seemed stuck in her head. It was a torturous, pestilent song full of anger and hatred and violence.

One of the resident crows cawed from the eaves of her loft and others soon followed, coming together in a raucous chorus. Dawn rose. The light did nothing to erase the darkness from her mood. The memory of the music and the dream lingered with her like a fever that would not break. Her body felt so heavy and weak and she wondered if she had slept at all. She ate breakfast though she had no appetite. She gulped water to quench her thirst. She brushed her dark brown hair and pinned it in a knot and dressed in her usual dress of pale grey. Now she was Falaneth, library clerk, ready for another day of work. Beneath it, she still felt like a girl scared of her nightmares.

She did not know that when she got there she would find a real nightmare in flesh and bone for all to see.

Second Circle, toward the library
No murmur nor whisper of anything amiss reached her ears on her walk down to the Library in the Second Circle. The City was still quiet and the morning buzz of activity had not yet begun. The opening morning shift at work was her favourite. Aside from the most dedicated scholars, it was peaceful until more patrons arrived, and sometimes afforded her time to sit and read.

But when the grand home of knowledge and wisdom came into sight, she saw the body immediately just as it was intended. Such a thing could not go unnoticed. Falaneth froze and stared at it, her blue eyes taking in every detail of horror even as she longed to look away. Flesh-less, mangled limbs were on display, stuffed with white branches like some kind of scarecrow for the citizens of the White City. It was hard to see where flesh ended and branches began, so entwined were they in this body.

She had been there during the War when the city was attacked, when all hope was lost. The smoke from the fire burning in the First Circle wafted up through the rest of the city, even to where she sheltered with others, and she smelled burning flesh and the acrid stench of death. After the battle ended, at last, she saw insurmountable, unimaginable carnage that she could never forget.

But this was worse than anything she had seen then. And it was far worse than the nightmare that still haunted her waking mind.

Falaneth knew death. Since she lost her beloved scholar to its clutches, she had thought about it, read about it, immersed herself in it, obsessed about it and felt it’s dark touch close around her heart. She wanted to know what happened after death. So she knew death. But not like this. Twisted and deformed and gruesome, this was a different kind of necrosis.

Nausea roiled her stomach and rose up, burning her throat with fire. She turned aside and lost her breakfast in the street until her stomach ached and she had nothing left. Nose running and eyes watering, she wiped them with the back of her palm.

The young woman would have been more horrified to learn this torture had been done to the man while alive, but without the mind of a murder or torturer or investigator, she did not even consider it. But the message it sent was loud and clear--whoever had done this had no love of Gondor and her people.

Falaneth stood up straight and averted her gaze from the ghastly sight. She did not know what to do. The corpse stood between her and her place of employment and she could not walk past it to get inside. She would not go to the city guard and ask their help, for they had so failed her before, she wanted nothing to do with them. So she stood in place, and waited, and quietly hoped someone would do something soon.

Cadil with Unalmis @Ercassie
Out on adventure

"I didn't come up with anything spectacular," Cadil explained of how he had gotten rid of his father's control to get out of town. "Just said I'm off to visit a good friend I hadn't seen for a while. He sorta didn't mind after some pleading." The youth took another bite of the juicy apple, savouring it, though he was forced to stop the snack at the sudden challenge thrown to him by his friend.

One could not eat an apple and at the same time chase the wagon down the road; and yet Cadil was not about to discard the remaining half of the delicious fruit. He stuffed it in his pocket and set off at a run, much slower and heavier - due to the pack and his own weight - than Nal.

As hard as he tried, the wagon seemed to continuously be quite out of reach, leaving him in the trail of dust. The sooner he chased it, and his friend happily seated on it, the heavier the running became. The pack lay heavily on him, the straps already digging into his soft shoulders, his legs felt as if they would soon buckle under him, and the lungs cried out for air.

He would have happily given up and just chosen the picnic option, yet the thought that he would hear no end of teasing from Nal for the rest of his days caused him to dig deep and find reserves of willpower and strength that he did not know he possessed. His feet moved along the road with new speed kicking up more dust than the wagon itself if it was even possible.

After a moment of time that had seemed to him like eternity, Cadil reached out for the wagon as a drowning man for a boat and hauled himself unto it. Now that his goal was reached, he sat there, breathing heavily with his mouth open and sweat running down his face in rivers. Reaching up, he tried to wipe the perspiration out of his eyes and at the same time smeared the dust over his face.

"They better... come save us... right now!" he gasped, meaning any rescue party that might possibly come looking for them. At any rate, Cadil was not sure he wanted any adventure that taxed him thus.

"And who would even accept me as a Ranger?" he eventually grumbled, feeling that the other challenge, the one of him re-enlisted, needed an answer. "I am unfit. And I dunno if I can face difficult situations and decisions like... really hard ones." In fact, the youth was not all that sure he did well by leaving the military - while it was comfortable being a complete layabout, it was beginning to wear him down, and he found himself increasingly feeling bored and useless.

Somehow he managed to rid himself of his pack without dropping either that or himself out of the wagon and set it next to him. Then he went straight for the water flask, and after a thorough quenching of thirst gave his friend the most threatening glare he could manage. "And stop with these challenges, else I'll die from too much effort, and you will end up trapsing around Gondor all by yourself," Cadil threatened.

Sanya wandered the lush sward of the Lower Fountain Court. She anxiously paced over the pink almond blossoms strewn across the lawn. In this serene place she felt a growing vexation. Hands laced behind the back of her teal-and-silver gambeson, Sanya waited for a rambling man.

"Better late than never, sheila."

When she heard his unmistakeable voice and the bark of a hound, Sanya suppressed a joyful smile. She assumed a rigid stance and a fearsome expression of annoyance.

"You're late and I'm famished." Sanya restrained an outburst of laughter. She had been trained to repress her passions and exhibit patrician etttiquette in public. Sanya was raised to be a proper lady by her taciturn noble mother. The younger of three children, Sanya was the stubbornest...which had never been a good thing and only worsened when Beren Camlost entered her life in a time of grief. He unshackled the fetters of her heart in a myriad of dangerous ways in an inopportune time.

A strong arm settled around her slim waist with gentle ease. The familiar softness brought her the comfort of coming home. Sanya closed her blue eyes, gasping with pleasure, when she felt his lips on the nape of her neck. Just a brush. Tender, ephemeral.

She wished his kiss lasted a few moments longer.

It had been five years since they were together this way; Sanya missed Beren's sweetness.

"Let go, please," she asked him albeit with some reluctance. Wisps of pale brown hair were blown astir from her loose fishtail braid, caressing his stubble in the mild winter breeze.

"You don't want me to hold you after all this time?" replied Beren, taking a step back in chivalrous surrrender.

"People are watching." She was far away from Belfalas but there was a danger. Also, Sanya was still unsure what she wanted; his return to Gondor was unexpected. It was evident he was surprised, confused, even sorrowful that she didn't want to be touched. No doubt he recalled their amorous last meeting that unforgettabe Midsummer. Sanya felt a pang of melancholy when she heard both sadness and disapointment when he spoke.

"You're a free woman now."

She smiled wanly, wishing she had his confident surety. "I have my noble title but I'm no longer welcome in my mother's court." It was a half-truth. Her pragmatic parent wanted to repair the damage to their relationship but Sanya was obstinate and regretful, still living with Swan Knights Arin and Halion. "Although I no longer dwell at my family's estate, I must act honorably. Do you understand?"

Beren uttered, "Yes," in a somber tone and gave her a resigned nod.

Sanya knelt to cuddle Hattie. The Patterdale had been growling at her for a minute, a strange bovine sound of a cow. The narcissistic terrier with the glossy black coat was greedy for ceaseless attention. Once she was cradled against Sanya's bosom, Hattie bestowed her forgiveness with incessant wet licks and avid nuzzling.

"I'm sorry about this," Beren apologized when Sanya looked up at him. "I was delayed, Princess." His charming smile was nerve-racking yet she was more than delighted to see it.

Still holding a beribboned box, he took a Harad rubber ball out of his frock coat pocket and passed it to Sanya. She tossed it for Hattie. The Patterdale bolted away with a jubilant cry.

"Where were you?" she demanded. "Give me a good excuse this time!" Sanya snatched the box out of his hand, a fond smile playing on her full lips. Beren walked with her to a wrought white iron table. Hattie returned with exuberant wags of her tail. Sanya spoke to her in babyish babble, saying how proud the good girl was finding the ball then hurled it far again. Hattie shot off like a black arrow of King Bard I, baying in rapturous glee.

"At a toystore," mumbled Beren and gave her a sheepish grin.

Oh for Fleeg's sake! she exclaimed silently. "Ah... So you let me wait here, hungry, while you were perusing children's trinkets." she said lifting her eyebrow, a crooked smirk forming. She was pleased to hear the rich boisterous laughter she had sorely missed, the laughter that always distracted her from her own woes. She basked in the immersive joy of Beren's merriment like an orchid in the Sun.

"I bought gifts for Ellin. The daughter of my therapist friend, Nessa di Argosy."

It took mere seconds for the burning flame of ire and jealously to destroy her buoyant mood. Beren called Nessa his friend it nettled her anyway. "Why are you buying her bairn presents?? You have a son and a daughter of your ruddy own!"

"I have neglected my visits to the healing house; you know I have an image to protect and I don't like to appear weak. I wanted to make amends with a kind gesture. A man of my...checkered reputation cannot give gifts to a respectable married woman, you understand."

Sanya snorted derisive laughter. "Just tell her you're sorry and attend the bloody meetings!" She rested her cheek on her hand. "My poor dullard darling. You think neighbors hadn’t noticed you bringing gifts to her house?? For her daughter?? I don't know how they do things in this City but where I come from nobles gossip. Rumors will abound that you are Ellin’s father. That you were recently told and now you're spoiling the bairn." Sanya sighed, shaking her head ruefully. "Don't be so generous, dear. You will empty all your coffers at some point, Coinstacks." Sanya giggled, amused by Beren's mouth frozen in a rictus of horrified astonishment. "You really are an idiot." She wanted to pat his ruggedly handsome face but resisted the urge. Sanya was in Minas Tirith but she was afraid of being easily recognized, considering her position on the Council. "You are an adorable idiot."

She took a look inside the bag then snorted laughter. She railed on him although she wasn't upset, kicking his shins beneath the table. "This hardly qualifies as lunch!" Sanya berated Beren for the umpteenth time about the same thing she habitually teased him for, appeasing her sweet tooth. Sanya rummaged through the snacks he baked for her. She noticed one bundle in blue silk bound in a red bow; the others were packaged in black and white.

Beren smiled debonairly when she unfolded the ocean colored cloth.

She was delighted by the sight of heart-shaped custard cream biscuits he made. "You know the way to a woman's heart, melindo." She opened her mouth to take one of the treats he proffered. It had a satisfying crunch and melted in her mouth wonderfully. "A fellow who bakes for a lass...you are marriage material, Bear." An akward silence ensued for a brief spell as they shared the food.

"We have much to discuss," stated Beren.

It was casually addressed but her pulse quickened. "I won't talk about home yet. I have told you enough for the time being. Besides. I have a ship to catch and you probably have outlaws to chase."

"I want to see you again."

"You will. I'm just not sure when. I am Imrahil's ambassador. I frequent the Northern Fiefdoms as the Swan Knight liasion. As the Prince's representative on King Elessar's Great Council, visiting this region of Gondor is one of my cardinal duties. Don't fret. I promise this is not the end."

She cheeks flushed a vivid pink, appreciating Beren's admiring gaze.

"I don't know how long I'll be solving a case," admitted Beren, frowning now. "I told Captain Bealthor to give me a tough assignment. One that might take a while." He paused. "That was before I saw you at the Old Guesthouse," Beren assured her. He arrived at Minas Tirith last night, returning from Lossarnach with Aileen. Beren's daughter managed his farm when he was away but he wanted the young lass to start making connections in the capitol. A foreman supervised the lebethron farm once belonging to Addhor's relatives in the meanwhile.

Sanya was partly upset she was leaving soon but partly relieved there was enough happening to keep Beren occupied. She had to determine if a life with him was what she wanted to pursue and if she could trust him if they formally entered a relationship. She was an older woman now and wiser. Sanya had instrumental responsibilities in the court of Dol Amroth, functions which had vital importance in the Kingdom. Sanya couldn't permit herself to make an emotional decision again; one she made years ago, a passionate kiss with Beren alone discovered at the wrong moment, still clouded her path despite Imrahil's blessing and his own lady physician's assurance. "We will have plenty of opportunities to speak of the past...and the future." She wanted to fold her hand over his, giving it the tightest squeeze she could muster, but she knew their fingers could not be seen interwined.

They finished eating then approached his lebethron wagon. Hattie frolicked over field, chasing panic-striken chipmunks. She returned to Beren when he called her with a wooden dog whistle. "I will accompany you to Rammas Echor since Harlond is on the way."

"I have one stop to make, the Gaol." Beren removed the tether of the draft horse from the hitching post and harnessed the steed to the vehice. He climbed up the wagon. She accepted his hand to help her onto the passenger seat once Hattie leapt inside. "You're welcome to wait outside."

He didn't mean to rankle her but she felt slighted nevertheless. "I'm not the Belfalas belle you previously met," Sanya responded scathing timbre. She grasped his unshaven chin and turned his surprised face to meet her steely gaze. "When you come to this Gaol, a Swan Knight enters with you. I am a defender of the Reunited Realm, same as you. Accept that or I'll demand satisfaction. Then the next time you see this dame will be at the point of her jousting lance and we can see how that goes."

She sat with immaculate posture, a satisfied smile widening her lips. Sunlight beamed through drifting translucent clouds, marvelously accentuating the pale beauty of the city's towers. Beren circled the wagon around the sparkling waters of the fountain. He smoothly navigating the vehicle amongst the merchants selling colorful silk and fragrant roses of Imloth Melui. A pleasantly cool zephyr tossed Sanya's flowing brown locks. Beren hummed the enchanting melody which always reminded him of dear ones and beloved places. She looked at him wistfully, remembering the rains of Midsummer. Sanya seared her vision of Beren's square bearded jaw, dreamy green eyes, and dark tousled hair indelibly into her consciousness. Sanya would need the comfort of its memory until she saw him again.

Nelladel & Mourgan
Unwanted Conversations

"So you lied."

The words hung in the air between them. Nell blew across her tea, buying time. She didn't wish to answer him. What was done was done and she had her reasons. It seemed her silence wasn't enough. "Mother. Answer me." His voice calm as he reached across the small table and laid a hand on hers, lowering the cup of tea that she used to sheild herself from his unwanted inquieries.
Her green eyes seemed to search the room for anything other then him to focus on. " I don't see what good can come from your questioning me. It's done. It can't be undone. She tried to end the conversation there but it seemed he wouldn't have it. "I don't think that. Surely if you just told h--"
"No." The word cut him short and he was somewhat surprised by the sharpness of it.
Silence hung for a moment between them before she offered him a small apologetic smile. "No.." This time the word was softer. Meant to soothe the sting of her previous word.
"Maybe if I understood I could help." He offered but she returned to her tea. He simply would not let the subject die. "There is nothing to help son, it's done and now we only need move forward. Some things are for the best."
"Not this time, your wrong." He leaned back in his chair and folded his thick arms across his chest. Determined to have his thoughts heard. "You misjudged him and now your too stubborn to admit you were wrong. You'd rather you both were miserable instead of just speaking to him."
"I assure you, his misery was short lived." Her voice cracked slightly. Word of his 'misery" had spread and she was not disappointed in her expectations of him. She pursed her lips. Why had it even bothered her. It was what she expected.
Mourgan watched his mother closely, although she said no more there was something benieth the surface working it's way upwards. He simply had to wait for it to find it's way.
She stared into her cup. Her mind awash with memories and feelings that's she'd pushed away but now they were straining to be free. She absently wiped at a tear as it slipped down her cheek. " Don't you see Mourgan? You can't cage a songbird and expect it to keep singing. Eventually it will simply give up and the one thing you most admire about it will be gone forever. All I admire about him and all that I love about him would simply vanish with time. Oh, he would have put on a brave face and hold to his word but in time would he grow to resent me? I was weak and blinded by what I had been wanting all these years. But I see now I did the right thing. "
Mourgan was confused. "How can being miserable be the right thing?"
"You see him Mourgan, the other women. Adventurous, noble. I'm not those things and never will be. I'm simply a baker who walks around with flour on her face most days. I've never been one to wield a sword or boast of a noble bloodline. I'm simply me. "She shrugged. "I couldn't give him adventure or the social standing. I don't feel I could give him.." she hesitated a moment. Coming to the realization. "Enough."
Mourgan unfolded his arms and softened the hard edges of his features. He understood the feeling of not being enough. In his case he was basically told he wasn't and would never be enough and in so doing he'd lost the one he wanted to spend his life with. He leaned his arms on the table and reached across to take one of her hands in his.
"I understand your motives now but..I feel you should have spoken to him about this. He deserved that much. " She took her free hand and wiped at an annoying tear. Sniffed lightly and pat his hand. "It doesn't matter now. As they say..that ship has sailed."

The discordant sounds of a violin penetrated her light sleep and stirred her awake. It had not been a good dream anyway, one of those that lingered on even when awake, making her feel like at any moment the orcs from her dreams were going to follow her into the real world. Papa had told her they never would though. But still..

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she looked around fearfully as if expecting to see an orc lurking in the dark shadows, forcing her to pull her cloth dolly even closer to her. She used it as a shield against everything that she was afraid of, like spiders, rats and the angry landlord that always yelled at Papa when he didn't make the payment on time. He never made the payment on time. At least not since Mama died. Nuzzling the doll to her mouth and nose, she tried to imagine her mother's face again, but failed.

Usually failing to recall her mother's face would have her in tears, forcing her father to have to comfort her and often resulting in him being late for work. But today the jarring noise from the violin drew her attention before she could succumb to the tears. The sound made her wince, making her want to put her hand to her ears. "Papa?" She called out into the room after realising he was not in the bed next to her. The basement apartment her father had rented after her mother had died only had room for one bedroom and then a tiny kitchen that only had half a wall to seperate it and the bedroom.

"Papa!" She called out louder, thinking he might be in the kitchen. Had he gone out to the outhouse? Again her thoughts were drawn towards the window, the jarring sound making her grunt in pain. It sounded like it was right outside. Pushing the threadbare and scratchy blanket from her lower body, she scrambled to her feet and walked on the lumpy mattress merely placed on the cold stone floor and standing on her tippie toes she could just look out.

She saw the legs of a man standing on a wagon as he made the horrible sound. Had he not learned how to play? It never sounded like that from what she could recall of the few times they had gone to the pub for a meal and someone had played a jolly tune. That had made her want to dance, to twirl and swing her dolly around and around. This, this made her want to cry, to cover her ears in pain.

"Papa!??" Leaving the window and the awful music behind, she scrambled off of the bed, her bare feat slapping against the cold stone floor as she made her way to the kitchen. It was only when she saw there was no one there that she finally remembered that Papa was away. He had often worked nights and at times not come back for a few days, always apologising to her profusely when he returned and more often than not smelling of ale. She did not like it when he went away and left her alone. Neither did their neighbour. The old woman would often chatise Papa about leaving a little girl like her on her own. She was not that little! She was four! Even so the neighbour often threatened Papa with the authorities and luckily enough she had not found out about him being gone this time as she had taken extra care to make sure she did not find out.

This time he had been gone far longer than ever, though she trusted that he would come back soon enough. Hopefully today, as she had eaten the last of the bread that was left. At the thought of food her stomach grumbled and at the same time her bladder made it clear she needed to go right NOW.

Rubbing at her eye she made her way up the basement stairs, still hearing the horrible music. He shouldn't play it that loud, he was going to wake everyone she thought as she emerged onto the street. The basement unfortunately did not have access to the back where the outhouse was, forcing them to go all around the block before they could get to it. Better than living on the streets her father had reassured her when she complained at barely making it in time. Feeling the need to hurry again, she picked up the pace, though instantly froze as she saw the man with the violin before her.

Hide. You need to hide. The small voice in her head yelled in fear. Whimpering she quickly looked around and saw the barrel sat against the wall and quickly hid behind it, the shadows providing further cover as the man continued to play up on his wagon. The screeching of the violin made her whimper even more, raising her hands to cover her ears, the dolly pressed against the side of her face. Peeking out from behind her bent arm, she saw the mans face as he turned towards her, barely avoiding being seen as his blue eyes looked in her direction. He looked a madman, stood on the wagon playing his crazy music as his black hair flowed out around him.

It seemed like ages before the screeching stopped, her body shaking with the effort of trying to hold herself. Peeking back out after a moment, she saw the man from behind as he made his way away from the wagon walking down the street. Breathing out a sigh of relief, she stepped out from behind the barrel, her legs aching from having squatted for too long and took a few steps towards the alleyway that led to the back. A sudden loud caw from a crow startled her and she looked in it's direction, her eyes instead falling on the "statue" placed on the stairs to the library.

That had not been there the day before. Brows creasing, she took a few more steps towards it, trying to puzzle out what it was. It looked like a man, intertwined with a tree. The flowers jotted around were pretty though. At that moment the sun spilled across the street and fully illumiated the "statue". The uneasy silence was split by an ear piercing scream as she realised that what she was looking at was her father, the sound of water hitting stone following in it's wake.

Relic
Hate & Discontent

The nights breeze brushed through her firey locks like a lovers hand. She closed her eyes, embracing and taking in the moment. She turned her cheek into it as the night wind moved to carass her slender neck and bare shoulder. The small hairs at the nape of her neck rose in response. Of course it could never compare to the winds of Umbar. Across ones skin it was akin to that of a lovers heated breath moving across every nerve ending, enticing and paralyzing. This would serve til she could return.

The faint flickering across her features caused her eyes to open slowly. Thin slits with their contents seeming to mirror the flames she stared into. The crystaline surface roiled like that of oil and water, never content to be still but in moments of peace or as close as she could get to it the movement seemed to slow. A steady churning which some would compare to that of a contents cat purr.

She brought the earthen jug to her lips and drank. If it wasn't for the fact it was the only wine availabe within miles she would have spit it out. Swine. How many grapes had they ruined to make such distasteful horse p*ss. It's bitterness hung in the back of her throat. Enough! Even she had her standards! She threw the jug on the burning heap that was once a families flea infested hovel or home as they called it. Even the fire seemed to object such foul brew as it hissed and popped causing sparks to seek flight in escape. Watching this caused the edges of her lips to raise in slight amusement. She was doing this Kingdom a favor burning this place to the ground. How many rats and pest had she burned this night? Countless! See, she was performing a public service! She should send an invoice to their King. Services rendered, pest control.

Pest. Yes, that's what they were. Mindless. Idiotic. Trusting sheeple. And what good did trusting get them? Dead, that's what they got for trusting the young blonde with the blue eyes. She spoke their tongue and wove a pathetic tale of being lost. The simpletons took her in and fed her. Cared for her well being. That would teach them! Now look! There little hovel now served as their funeral pyre. She had to give the mother credit, she fought death the hardest. The rest of the family, well, with a few well placed feather light steps you could say they never heard it coming.

Her thoughts disturbed when a large beam caved and with a rush of flame and sparks what once had been a family and home now resolved it'self to the unrelenting appetite of the fire. The corners of her lips curved upward in a satisfied smile. This she had done for herself. No magic to be gained by their blood. Pure and simple satisfaction...alright...maybe she'd slipped the childrens souls free to be used at her discretion but why not?! Waste not want not she believed.

On that thought she turned from the burning structure, the breeze tugged at her garmets as if bidding her to stay. She ignored it's call and with an unhurried step she gathered her horse and easily took her seat. Adjusting the riens she half smiled once more and turned her mount away from the smoke and ash. There was still much to do, she couldn't let such pleasent activities detain her for too long. With the click of her tongue and the press of her heels she was gone, her mount eating ground with every stride...

Following their unsettling visit to the Gaol, Beren and Sanya came to a wineshop to spend their last hour together. It was near Harlond's Fish Market located on the waterfront. Its name was Noštromo in honor of a Lebennin mariner of mixed race, an adventurous boatswain of Pelargir renowned for daring exploits; he was proudly called "our man" even by locals who never been to sea.

There were seedy sections of the port but the restaurant with its yard for outdoor dining had an idyllic ambience. It was was tucked away in a little serene corner amongst ornamental trees of Ithilien crypress bending in the gentlest zephyr. The owner, Vinnulus, was a charming gregarious man who knew every sailor and fishmonger, one publican among few having first dibs on the day's best catch. Rich merchants and Gondorian gentry were patrons of the establishment and spread word of its good repute by word of mouth. Beren was a frequent visitor; he introduced Sanya to Noštromo when she mentioned the place, having heard about it from Sir Halion who dined there on business.

They waited for their meal in an upstairs balcony. Sanya and Beren shared appetizers of boneless catfish fillets with Hattie. They listened to the street orchestra on Rath Hallhang. The musicians and the choir performed amidst bluish-purple Tamarisks and bronze statues of coral-encompassed swordfish. Beren tipped a serving lad with his request to play King Elessar's Day. Trumpeters, pipers, and drummers conveyed Elessar's noble arrival at Linhir. The martial fanfare of his heroic coming ultimately surrendered to the music of woodwinds. The instruments delivered an eerie sweeping conclusion, embodying the grey tide of the Shadow Host overcoming fell Haradrim. The symphony finished in lush ethereal harmony in unison with hammered dulcimers and Adûnaic vocalists singing of pale swords and the terror of red eyes gleaming in spectral faces.

Beren was in a dreamlike trance. Silent wraith-like spirits surged around him and the mounted Dúnedain in the Lamedon uplands. They would have swept round the Rangers of the North but at the command of Elessar they shrank back. Even ghosts were obedient to the will of Isildur's Heir.

The Belfalas dame reached past the porcelain flower pot of golden mallos . The warm interlacing of Sanya's hands banished the chilling vision. "The ride, Beren!" she entreated in a breathy compelling voice. She was still captivated by his vibrant stories. "Tell me about your march with Elessar."

"We came to the mouth of Gilrain on the third day and took Linhir," Beren uttered, green irises glazed in memory. "The Lamedon warriors wrestled the merciless Umbarians and the scourge of Harad for possession of the fords. Friend and vilkain alike fled the green fields, declaring the King of the Sleepless Dead had come to conquer them both. Only Angbor Ironhand beheld the phantom army and the might of fearless Rangers who rode beside the Oathbreakers." He didn't notice Sanya's enthralled expression, basking in glorious reverie.

"We drove back the allies of Mordor and paused, resting on our laurels, until Elessar renewed the charge. He sped our mounts to the brink of their endurance. We rode down our fleeing foes and put them to the sword. Many of our enemies like Kfir Gameela died at Pelargir, either upon our weapons or drowning themselves to escape the Shadow Men. Others retreated to find their lands in Harad or to find their refuge in Morgul or in Mordor. It was in a cavern tunnel, a labythrine haunt of werewolves and mountain-trolls, that Sir Halion and Lady Arin discovered Sarabeth Gameela after the war. The infamous Corsair pirate queen was hiding cowardly in the dark. She fought like hell but the Swan Knights defeated her and took Sarabeth prisoner for the Tower Guard."

Beren took a thoughtful sip of his wine. He didn't speak for a moment, a somber smile blossoming. "To each of the great ships that remained unscathed by flame, Elessar dispatched one of the Dúnedain. The Grey Company comforted the captives. Gwandhyra, Khallador, and I assured the shackled thralls there was nothing to fear. We broke the chains binding the slaves to their oars. Two days later my friend Gwandhyra was laid low on the Pelennor Fields. My kinsman, Khallador, succumbed to his wounds in the Houses of Healing."

Sanya tightened her hand around his own. He blew her a kiss in gratitude before their fingers were unwound, hearing footsteps of a waiter approaching the veranda door. Beren and Sanya enjoyed bowls of brodet, a treasured spiced stew of coastal Gondorian cities. There were many celebrated kinds, each lauded for wondrous simplicity, and brewed in a single pot. This special was prepared from today's fresh catch of Anduin eel, blackbellied angler, and red scorpionfish; it was served with grilled vegetables and toasted bread to soak the delicious broth. Their slender flutes were filled with white wine of Garth Michel, the oldest winery in fair Lebennin of the Five Streams.


King Elessar's Day concluded. They heard Lorena next, an antebellum song of Lebennin popularized in Gondor following its diasterous civil war. Beren and Sanya exchanged an awkward melancholy look. They let the bittersweet lyrics and the mournful romantic music of lutes and mandolins speak for them.



"I must leave, darling," uttered Sanya with some difficulty when they finished eating. She touched rippling waves of her long brown hair with nervous strokes, evading Beren's doleful gaze. When he pleaded for more time in mild protest, she raised her softly rounded chin in patrician poise. No, Beren could not dissuade her. When the mind of a Belfalas woman was resolved, there was no stopping her.

They walked the levee in companionable silence. Beren and Sanya kept themselves close to the fair stone piers flanking the stalls and warehouses, towers and taverns. The afternoon smelled redolent of smoked fish. From the sparkling water of the Anduin drifted the slushing of paddles and the cursing of impatient trawlers. They came to the caravel built of oak and pine.

"This is where I must leave you," Sanya told Beren with a stoic countenance.

He wanted to hold Sanya. His desire was palpable. She stepped away from him, her mien solemn. "Since you already know I'm a stubborn person," said Beren, hasty words essaying from his lips in mad desperation, "I must admit I plan to visit Belfalas soon as able. King Elessar does not permit Tower Guards to leave their post for any cause unless he commands it. He's allowed me to fulfill my Ranger duties and protect Gondor's fiefdoms with the picked men of my Tower company."

Sanya expelled a resigned sigh then gave him a wan albeit fond smile. He must have read her plea posted on Faramir's missionboard, a request welcoming Rangers to aid Belfalas against a rebellious knight and guerilla attacks of Sarabeth's father who was hiding in the mountains. "You will bring with reinforcements to Dor-en-Ernil to help the Swan Knights?"

"Indubitably."

"Wonderful. Yeh. I'm breathless with anticipation, really! " Sanya responded with as much sardonic glee as she could muster but she appeared amused rather than fey. Sanya wanted to say goodbye for now but her blue eyes were stinging, lips moving speechlessly at a loss for words. Chagrined, she knelt to rub Hattie's ears so she wouldn't look into Beren's sad green eyes.

"Of all the cities in Gondor, you just had to walk into mine," Beren remarked with a rueful shake of his head and a pained smile. He wanted to kiss her for the last time. He did the right thing...nothing.

"Isn't this the part where you tell me that if I board this ship that I'll regret it?" Sanya asked, coming to her feet, looking truly bewildered. Merchants bound for the realms of Gondor or new populated lands of Arnor bustled past them. Warriors hurried to docks for their passage to the forts of South Gondor. Anxious peacemakers who had deals to make south of Poros wandered by. Longshoremen unloaded Sanya's baggage and carried them to the caravel with efficient swiftness. "Maybe not today, perhaps not even tomorrow," she wistfully spoke with melodramatic flare, "but soon and for the rest of my life?"

He squared his shoulders, accepting the inevitable. "We said a great many things at Cobas Haven five years ago. You told me to sail away. Now you want me to tell you the same."

Sanya blanched. "I have priorities and a purpose as do you, Beren," she reminded him, serious now. "Where I'm going, you can't stay; where you are, I can't belong. Like marries Like as they say where I come from. I'm a lord's daughter and though you are well-to-do now you're still a farmer's boy." She didn't mean to belittle him but Beren felt slighted anyway. It took all his strength not to crumble like the black stones of Barad-dûr. "Your only claim to nobility is a mithril circlet of Aoife, some chieftain's daughter of Marach's following in Antiquity. Knowing your penchant for tall tales, she probably never existed!" Sanya didn't meant to insult him, Beren could tell she was just as frustrated as he felt and that irritation was justified of course, but he had enough.

"I wouldn't be good at being noble even if I had the pleasure," Beren interjected and waved her to leave with a weak imploring gesture. "We'll always have Belfalas, sheila." His bold reminder which no doubt suggested his unflagging interest staggered Sanya in mid-stride. She gave him a pitiable look over her shoulder, continuing her flight along the ramp.

Beren watched the ship slip over the dappled waters of the Anduin and turned away, whistling for now cheerless Hattie to follow him.

Inside her cabin, Sanya leaned against the lebethron door Addhor carved in extravagant motifs of graceful swans. "Well, she said, "seeing each other again was a small pleasure and a silly one." She learned that in Arda many dreams of youth were frequently and easily dashed. "I'll forget him tomorrow," lied Sanya to herself, weeping, and touched her eyes wishing Beren could have rid them gently for her.

Beren Camlost stood on the porch of the Anchor Inn. He opened the glass door beneath the eponymous signboard swaying in the winter breeze. Beren clapped the porter on the back for allowing him permission to bring Hattie in, reassured that policehounds were still granted entry. The waterwalls, serene harp music, and soothing blue painted timber lent the place a pleasant atmosphere. It was a convenient place for mariners and merchants to congregate in Harlond without risking their lives. It was not unusual for Companies of the Tower Guard to be seen her keeping the peace, discussing their assignments, meeting clients, or socializing with each other.

It was situated to the out-wall of the Rammas Echor so it was thus considered to be rather safe unlike other disreputable inns of Harlond. Beren knew Rinduin, the publican, well since his young adult years; he frequented the harbor in his youth although Beren had mostly visited sordid dives like the Mermaid's Embrace and the Crow's Nest.

Rinduin was a stocky retired sailor of mixed descent with swarthy skin, a grizzled beard, and a fringe of greying dark hair. He led the Lieutenant to a private lounge where Paw Company relaxed off-duty this afternoon. The chamber nicknamed the Den due largely to their skin-changer Lieutenant's Beorning heritage. They were his claws.

Rinduin asked Bear what drink he wanted, perhaps orfingbralda. "It's a fruit brandy produced in the high vales of the mountain-borders!" gushed Rinduin, guiding Beren toward his troop's parlor. Rinduin was an alcohol connoisseur as all innkeepers should be. "The alpine brandy is made from fruits such as apricots, plums, cherries, wild berries, or pears. Orfingbralda is usually double distilled before the aging process in lebethron barrels." His bushy brows knitted together in genuine concern when Beren asked for an herbal tea. He rubbed his stubbled jaw, mistified. "When did you become a teetotaler, mate?" Rinduin asked with the grave spirit of a relative mourning the news of a beloved brother's terminal illness.

"I'm climbing another rung on the ladder of self-improvement. Beren winked, drawing an arm companionably over Rinduin's shoulders. He chuckled when his friend groaned, lamenting the unfortunate departure of Beren's masculinity. "I want to prove to Captain Baelthor he can trust me. A guava green tea on ice will do nicely, alright? Steamed lobster meat for the Patterdale, my good man."

Rinduin left Beren to place his order behind the bar. The Tower Guard Lieutenant parted the sliding doors of the Den accented with intricate mother of pearl inlay. He felt his somber mood subsiding when the leading staff of Paw Company gave a rousing cheer when they saw their storied Lieutenant at the threshold with his lovable hound.


Ilvana, a young steely sergeant and (thus far) the only woman in the company, alone remained quiet because silence had become her. She did smiled fondly at Beren whom she idolized as did all gathered at the round table; he was like a father to them. Ilvana and her twin brother, Celefaroth, were children of a prestigious military family; their paternal forebears served Gondor since the days of the Kinstrife when Rhovanion warriors aided King Eldacar. She was cool-tempered and only spoke when she issued commands or when she was directly addressed. Ilvana was lithe and blue-eyed, wavy blonde hair slightly rippling to mid-waist.

She was obsessed with killing and dispatched her enemies with a disturbing brutality; her weapons of choice were the bill and the scythe, daggers and darts. Ilvana, a healer in her father's coastal patrol, had been captured by Corsairs ten years ago. She escaped servitude in the South, delivered by a band of native sympathizers loyal to Arzhang Gameela. She trained to be a Tower Guard once Queen Arwen had issued an edict with King Elessar allowing women to serve and had earned her rank shortly before transferring her service to Beren's command, intrigued by his exploits. She solved cases under Beren's leadership in the White City and battled enemies beyond Minas Tirith wherever he chose to lead his company by Elessar's permission, following the example of Tower Guards who left Minas Tirith to fight in Mordor. She refused to share her tramautic experiences regarding Haradrim thralldom; no one was privy to her dark tales except for her twin, Belegal, and Camlost.



"Beren Camlost as I live and breathe!" Celefaroth, exclaimed, mocking the usual stranger on the streets of Minas Tirith startled by the hero's sudden appearance. This elicited a louder chorus of laughs from Belegal and Glorin. Ilvana's louder twin, brown of hair like the other men of the company, was a fingerbreadth taller than his leggy twin sister. Corporal Celefaroth, an impressive archer, did his part to boost morale with his comedic antics and infamous devil-may-care attitude.

"So. You finally became just bored enough with domestic life to spend time with us?" Celefaroth nonchalantly wondered, speaking around the stem of the briar pipe he smoked. He dealt out the cards of Ambartaith - the Signs of Fortune, originally devised by the Eldar and introduced to Numenoreans - he shuffled for Belegal and Glorin to play Gondorian Whirlwind. The comparing game in the South involved lower hand values stacked against participants in vying rounds whereas higher ones prevailed in Arnorian Whirlwind favored in the North. Ambartaith consisted of four suits of Swords, Roses, Cups and Coins; the face cards comprised The King, the Queen, the Knight and the Knave , followed by the pip cards for a total of 78.

"Did you bring me a toy, Lieutenant!" whined Glorin who Beren lightheartedly slapped upside the head. The corporal was a lean and clean-cut sinewy man in his mid-twenties, the youngest Paw.

The jocular son of a Pinnath Gelon herdsman was an idealistic spearman hoping to make a name for himself in the Tower Guard.

The enthusiastic corporal was nimble and annoying. His quick reflexes and marvelous agility, deft stabs and distracting trashy banter proved instrumental in combat.


"Would you shut up, man?" Belegal ordered Glorin with an easy-going tone of voice but the ice in his blue eyes stressed the seriousness of his demand. The broad-shouldered, hard-muscled senior sergeant of Paw Company was enslaved with Celfaroth who had been seperated from his sister in Harad. All three had grown up together but when the Southrons raided their Lebennin coast, Celfaroth and Belegal had been taken prisoner as oarmen for Corsair ships. Beren had freed them in the War of the Ring. They would follow him to the margins of Gondor to the coasts of the Inner Seas if that's what the Lieutenant ordered. "He's a father and a farmer and a fighter," said Belegal, arising to pull out a chair for the company leader, "so give the man a break, he's a busy bear."

"Busy chasing skirts," Celfaroth muttered, chuckling.

"He's a single and can chase as many skirts as he wants!" Belegal replied, retaking his seat.

"Chasing criminals is today's agenda, most likely," said Beren and thanked Ringduin for his glass of tea and Hattie's food when the innkeeper entered the Den. "I have Tower Guard duty. Taking a case before I'm needed back at Ranger Commons. I might need to fly this one solo perhaps, it's happened before, but all of you are on call to supervise Paw Company with me if necessary so I need a couple of you here in Gondor for the time being. Presently I have an investigation two others can be responsible for." He told them about Angol and what happened at the Gaol.

"I could just kill him."

Beren stared at Ilvana, Paw Company's stealthy assassin who was quite adept at lockpicking. She gave him a commiserating look and nodded sharply, agreeing she wouldn't kill an unarmed prisoner...only because he wanted her not to.

"No love lost for a man who tries to kill his own dog," said Celfaroth, cradling Hattie against his black velvet vest. "I'm in."

"Assaults his pup then threatens my boss' daughter and the carpenter's lad? I'm with you, too." Glorin folded arms over the lace tablecloth. "How should we start?"

"Let's pay Angol's waystation a visit..." suggested Belegal with an ominous crack of his knuckles.

"If we can't find any clues, I'll make one of his pawns talk," Ilvana promised Beren.

"You're good at that."

Her cold smile made even Beren tremble, remembering the last time he had seen her interrogate a suspect. "If the trail leads you toward Eriador which it might considering we know Angol is Dunlendish," advised Beren after taking a deep pleasing taste of his tropical drink, "I want you to partner with the Bree Constabulary. I have friends there. Annabelle and Vincent Snapdragon, Miles Brackenbrook, and Clayton Dogwood. I don't know how long I'll be with my case or when Nal will leave Pelargir with Cadil but I'll try to keep Angol's trial postponed as long as I can until Paw Company returns with evidence of Angol's nefarious deeds."






"Then Beren sprang from before Celegorm full upon the speeding horse
of Curufin that had passed him; and the Leap of Beren is renowned among Men and Elves..."
- Tolkien, from The Silmarillion: Of Beren and Lúthien



Beren returned the lebethron wagon to its rental yard in the Sixth Circle. He retrieved his beloved Combe Valley black mare, Brenna, from the fair stables where Shadowfax the steed of Gandalf the White was once housed and tended. He rode into the Pelennor Fields thereafter. Beren travelled slowly through a sea of fragrant white and blue lupines, enjoying the scenic route to Fort Gwandhyra and Fort Halbarad, the rebuilt Causeway Towers of Rammas Echor.

The long wind-blown grasses were barred in lustrous rays of Vasa beginning its languorous brilliant descent through drifting masses of puffed clouds in the azure sky. The picturesque townlands were rich, with wide prosperous farms and innumerable orchards. The majesty of Minas Tirith's countryside, risen like an ethereal Phoenix from the ashes of war, flooded Beren's green eyes with glistening tears. With the deep purple shadows of Mount Mindolluin and the alabaser spires of Elessar's City behind him, Beren hummed the dreamy theme of The Realms in Exile symphony. He guided Brenna along glittering rills weaving through the lush meadows from the highlands down to the Anduin.





The solitary Tower Guard entered Cherrystead, a town praised for its sweet eponymous fruit, beneath an arching signboard bearing an image of the tart drupe. Beren tied Brenna to a white hitching post outside a large florist emporium built of yellow painted wood and stacked stone. The week before last its owner, the lovely Chrysanthemum, had been disturbed by skulking strangers loitering on her property. Paw Company had ended their observations when the fellows vanished but Beren wanted to make sure all was well. He gave winks at her female gardeners inside when they said hello to him with blushing cheeks and lovesick pining gazes. The old Beren would have flirted with them but although Airien dithered and Sanya had told him there was no hope, Beren behaved himself.

He met Chrysanthemum who preferred the nickname Crissy at a rose display. She was arranging cultivars of blue and white, red and gold - Skylord and Morning Majesty - respectively. Chrysanthemum had spent years learning from experienced growers in Pinnath Gelin, and studied with Eilianthel Mordagnir - an Elf-lady of Rivendell and a horticulturist - to become one of Gondor's celebrated greenskeepers. She was a small lass with a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were deep green, fair as as beryl Elfstones. Crissy's long golden hair spilled over her hips in thick curls. She wore a strapless gown of amber lawn and a circlet of white alfirin flowers she always donned in memory of her parents who died in the War of the Ring. Her paternal Northmen ancestors had been kin to the Rohirrim and lived in Rhovanion northeast of Gondor long ago; they had settled here following the nations's civil war.

Beren greeted her merrily and she ushed to him, throwing her pale slender arms around Beren's neck. She gave his bearded cheek a chaste kiss and asked if he had seen the interlopers lurking amongst the wisteria trellises outside.

"If they saw me coming, perhaps they got chicken and ran off," boasted confident Beren, giving the small of her back a welcome soothing rub. "I reckon they might be after your profits..."

"I do sell wares to nobles, even Prince Faramir himself," Crissy admitted with anxious stuttering, scooping Hattie up who was nuzzling her ankle. Most women Beren was friends with were tough and could kill a man with their bare hands twelve different ways but Crissy was fragile as a petal. "I make good money-"

"And they intend to take it," Beren intrrupted in grim brooding. There wasn't only Orc-remnants of Mordor ensconced in Ithilien but there were lairs of outlaws as well south of Emyn Arnen. The Rangers, the Tower Guard, and Faramir's White Company did their best to flush them out.

"Haradrim!" One of Crissy's pretty gardeners shrieked. Several of them screamed for Beren. The Tower Guard rounded a corner, following the sound of yelling maidens, and hid behind the cover of a white fig tree's lobed leaves. Two stinking unshaven ruffians with bronzed skin threatened Crissy's merchants. One armed with a crossbow desperately shifted his weapon at them while the other stole gems and shining coins from a till.

One flung stone from Beren's sling dropped the archer, groaning as he collapsed clutching his injured thigh. Beren charged, scaring off the swordsman who Hattie chased outside. A second later he wailed; Hattie was seen tugging his pants leg with her tenacious jaws, causing the fiend to stumble down the stairs. It was her signature move.

Beren nudged the crossbow out of the way when the archer reached for it in vain and kicked him in the belly. He took the manacles off his belt and cuffed his hands then he bolted out of the store, leaving beautiful girls either swooning in his wake or giddily stalking him outside.

Beren leaped the great distance between the portico and Brenna who the limping swordswoman had made a beeline toward, clearly hoping to mount the horse for a swift escape. Loyal Brenna trumpeted in defiance and reared. The warrior retreated in fright and hesitated between the angry mare and the snarling Patterdale who pranced about with an irate zeal.

It seemed like an eternity he was springing through the air but he did not miss. Beren slam-tackled the Harad soldier. The outlaw fumbled for his dagger but Beren pinned his hand to the gravel lane and proceeded to thrash him with resounding blows of his mighty fists. Crissy and her maidens cheered Beren on, some of them even tossed roses of red and pink and orange to symbolize their love and gratitude and passionate desire for him.

"Crissy, could one of your pretty women fetch me a rope from my saddle bag and would another escort the other fiend out for me?" asked Beren, panting, and swept raven locks off his slicked brow before chaining the hands of the beaten, bleeding swordsman with the swollen face. A couple maidens were selected but they fussed with others over being awarded the honor but, yes, eventually the rope was proffered to Beren and the archer was shoved out. Beren uncoiled the rope, cut it, and tied the Haradrim to Brenna. "Looks like you get to ride after all, huh, mate?" Beren remarked, striking the swordsman's face with a vicious blow of his palm.

When Crissy dispersed her crowd of besotted ladies who lingered blowing Beren kisses, he promised her to renew the patrols of Paw Company. "I'll take the Haradrim to a an inquisitor at Fort Gwandhyra," Beren assured Crissy, holding her shoulders with a tender ease.

"There's something I can do for you! The next flowers you buy for your mother is on the house, Bear!"

"I'd appreciate that, doll, but I've got something else in mind."

Crissy giggled, twining a flaxen lock of hair around her finger. "Mr. Camlost, I'm single but twenty years your junior!"

"You misunderstand me, sweetheart... there's something you can do for my son, Mourgan Alarion...if you want to kindly repay me." Beren' frowned. "His last girlfriend hurt him and my lad's down on his luck...perhaps you can make him a home?"

"I'm lonely, myself." Beren gently lifted her chin when sorrowful Crissy stared down, a breeze redolent of honeysuckle stirring tendrils of golden hair. "Well, if he looks ruggedly handsome like you then it's a deal!"

"A younger image of his old man, lass, but not fairer of course, we can't expect miracles." He gave her a lopsided grin to make her laugh then he kissed her forehead, privately hoping he would welcome her to the family one day. "Tavern of the Seven Stars, sundown this Highday. A candlelit table for two, my treat." She vowed to be there. "So will my boy. His mother and I will be on his arse about it..."

All her bags had been unpacked and her clothes put away. She couldn't believe it. She was finally here. Tomorrow Kamion said something about a real tour of the city, but today it was just her. Just her in the biggest city in all of Middle-Earth. She never knew there could be so many people in a single place. Mithlond just a port city (a very beautiful port city) compared to this place. There was so much activity, so many people, so many things to do, so many places to go. Her babies could feel the excitement in the air. Brocktree was rearing up on his hindlegs, jumping up on every surface that would hold the little badger. Ecthelion, the largest of her skunks, was busy exploring his new home, finding a score of new smells that needed to be examined and investigated. Sally and Pinig both excitedly jumped on the bed and fought over which one of them got to snuggle on the pillow. Walpurga smiled and chuckled. “You two be good, I can't go downstairs and ask the innkeeper for new pillows the day I arrive.” The skunks squeaked at her and continued their play fighting. She sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed the place that would be her home for at least the next month. It was a spacious room with a bed, a table, and a closet. There was a window up high on the wall that she could see the sun through. Golden, shimmering light filtered down, streaked with purple and red. It was the same sun she'd seen a thousand times in Rohan, but it wasn't. It was the sun in Gondor. It was a totally and utterly new. She loved it. The sun was warm and welcoming. The sunbeams that crossed her room weren't filled a sense of discontinuity. Brocktree, done with his exploring for the moment, came to his mother, stretched, and bounded up into her lap. “We're home,” she whispered. She dared not say it louder for fear that the world might crack and shatter and reveal the dream beneath everything. This was so much better than any dream she could have imagined though. There was an entire world of possibilities waiting for her outside. All she needed to do was go out and grab it. She moved off the bed, pulling a protesting baby badger off her lap in the process, and stood up. She had too much energy. She had too much excitement. Walpurga touched her cheeks. They were sore; she'd been smiling as wide as she could for hours. She wasn't used to feeling so happy and free. The shackles of Rohan, her mother, the Cavalry were all gone. The weight of hiding and disappointment had been lifted off her shoulders. As soon as she entered the city and all its sights, sounds, and smells, she felt different. She felt a sensation she'd never felt before. She felt like she belonged. She was home. Walpurga had found the place in the world where she'd become who she wanted to. The people had been so much more friendly here too. Maybe that was her imagination, but she didn't feel any gaze that accused her of being an “outlander” or “interloper”. She'd been accosted and asked if she wanted to buy an expensive rug, a lapis lazuli bracelet, and a songbird within just a few minutes of entering. She almost bought the songbird, but she knew it would be hard enough finding a place that wouldn't turn her out because of her baby skunks, adding a bird to that mix would make it even more difficult. As it turns out, the second place they visited, a place called “The Antler and Eagle” a tavern connected to an inn with three full stories of room available. Walpurga thought it would take her longer to get settled and comfortable with her new reality. But all she felt was excitement and, like her little babies, the urge to explore. She peaked over the window and watched the street. It was still afternoon. There were scores of people moving on foot or horseback. This one street held more people than Edoras had in its entirety. She laughed, a clear musical sound. Her babies squeaked and gibbered in response. “You four be good, Mama needs to go out and… and…” she couldn't even finish. Grinning from ear to ear, she closed door and rushed down the stairs until she was back on the street once more.

And she began to run.

Walpurga ran and ran. She could feel the wind and warmth her home whip by her, caress her cheeks before she rounded a corner and found more street. She continued to run. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. Tears that she had waited so long to shed. Tears of joy. She'd never been able to cry and feel so at home before. She laughed. The tears continued to fall. She ran faster. She felt so full of energy and emotion that she hoped she would never have to stop. She ran down all the streets she could find, finally feeling the embrace of a city. The air was warm, the  sun felt wonderful on her skin. Her black hair cascaded down her shoulders, completely coming undone from the loose ponytail she'd put it in. “I'm home.” She said out loud, finally able to bring herself to say it. “I'm home!” She said louder, feeling stronger as she moved with all haste to nowhere in particular, startling a group of feasting pigeons. “I'm home!” She yelled as loud as she could; she repeated it over and over and over until the ringing of the bells echoed her cry of jubilation. She was free, she was home. She wanted everyone to know that she was home. She ran and ran and ran. She ran until she was nearly blind from tears and out of breath. The sun was much lower in the sky now. Her breath was heavy and ragged, her muscles were sore, but her heart was light, and her soul was as airy as the clouds that floated above her.

“Iʼm home,” she whispered.

It was an obvious sort of name for a tavern, The White Tree, but as one of many such establishments in Minas Tirith claiming the title of oldest pub in the city, appropriate. And, too, its location just outside the garrison of the army made the name fitting, for it was the White Tree that soldiers wore in defense of their city, and it was soldiers that made up the bulk of the clientele. The current innkeeper was a hulking man by the name of Ulath, long since retired from service, though the double-bitted axe he had favored still stood behind the bar. An ever rotating selection of his blonde and buxom nieces and nephews assisted at serving, and all but the newest of recruits knew better than to cast any but the chastest of admiring glances their way. True, a several of them had married soldiers over the years, but Ulath made it quite clear that there was to be no forward flirtation on his watch- and, too, ensured that they all knew how to throw a solid punch. The only time any had needed to exercise this skill, though, had been when uncouth outsiders had decided to visit- and the victim had found herself in each case surrounded by a bristling protectorate. It was a soldiers’ tavern, and it could get and raucous as the best of them, but at its heart it was a respectful place, where martial workers came for respite. That, perhaps, was why Kamion liked it so much.

This was his first sojourn into The White Tree since returning to Minas Tirith with Walpurga, and he exhaled a deep sigh of contentment on entering it. The stones were blackened with time and smoke, the beams dark and heavy, and the midday sun streamed brightly through the opened shutters, casting patterns of lead across the walls and floor. Ulath hailed him with a booming cry of welcome, and asked after his father, while Gerda, the current niece on duty, flew at him and threw her arms about his neck, kissing his cheek in greeting. Kamion flushed and laughed, disentangling himself from her after gently returning her embrace; some time ago he had assisted her in extricating herself from a relationship that had gone awry. The man on the other side of the equation had not been cooperative, and a certain amount of blunt persuasion had been required. Gerda had taken to expressing her gratitude and affection in an effusive fashion since then- nothing improper, though Kamion suspected Ulath only allowed it because it was him, but she was an ebullient young woman.

Gerda returned to her work with a flip of her skirt, and Ansel, the nephew of the day, rolled his eyes. He set his fiddle back beneath his chin, and carried on scraping out tunes. Kamion sat at the bar for a time and talked with Ulath. They were of an age, the two men, though they did not look it: Ulath’s massive frame was beginning to stoop, his once bright hair more grey than gold now, and his skin folded and lined. Meanwhile Kamion stood as tall and strong as ever, broad of shoulder and long of leg, with a shock of coal black hair and the odd cobalt eyes he had inherited from his mother. His skin was slightly weathered from a life spent out of doors in weather, and a few fine lines had gathered around his eyes, but it was only in their depths and the confident ease of his bearing that someone astute might guess he was older than he looked. Half a century of martial service had not dimmed the Dúnadan, and he and Ulath talked of his recent adventures and the curious young woman who had accompanied him to the White City, until the doors clattered open, admitting a group of young soldiers who hailed them both with enthusiastic cries.

Kamion turned on his stool to greet them with a grin and handclasps all around; they were a cadre of friends who had all enlisted together before the War, and had much training with him. They had seen terrible things in battle, but were still young enough to revel in the thrills more than the losses. And Kamion couldn’t blame them- they had lived through terrible times in the spring of their lives, and who was he to deny them the joy of summer? He gave in easily when they made to pull him with them to a table in the corner, and helped push several tables and their associated chairs together with much scraping and stamping of feet. Gerda and Ansel were kept busy running back and forth with food and drink for the raucous crew, and Kamion laughed and shouted with them in their talk and tale-telling. He drank rather more than he might have done alone, though not enough to cause any harm; just enough to make him aware that he hadn’t done this for a long time. The young soldiers called him Sergeant, as had long been his title, and though they were as brothers in this group, it landed more like father. Even as he laughed and drank and sang with them to the accompaniment of Ansel’s fiddle, Kamion felt that faint flicker of pride that always lit within him in the company of the valiant young he’d had a hand in readying for the world.

It was quite some time later, when the first hinds of sunset-gold had begun to tinge the light at the top of the windows, that the group as a whole began to wind down. They sat more sprawled in their chairs, some with their feet propped up, drinking only lazily from their tankards, and picking at the crusts of bread that remained on the table. The head of one had dropped right down to his chest, and Kamion was quite sure he was asleep. For his part, his head had largely cleared, and he sat with his legs outstretched in front of him beneath the end of the table, ankles crossed, and his fingers laced behind his head as he leaned back in his chair. The talk was much more subdued, following the last song that had been sung, and the Dúnadan was just thinking about getting home, when a voice spoke up.

“Sergeant, give us Old Brown’s Daughter!” Kamion’s gaze flicked across the table to land on the one who had spoke, a ginger-bearded young man called Pól who excelled with the sling. “It’s been ages, what do you say?”

“Ohh, I don’t know,” Kamion mused, running a hand back through his tousled hair,
“Aren’t you tired of that one?”

“Oh go on, Kamion, please!” This time it was Gerda who spoke, her eyes shining with her plea as she passed by with a tray of mugs. As if taking this as his cue, Ansel set bow to fiddle and began to play the melody. The soldier who had fallen asleep jerked awake, and, realizing what was happening, joined in the eager looks that were not being directed at Kamion, who laughed and threw up his hands.

“Very well!” he said, pulling his heands from behind his head and dropping the front legs of his chair to the ground as he sat up straight. “But you have to help me out.” They had all done this at least once in the past, and the group immediately began to thump softly on the table with their fists, setting up a rhythm, and when Kamion judged it steady, he nodded to Ansel, who brought his playing to an end. Though he never professed to be a singer, as such, Kamion had a naturally fine, right baritone voice, and he launched into the song with a will.

“There is an ancient party at the other end of town
And he keeps a little grocery store, the ancient’s name is Brown
And he has a lovely daughter, such a treat I never saw
Oh I only hope someday to be the old man's son-in-law.

Old Brown he sells from off his shelf most anything you please
He's got mouth harps for the little ones, lollipops and cheese
His daughter minds the store, and it's a treat just to see her serve
I'd like to run away with her but I don't have the nerve!”

The fiddle leaped back into action, as on the chorus it and all the voices of the young soldiers joined in.

”And it's old Brown's daughter is a proper sort of girl,
Old Brown's daughter is a fair as any pearl
I wish I was a Lord Mayor, a Marquis or and Earl
And blow me if I wouldn't marry old Brown's girl.
Blow me if I wouldn't marry old Brown's girl.”

Kamion’s voice rang out alone again to the backdrop of the softly thumping fists on the next verse, before being joined again by all on the chorus. This time it was not just his young crew that joined in, but several others about the tavern who knew the song; even Ulath chimed in as he worked, lending a deep base underscore to the the refrain.

”Well, poor old Brown now has trouble with the gout,
He grumbles in his little parlor when he can't get out
And when I make a purchase, lord, and she hands me the change
That girl she makes pulverized, I feel so very strange

And it's old Brown's daughter is a proper sort of girl,
Old Brown's daughter is a fair as any pearl
I wish I was a Lord Mayor, a Marquis or and Earl
And blow me if I wouldn't marry old Brown's girl.
Blow me if I wouldn't marry old Brown's girl.”

This time, Kamion held up a hand, and the thumping ceased. He sang the final verse into the quiet that followed, the first three lines slow and wistful, drawing out the final word with longing- before diving into the last with a renewed energy of the determined young lover.

”Miss Brown she smiles so sweetly when I say a tender word
Ah but old Brown says that she must wed a Marquis or a Lord,
And I don't suppose it's ever one of those things I will be
But by jingo next promotion, we’ll see what’s in store for me!”

The entire tavern joined in for the final chorus, a rollicking praise of the ephemeral Miss Brown and her charms, and the yearning to claim her hand.

”And it's old Brown's daughter is a proper sort of girl,
Old Brown's daughter is a fair as any pearl
I wish I was a Lord Mayor, a Marquis or and Earl
And blow me if I wouldn't marry old Brown's girl.
Blow me if I wouldn't marry old Brown's girl!”

A storm of whistling and stamping followed the final strident note, and Kamion waved it aside. As quickly as they had turned to song, the occupants of The White Tree fell back to their drinks and talk, and the murmur of conversation sprang up again, and the soft crackling of the fire/ Ansel wandered off, playing some aimless tune, and Kamion arched a brow at Pól.

“Why do you like that song so much?”

“It’s a good song!” Pól protested, but he did protest too much, and Kamion saw through him. And Pól knew it, having been pierced by that knowing gaze before. The ginger-bearded young man shrugged. “I heard somewhere that you wrote it. I like it, and I have to say, I am awfully curious.”

“Well, Pól,” Kamion said, pushing back from the table and rising to his feet, ducking his head around a brazier that hung from the ceiling, “There are some questions we must simply suffer with being unanswered!” He flashed Pól a grin to dissuade him of any impression that he might be irritated, and took his leave with many waves and a chorus of goodbyes. Pausing at the bar to pay his respects to Ulath and collect a parcel from Gerda for his father, Kamion found himself at last out on the street once more. The air was fresh and crisp, more markedly so in contrast to the heat and stuffiness of the tavern, and he merely stood for a moment breathing it in. It was not quite twilight; the light was still nearly full, but gold touched the high points of the White City, and the shadows had begun to lengthen. This was one of Kamion’s favorite times in Minas Tirith, when the workaday rush home had ended, but the lamplighters had not yet come; the streets were largely quiet, and the light cast its early sunset magic upon the stones. He hardly noticed his surroundings as he walked slowly down the street, so occupied was he with gazing upward, and was taken utterly by surprise as a voice called out his name.

“Kamion!”

Before he had registered the voice, it brought him to a shuddering halt. He was vaguely aware of having passed something in the street, and turned to see a palanquin being lowered to the ground by four strong men. Kamion’s brain ground back into gear, fully placing them voice, as he paced slowly back towards the palanquin, and saw a pair of hands draw back its curtains. As he drew level with and turned towards the window, he saw its occupant: a woman, her hair silver-grey, swept artfully up onto her head. She was garbed in a simple, elegant gown of deep maroon, and though her hands were slightly gnarled and her face heavily lined, her violet eyes with their thick rows of black lash snapped as brightly as the day they had met, nearly half a century before. Kamion smiled.

“Hello, Daila.”

The excitement of watching his friend run for the wagon kept Unalmis on the edge of his seat. Which was incidentally the edge of the wagon. To the point that he was rather fortunate not to have lost his balance and joined his friend in such a desperate race. But Cadil won out and met a great rush of admiration from the other young man, and a hearty clap on the back, upon doing so. Understandably Cadil was not impressed and Nal ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth, thoughtfully.


“I knew you could manage it,” he confided eventually, with a convincing grin. “And even if you didn’t believe it, still you have managed it. More than half the means of accomplishing something, is believing that you can. Else there’s a million excuses you can find to talk yourself out of even trying. And aren’t you proud of yourself now ?”


Taking time to, only now, check that the wagon was heading in the direction that they wanted to set out, Unalmis twisted back in place and relaxed. Allowing for Cadil to recover, he then laid back with both legs hanging off the edge of their ride. Both arms married to form a pillow beneath his head, and a rather blasé look about the fact that they were hitching a ride rather illegally. He wasn’t worried; the wagon was already going that way and it wasn’t like even their combined weight would slow it really.

“We are doing this fellow a favour really,” he decided, as much to convince his friend as himself. “Guarding his wagon, free of charge, from anyone who might have else robbed who knows what off the back of the thing.”

Thankfully it was rather a large wagon, so much that it's owner had not yet noted their ‘good deed’/presence. And in fact there was a rather large mound of some covered luggage between them and their oblivious driver. It took very little time at all before Unalmis grew bored staying so still and elected to roll over onto his belly, and toy with the edge of the compelling cover. “Ought we check for stolen goods or nefarious things ?” he proposed in a whisper to Cadil. “You know, since we are already here ?"

@Ercassie
"Look, Aunt Cali!" Little Rissy cried, excitedly pointing to whatever had caught the small girl's eye.
Turning to peer through the many sights that assaulted her eyes in the busy fayre ground, Cali tried to decide what her little niece was so excited about. She smiled, nodding along with the excited five-year-old. "Isn't it nice?" She asked, deciding to just pretend like she knew what was so exciting. Really, there was so much to see, just about anything could have been it. This, of course, was Rissy's first time coming to the fayre, but Cali used to come every year. Before the war. Before Ryn...

Ahead, Iuldir was pulling at his mother's hand, trying to race on further ahead, but Ivornith wouldn't let her son out of her sight. "Stay close to me," She reminded him, frowning softly. "I certainly don't want to spend the day searching for you. And I don't want you to go looking for any trouble, either, is that understood?"
"Me? Look for trouble?" Iuldir turned to give his mother a wide-eyed look of innocence. "I never!" He assured her.

Cali smiled, pausing to allow a wave of memories to wash over her, though it made her heart ache a little to remember her brother. Ryn, looking up at their mother with that same 'innocent' look. Except Ryn certainly did go looking for trouble, while Iuldir generally just happened into it. Iuldir often reminded her of Ryn, but at the same time, he was different. That fact, at first, had made it very hard for Cali to live with them, and care for the children while Ivornith was at her work. But in time, Cali had found herself gradually coming out of her emotional armor and coming to grow attached to the boy, and even, maybe, beginning to heal a little from her grief. Ryn's death still hurt to think about, but she found herself participating in the world around her again, and crying herself to sleep less often. She hardly did that, anymore. Iuldir and Rissy were certainly a handful, and Cali was finally seeing how her mother must have felt, raising herself and Ryn and their two older brothers. She was sure they had been far more troublesome than these two. Shaking her head slightly in amusement at the thought, Cali hastened her steps so not to lose her sister-in-law and nephew in the crowd.

"Can we go over there?" Rissy asked, holding onto Cali's neck with one hand while pointing with the other. Balancing the child on her hip, Cali turned to see what Rissy was pointing at. "You want to win a prize?" She asked, wondering if she could actually succeed in winning anything for the child.
"I wanna dolly! You promised, 'member?" Rissy bounced a little, as best she could, which wasn't very comfortable for Cali.
"Hold still, please." Cali smiled. "Yes, of course I remember. You've been very good at keeping our secret." She considered for a moment, and couldn't help remembering when she used to come here as a child. Her brother Berthion once played a game similar to this, and won Cali a toy which she had treasured for some time. "Alright, I'll try," She agreed, setting her niece down but taking her hand. "But you must stay very close and hold onto my dress. I don't want to lose you among all these people." Was that her mother that just came out of her mouth? How many times did Ryn and Cali roll their eyes when their own mother said something similar to them?

"How much?" She asked the man running the booth. After hearing the price, Cali nodded and made sure that Rissy was holding her skirt before picking up the ball. She paused, remembering once when she'd begged her father to try winning her something. He'd shaken his head, telling her that these games are all rigged to lose, and that he wasn't going to waste his money on something he could buy outright at a store. The memory tugged a little at her. Her father. He was gone, now, too. Taking a deep breath, she pushed that thought aside and clung to the happy one, when Berthion had stepped up after Father refused to try. He'd shared a little secret with her that day, which she hadn't thought much of, until now.

'You have to aim low,' he'd whispered, explaining his success. 'If one bottle sits more jutted out than the rest, even just a little, it absorbs the force of the ball from the others even when you give it your best throw.' Cali, thinking over these words from her deceased brother, watched another man trying to win something for his girl. He tried to knock the bottles over, but they just wobbled a bit and stood there defiantly.

Cali stepped up to try her hand at the game. The first try didn't succeed, as Cali wasn't exactly used to throwing a ball at something. But the second try hit just below where she was aiming. The third try hit the mark right on. Cali was stronger than she appeared, given her secret work in the forge, and threw the ball with a force that surprised the man running the booth. She watched with great satisfaction as the ball hit the bottom middle one, and therefore took out the whole bottom row. The upper rows toppled down as a result, and the man in the booth was speechless for a second.

Rissy cheered happily and bounced up and down with great joy. Smiling at her niece, Cali wasn't about to admit that she was as surprised as the man that she'd succeeded. "We'd like the doll, please, right Rissy?" She asked, thanking the man as he handed over the prize. "What do you say, Rissy?" She asked, nodding
as the child thanked him as well. "Good girl. Now, let's go find your mother," She said as she led Rissy away from the booth, quite pleased with herself for her success. Nonetheless, she wanted to get away from that place before Rissy begged her to play again.

"Ivornith!" Cali called, spotting her sister-in-law up ahead. She hurried to catch up to her, and passed Rissy's hand over to the child's mother. "I want to go find some friends, if they're here. Will you be alright?" She asked.
"Of course. Rissy, where did you get that doll?" Ivornith asked, listening with intrigue as her daughter excitedly related the over-exaggerated tale.

Cali shook her head and slipped off into the crowd, taking a deep breath. She loved those two children, but sometimes she liked to have a little break from them. Inhaling deeply of the smells of various foods being sold, Cali paused to have a look around. She started walking, and ducking around people and squeezing past groups, until she eventually found herself heading toward the tree. It was almost as if she were being drawn to it. Soon, the crowds were left behind, and Cali stood before the tree, alone, remembering old times.

Running her hand lightly over the place where the friends' overlapping initials were carved, Cali let her fingertips rest longest on the R. "I miss you, Ryn," She sighed softly under her breath, a little wave of sadness washing over her. But it didn't linger, not like it used to. She dropped her hand and smiled, looking around, thinking of some of the fun times they all used to have. Were any of the others here? Nal and Iole, perhaps? Trev, she remembered with a bit of disappointment, wasn't likely to be here. Why did he have to go? She dropped her head down with a sigh, wondering whether he was alright, and where he might be, and hoped he was well. What about Toby? Iuldir's friend sometimes visited Dol Amroth, and Cali asked for news of home, and sent news with him when he returned. But she hadn't seen him here, yet. He was probably around somewhere, and if she knew her nephew, Iuldir would find him sooner or later.

But what of Cali's closest friend, Iole? She had hoped to find her. If the young healer wasn't at the fayre, then Cali would have to go into the city to find her, and she had somewhat hoped to avoid that. In fact, the thought of going into the city, where all those memories waited to haunt her, was enough to make her hurry back to Dol Amroth as fast as she could go. She had yet to return to the white city since her father's death. Since the war. What was the forge like? She imagined it being the same as always, yet, at the same time, she also imagined it being destroyed. She was reluctant to see it with her own eyes, and learn what shape it was in. And her mother... no, she didn't think she could bear that reunion. With any luck, Iole would be here, at the fayre, so that Cali needn't test her bravery, and face those dreaded ghosts in her memories...

The sun had matured in the space of but hours, and so too it seemed that relative strangers could shrug off all their inhibitions, with as much ease as the burgeoning heat could encourage them to shrug off their heavier garb. Certainly this much was true of Iole, who was so surprised to find someone who seemed so utterly interested in her life, her family, her friends. Subjects all she would have considered quite dull to anybody outside of that very exclusive group. She had gone so far as to roll up her sleeves and bare her ivory forearms, for all the world to gawk at. Something she was not of tendency to do, as she had been called ‘Bones’ by bullies, long before she’d learned to hide her tears. The fact that her friends had swiftly stepped in, back when the cruel jabs had occurred, to make clear this was unkind and would not be bourne, did not steal away the pain and humiliation, nor keep insecurity at bay ever afterward. The man called Lowendir did not however poke fun. Indeed, he seemed as relieved as she, that the young woman felt so comfortable in his presence.

It was come of practice, of course. As much as he managed to seamlessly respond to the name, Lowendir, as though that had always been his. As much as he steered conversations from her questioning him to her instead informing him. If she had realised at all, then she was a far better actress than he was an actor, and he deserved all that he got for taking her on. But he did not believe that was the case here. As quickly as she had forgotten his lord-like speech contrasting with his lowly appearance, he had observed how she left her long, heavy curtain of hair hang loose, despite her feeling warm enough to roll up her sleeves. A shy undertaker’s daughter was still capable of employing her quite impressive tresses to flirt with him, less subtly than she imagined though, of course.

A veritable town of colour had by now exploded all about the field, built of bright vivacious silken tents and festooned with extended strings of bunting. For the first time since he had come to this strange white city, Arkadhur felt truly at home. Almost. But there was only one way he could ever see his home again, and he hadn’t quite yet reconciled how he would accomplish it. Everything was falling unto his lap without the Umbarian ever really trying very hard and he could not believe he had wasted so much time in Dol Amroth. The people were far more ‘careful’ there. They were also richer, as a rule of course. Minas Tirith, he had not decided his opinion of thus far.

The crowds might have alarmed him, the sheer number of potential witnesses, save that he knew exactly how to work their close packed coalescence. And that often, the more people there were, the more there was to divert them from him and .. whatever he was doing. There was certainly a myriad of sights and sounds and scents ... something for all the senses and all at once. It was all too easy for folk to become overwhelmed. Various performers paraded their trade amidst the masses, giving their all for coin to be thrown at their talented feet; whether they were plate-spinners, or jugglers, dancers, acrobats or strong men. Arkadhur even noted a few fire eaters and knife throwers, neither of which he had expected to see in this vicinity. But since the war there were countless folks displaced and migratory, and the multi-cultural mix had never perhaps been so represented all in one place. Anyone who could throw together a cart of apples or burden a kitchen table with home-baked pies had hastened out to take advantage of the captive audience. For there were many who had come to see what they would see, and as they increased, so too did the number of wonders who each wished in their turn to be recognised. And so the swelling of excitement went on.

Iole was rendered to a still in .. what had she been saying ? She could not recall. For Lowendir had spoiled her with more than one sugary delight, and possibly a little something more fruity that was beginning to go straight to her head. A stilt-walker stood out at elevated height, weaving through the crowd, and a sudden memory of Unalmis, chasing after such a one, many years ago now, asking if he would come home and teach his father such a trick ..the Undertaker’s daughter lost herself, and in that strange half dream existence, even believed that she had heard Cali’s voice, maybe .. somewhere .. here ? Where ? She span in place to see, then clutched at her head with one trembling hand as the heat and the rest of it all became too much. She sank down, dizzy, immediately regretting the move as all those who went on around her, unaffected, seemed all suddenly as tall as stilt-walkers to her.

The large blue eyes faltered, and a frown infected her alabastine brow. And Lowendir’s hand found her, aided her back to her feet then, as she swooned, caught her up in his strong arms. The Umbarian’s back straightened as he bore the featherweight to where he might have her away from fears of being trampled.

The young woman’s hand brushed his tanned cheek, weak as she was and could not hold there long, but her lips quietly proclaimed him as her ‘hero’. The majority of those few folk as might have noted the faint woman, smiled to observe a helpful attendant guide her out of the sun, and into the shelter of an outlying tent. Contented that they could thus go on about their merriment without cause to concern over Iole, they did just that.


EDIT - Misspelling. Of my own character's name. As pointed out by Rillewen. Whoops.

@Ercassie

Looking out over the Fayregrounds from the Tree, Cali decided she may have better luck in finding her friends if she were down among the people milling about down there. Her friends clearly weren't at the tree, after all, though she had hoped they might be. Sighing, the young woman cast one last glance back at the initials which the group of friends, once inseparable, had carved there as children. How long ago that seemed, now. How long had it actually been since they were all together, not counting Ryn? She knew it was before the war, for certain. In fact, it was longer than that, she recalled. Cali herself, she supposed, had separated herself from the group long ago. Now, she sought to rejoin it. But where were the others?

Turning from the tree, she began to make her way back into the crowds of people. Soon, the calls of vendors began to surround her. "Win a pretty new trinket! Only a few coins and-" "Get some hot apple cider! Good, sweet cider! Made from the apples of these very orchards, fresh and sweet-" "Try your luck at dart throwing! Easy to win! These are the best toys in all of the world! Made by the Dwarves in the days of-"

As Cali wound her way through the crowd, her ears were assaulted by the cries of various vendors pushing and vying for folks to come and spend their coins at their booth, for things they really didn't need and which were probably not at all what they claimed. One in particular drew her attention swiftly.

"Step right up here young man and win yourself a blade the like of which you'll find no equal! Yes sir," She overheard the vendor call out to a boy only a few years older than Cali's nephew, "This here blade was crafted by the elves of Gondolin, made of Mithril! The finest metal known to any swordsmith who ever lived! " The vendor proclaimed. Cali's curiosity was piqued, and she moved closer to get a better view of such a weapon, although doubting it truly was what the man claimed. "That's right young man, all you have to do is spin this wheel here, and if you can get it to land on the 'grand prize' section here, this beautiful, one-of-a-kind blade will be all yours!" He told the boy.

Suspicious, Cali slipped around behind the booth, unseen, and took a quick look at the wheel. Sure enough, tiny little weights were attached to the back of it to prevent it from ever landing on 'grand prize', even if it might come close. Shaking her head, she then wondered... could the blade be for real, if it was rigged so that no one could ever win it? She had to see, if only to satisfy her curiosity. As the man went on bragging about his Grand prize, drawing a small crowd of interested young men, Cali peered across the booth at it, arms folded as she frowned skeptically. It certainly looked pretty, and had a beautiful shine to the metal. But her trained smith’s eyes could tell that it was made of a poor quality metal, and not made well at all. Even from her angle, standing off to the side, she could see flaws that only a drunken weaponsmith would ever let past him. She ought to know, she had seen and corrected enough of those...

Anger flared up inside her at the vendor, trying to pass off that cheap piece of junk as some incredible, elven-forged treasure. "If the elves truly crafted that," She spoke up loudly enough to be heard, "then they have forgotten all they ever knew of smithing." She glared at the vendor. Somehow, she felt personally insulted by his fraudulent claims concerning that weapon. "I wouldn't recommend making such outlandish claims in these parts, sir. You're likely to offend the queen... or didn't you know she is of elven blood?"

The vendor was startled to have been called out on his lies, but before he could make any reply, the young woman who had dared speak so to him, along with his little crowd of potential customers, had dispersed and vanished into the masses.

Having ducked out of sight as soon as she had spoken her piece, Cali couldn't help a smile of self-satisfaction from spreading across her face. The man had it coming, she told herself. With a soft laugh, she thought of how much Ryn would have enjoyed hearing that confrontation. Her smile suddenly tinged with a little sadness, she wished Nal and Trev and Iole could have been around, too. They would have enjoyed it too, especially the boys. Then a little laugh took a little of the ache out of her heart as she thought of how Ryn would have carried it further; staying to argue and antagonize the man into a fury, making a big scene, then slipping off to leave him fuming. Shaking her head in amusement, the faint smile lingered on Cali's face as she wove among the crowds of fayre-goers. She wondered what sort of trouble Nal was getting himself into these days. Trevadir was..who knew where, and she hadn't heard from Iole since they parted during the evacuation of the City, before the war. She missed her tremendously.

Ducking around a stilts-walker, Cali paused to survey the crowds. Then... was that her? Could it truly be her? Cali felt a glimmer of hope flare up inside her at the brief glimpse of pale skin and dark hair. Jumping up as high as she could, the young woman tried to get a better view. "Iole!" She called out as loud as her lungs would allow. Was it her? Could she hear Cali through all this noise and chaos? "Iole!" She called again, trying to move forward but a group of people pushed past her at that moment. Frustrated, she waited, jumping up a few more times, and then she was able to see the girl clearer. It was definitely Iole! But who was that man escorting her? Cali had never seen him before. It was certainly not her father, nor was it anyone the girls had known growing up. Surely, however, once Cali had caught up to her friend, she would be introduced to Iole's new male friend. But first she must get past all of these people!

"Iole!" After a few more hops that made Cali feel like a child as small as little Rissy, she frowned,
confused when she lost sight of them both somehow. Where did Iole and her escort go now? Not knowing that Iole had mysteriously fainted or collapsed, Cali assumed she had gone further away while the crowd was hiding her from Cali's view. Determined not to lose her, Cali pushed her way through, not even caring about being polite now. She hadn't seen Iole in far too long! She must catch up to her or who knows how long it might be before they see one another again? Ducking and weaving among the people, Cali desperately tried to catch another glimpse of her closest childhood friend. "Iole!" She paused to get her bearings, looking around in all directions as she tried to spot the mortician's daughter. Then, at last, Cali was rewarded with the glimpse she so longed for. The girl was just in time to see Iole and her escort pass into a tent not far away, disappearing from sight. But now, Cali knew where to go to find them. Eager to
reunite with her friend, Cali hurried onward toward this new goal, ducking under the same tent flap only a few moments after the other two.

Not knowing, or caring what this tent was for or what might be within, Cali burst in, eagerly exclaiming, "Iole!" However, at the sight of Iole, Cali's anticipated joyful reunion was snatched away, replaced with worry at the condition she found her friend in. Fearing the worst, Cali rushed to her friend's side without so much as a glance toward the man. "Iole?" Her tone had changed to one of great worry. "What happened?"

She directed the latter to the stranger, casting a glance his way now, though she quickly turned back to Iole, wishing she knew what ought to be done. Iole was the healer, not Cali, but she could see that something was wrong. "I'm a close friend of hers," she added as an afterthought, in explanation. "Though, we haven't seen one another in far too long..." She sighed, wishing it were otherwise. "What's wrong with her? What happened?" She turned her worried expression back toward the stranger, waiting for an answer, expecting some logical explanation for whatever had come over Iole. Her stomach twisted up into a knot as a sudden fear presented itself. Surely, Iole was not going to follow in her mother's "footsteps" and become a frail, bedridden invalid who rarely got to see the outdoors, and must be constantly tended? The sudden fear of losing yet another close friend gripped Cali's heart so that she caught her breath, even as her hand clasped around her friend's. "Iole, please, you must be alright..."

@Lailyn @Winddancer
The young man wore his uniform proudly; his weapon sharpened, every metal surface was polished beautifully until it gleamed like a mirror, the cloth parts were clean and free of wrinkles, nothing at all was out of place. Except his thoughts. Ric was distracted after he had recently had a week off. Now, back in Minas Tirith on his way to report back in for duty, on the first day with the new rank of Lieutenant, Ric found himself struggling to keep his mind on the job. He thought of her, instead. He cared a great deal for her, and wished he lived close enough to see her every day. He wanted to do more for her. Yet, there were obstacles which he could not remove, and that troubled him. He sighed, turning a corner as he shook his head to try and bring his attention to the present. He had to report for duty and find out what responsibilities his new rank called for.

As Ric did so, he suddenly heard a sound which drew his attention sharply to his surroundings, no need to struggle at it anymore. Someone sounded sick. Frowning, the young man glanced around, but saw no one. It sounded like it was that way, though, he thought. He hurried toward the noise, intending to check if this person needed any aid. Perhaps he might assist them to the Houses of Healing? It would make him even more late, but at least, he would have a more valid excuse for it. However, the moment he began to approach the person who seemed to be throwing up, Ric spotted the cause for such a reaction, and froze in his tracks for a moment, stunned.

A body, horrible mangled and tortured... how could this happen? And within the walls of their own city! As deep as the second circle, at that. His mind spun with thoughts of how this could have happened. Was the murderer still in the city? He shook his head slightly, steeling himself to not have the same sick reaction as the unfortunately young woman as he approached her. "Ma'am, are you alright? What happened here?" Ric had never, in all of nearly five years serving in the Tower Watch, encountered anything as horrific as this, not even during the war. At least in war, you expect a few gruesome things. But these were peaceful times now! "Do you need to go to a healer, ma'am?" The young guard inquired, thinking swiftly of the best way to handle this situation. Obviously, his superior must be notified immediately, but he ought to also secure the area and prevent others from happening upon the scene. It seemed best not to start a city-wide panic, and besides, there were many women and children to think of, it would not be good for them to witness such a scene, after all... how could he alert his fellow guards without leaving the scene, however? Use a messenger, perhaps? But whom could he send?

The tent they ducked into was devoid of people, favouring props, so probably a staging shelter. Allowing himself just a second to adjust to the altered light, Arkadhur lowered his trophy carefully onto the grass carpet. Her previously gathered arms fell askance to either side, now splayed like a wing each crooked at the elbow. Her pale face was slightly turned as though to kiss her green, feathered bed, and he knew from that she must be unaware of all. Else surely such sensation at her face would tickle. Still she did not stir.

An unexpected arrival erupted from behind him, that the Umbarian leapt deftly out of the way. Story of his life. There was not a job he had ever undertook that he would not forsake for the sake of his own wellbeing. Which was rather ironic, considering the career he could boast. Still, he did not know what had intruded and could not have expected Cali, but he did not seem to be undone. The young woman looked robust, driven, for all the desperation that flavoured her speech. Whatever she may have supposed had happened, she had not accused him or seemed to think he responsible. So he didn't give her any reason to begin to.


“She fainted,” he admitted, “I think perhaps the heat, the crowds, .. ” Arkadhur left out any mention of the tainted cordials he had administered. He observed the evident concern that Cali demonstrated; proof if there were any required, that her story was accurate.

“You must be Cali,” he realised, calling on what Iole had been chatting away about her friends, her family, .. “I am Lowendir” Arkadhur lied outright, but at least kept up the same ruse to hold up the story he had played this far. Without even acknowledging any motive, he moved to stand behind Cali,, eager to have her attention focused on her friend. It was not dark within the tent exactly, but it was dim-lit if contrast to the clear noonday sun that reigned high outside. There was little he imagined that she might recall of his appearance, if pressed later. She had scarcely paid him any regard whatsoever.


“She has been crying,” he hastened to mention, for fear that despite all the likelihood against it, this young woman would observe the tell-tale trail of tears stained on Iole's pallid cheeks. “She argued, with.. well you probably can guess who.” It was amazing how much he could ply from the most mundane conversations. Even more incredulous was the fact that a little went a long way. If he gave the prompts, he knew the young woman would fill in the blanks all by herself. “We came to the fayre to try and cheer her up. And then .. well, .. ” he left it there, the outcome evident before them both.

If he was whispering throughout this conversation, it could easily be explained that he was afraid to disturb their malaise friend. “Perhaps she needs some water,” he invited the intruder to help. After all, that was what he imagined somebody in the position he’d claimed to be .. would do.

@Ercassie

The news that Iole had fainted only confirmed Cali's need for worry. The heat and crowds got to her? Since when was Iole prone to fainting spells? How much had changed since she'd been gone? She hardly noticed that the man had recognized her by name. Absently, she nodded, confirming her name to him, and vaguely heard the name he gave. The young woman was preoccupied with wondering what could be ailing her friend; remembering how the girl's mother had always been, as long as Cali had known Iole the woman had been sickly and bedridden.

There had always been Iole's father's concern about his daughter becoming ill like her mother, but Cali and the boys had always dismissed such concerns. Iole was just as healthy as any of them, Ryn used to say, and insisted the sunlight and fresh air was far better for the girl than sitting around in some 'musty old funeral parlor breathing in the scent of death all day', and Cali had always quite agreed. Running off on fun adventures was sure to be better for anyone than sitting around quietly with death and mourning all around them. The irony of it struck her suddenly; Cali had spent so long in isolation, surrounded by her own mourning and memories of the dead. Ryn would have insisted she come out and play and socialize, had he... if he had been... No, she would not let her thoughts drift in that direction. With an iron will, Cali locked up that part of her mind and refocused on the situation at hand.

“She argued, with .. well you probably can guess who.” Lowendir was saying.

Cali blinked, furrowing her brow lightly in puzzlement. Arguing? With whom? The young woman tried to think whom Iole might have been arguing with. "I'm afraid I couldn't say," She answered regretfully, feeling a pang of sorrow that she had become so disconnected from Iole that she knew nothing of her present life. "I have not seen nor heard from Iole since..before the war." She admitted. Was she perhaps even a little jealous that this stranger might know more about what was going on with Iole than she did? Cali shook her head slightly and tried not to think of such things. All the while she had been kneeling there, letting her thoughts race through her head, Cali had been trying to wake her friend. First gently shaking her shoulder, then lightly patting her cheek, then another shake of her shoulders, calling her name. Too bad she had no smelling salts, but then, at last, Lowendir's suggestion of water came, and Cali felt stupid for not having thought of it sooner. Of course!

Fortunately, having come to the Fayre with her sister in law and two children, Cali had thought in advance. She had been to the fayre in years past, enough to know that one tends to get thirsty, and with all the vendors crying out for people to buy their wares, among them were several people selling drinks at higher prices than normal. When one is thirsty, one tends to give in and buy those high-priced drinks merely to quench one's thirst. Cali, always a practical girl, had brought along a waterskin, which now hung at her side.

As soon as Lowendir brought up the idea of water, Cali took up the waterskin, which was filled only a few hours ago with cool water from a lovely, clear brook they had passed on the way here. Carefully, she slipped an arm under Iole's head, lifting her slightly, and held the waterskin to the unconscious girl's lips, watchful that only a little trickled in, lest it choke or drown Iole. After waiting a moment, she noticed no change. "Perhaps, a little cold water on her face.." She murmured more to herself than anyone, pouring a little into her cupped hand, which she then splashed onto her friend's face. Perhaps it would jolt her awake? If nothing else, it ought to wash away her tears. In the back of her mind, Cali vowed that whoever had caused her best friend to succumb to such tears would surely pay dearly, once she had hunted them down...

Falaneth
The Second Circle
with Aderic and corpse

Falaneth stood still as a statue, frozen by fear, with a misty gaze looking into the distance at nothing. Waiting, waiting, waiting. To wake up from this nightmare, for someone to take her away from here, for someone to clear out that abomination of a corpse so she could hide in her quiet haven among the books. The histories, the tales, the words ancient and lyrical, theories fresh and inciting, the scent of ink and the crinkle of parchment. They were the only constant in her life, the only good things that remained to her. She needed them to soothe her mind and soul and remove her from all of this. She needed her work.

And now her way was barred by this...mangled, disfigured, abhorrent corpse.

A crow cawed. They never tarried when death was at hand. Falaneth barely heard it, accustomed as she was to their frequent noises outside her windows. Instead, she only heard little snippets of the music in her mind, the same one that had seeped into her dream, the bow scraping on string and echoing painfully in her head until she wondered if it would ever fade.

Was she going mad? She hadn’t been sleeping well for some time. Had she become so delirious she hallucinated the grotesque skeleton of tree limbs wreathed by flesh? Or was she still sleeping even now?

No, no, no, this was real. Even she, who had spent hours and hours wondering what lay on the other side of death, could not imagine this.

Lost in her thoughts, she did not hear the man approach. Aderic’s voice was like a sudden roar, jolting her back into her body from wherever she was drifting off to. If it was possible for her to pale any further, at the sight of his uniform, she would have. All the color had already fled from her face. Of course this would attract the Tower Guard. They seemed to be everywhere in the City lately, plaguing her with reminders of how little faith she had in them.

Falaneth crossed her arms and shuffled back a step. Her throat still burned from the upwelling of her breakfast and she realized she was holding her breath. When she finally spoke, she kept her gaze downcast. “I...no. I’m fine.” Two words, a blatant lie. Her voice trembled. “I need to go to the library,” she told him. “To work. But I can’t-- I can’t go past that...”

When she dared to risk a glance up, she saw a small child, a little girl and Falaneth’s stomach dropped. Her blue eyes rounded. “She should not see this.”

Moving with sudden purpose, Falaneth marched toward Dina and placed herself between the girl and the corpse, hoping to block the view even though she knew it was too late. The girl had seen it, the scent emanating from her confirmed it. A quick glance around the street showed no obvious adults in the vicinity. “Where are your parents?” If she knew the horrible answer to that question, or even had the slightest inkling, she would never have asked.

@Lailyn @Winddancer
Library, Second Circle

The woman claimed to be fine, though Ric had severe doubts about that. Anyone who saw such a horrifying, shocking sight first thing in the morning, threw up their breakfast, and then appeared to be in a daze, certainly did not qualify as 'fine' to him. Truth be told, he felt rather shaken up by it himself, but he was a lieutenant, and therefore must appear strong and capable, even if it was forced. He must show that he could take charge in any situation, if he was to prove that his superiors didn't make a mistake in promoting him so early in his career.

Then Ric almost couldn't believe his ears. The woman saying she needed to go to the library... at a time like this? He attributed it to the shock she must be in at the moment. He kept a calm, understanding sort of tone as he spoke, "Yes, I understand, but-" The young lieutenant was suddenly interrupted as she blurted out,
"She should NOT see this!"
Ric was caught off guard by this outburst, but immediately after, he heard the child's cries, 'Papa!' and turned, further horrified to see the small child there, crying. Papa..? Could this be.. surely not.. Ric risked a glance at the corpse, then hurriedly looked away, sickened even further. He hoped that she was merely calling for her papa to come and get her away from here... still, his heart broke for the little girl, and he knew he must do something. How had he not noticed her sooner?

"Ma'am," The young man thought swiftly for a solution to get both of them out of this immediate vicinity, addressing Falaneth. "Please, will you take her somewhere... away from here, quickly. The houses of healing, perhaps?" She claimed to be fine, and although he didn't quite believe that, she was going to have to be, for the child must now take first priority in this case. "I'll have someone search for the child's parents.. after I deal with this. And if you should happen to see any other guards on your way, please, may I ask that you send them here as quick as possible?" Ric was quite anxious to get the situation under control before any other citizens happened along. Things of such horror could not be unseen, after all. Perhaps the child, in time, would come to believe that it was all an awful nightmare, but he couldn't be sure of that, and he hated it for her.

Having made his request, and hoping the woman would do as she was asked, Ric then turned his attention to the other situation. It was a shame, he thought, that his brother had quit the Watch... he would have been sure to be close by, and could have aided Ric in this matter. Or if their friend hadn't gone missing... Ric tried to put those thoughts out of his mind, lest it venture down worrying paths. Instead, the young man sought how he might hide this gruesome sight from any citizens unlucky enough to happen by before they could remove it entirely. To that end, Ric glanced around for something he might cover it with. All he had was his cloak, and though he inwardly cringed at the thought, he decided that it was for the good of the citizens. He could always get a new cloak later.

Fighting the urge to copy Falaneth in throwing up, the young man approached the corpse, removing his cloak. After ensuring that the corpse was lying flat, gagging a little as he worked, Ric spread his cloak over the dead man. He had to step away immediately after this task was accomplished, and leaned one hand against whatever the nearest solid thing was, one of the large marble pillars framing the steps. He took several deep breaths as he struggled to regain his composure. Next step... find someone to take word to the other guards.. but he needed to take a few moments to recover himself before he did anything else...

He really was getting too old for this sort of thing. From the lee of the building, a rather flamboyant haberdashery, across the street, Bram watched the scene unfold. Modern art was getting too out of control. He sympathized with the few people that had shown up and lost their appetites in a very explosive fashion. He’d seen too many bodies twisted and broken and mangled to feel the same urge. This little display did bring to mind the ship he’d come across years ago that had been overtaken by some sort of mold. He shuddered. Of all the memories he could have called on, why did it have to be that one? His mind liked to play tricks on him, and there was a lifetime’s worth of tricks for it to call upon. He hadn’t arrived first, that had been the unfortunate child, but he’d watched long enough. He wanted a normal day at work. Just once. Just one. The sun felt cold and distant this morning. He hadn’t slept well. Something had happened in his dreams. Something he couldn’t quite explain or understand. They had been nice, mundane; then it turned sour with a sort of horrid droning note. Black robed figures, with mouth like the space between the stars invaded his peaceful dream and turned it to a molding, rotting nightmare. It was a blessing he wasn’t married; he’d woken up with a knife in his hand. He didn’t recognize the knife.

He sighed, ground his teeth just short of the point they’d crack, then started walking. The young lad that had just shown up had the sense to cover the... tree, with his cloak. Lad’s gonna need a new one after today, he mused with a humorless chuckle. He’d made a similar mistake on his first day, several decades ago now. Something itched at the back of his mind, but he brushed it off. “You with the Guard lad.” Despite timbre of his voice, it had been a statement, not a question. He looked at the now covered body and rubbed his chin. “Name’s Bram. Someone must’ve seen something before anyone else got ‘ere and told the Captain. I got sent here to secure the scene. You new?” he looked at him hard for a moment, trying to place where he might have seen him before. When he came up blank he shrugged and squatted next to the child. “Here’s a brave lass. I’m sorry you had to see that sweetheart. Where’s your mum and da? Surely they must be worried about you right now.” He put a comforting hand on her tiny shoulder and looked up to the woman next to her. She wasn’t the girl’s mother, he’d observed enough to know that, and that she was not in any way involved judging her projectile reaction. “What’s your name, ma’am? I’m Bram. Do you mind the lad and I ask you a few questions?”

In Bram’s experience, it was best to get started right away. Eventually someone would be along and give them a blanket or direct them to the Houses of Healing to talk to someone with a more personal, less investigative inclination. They might be in shock, all three of them, but cold reactions yielded just as good information as reheated ones a day or two later. That itch in his shoulders was not going away any time soon.

Born Under a Bad Sign

Falaneth
Outside the Library, Second Circle
with Aderic, 'Dina' and Bram

The little girl looked so small and unassuming clutching her doll, Falaneth did not blame the guard for his oversight. ‘Dina’ reminded her of a baby bird that had fallen from the nest, but unlike one, she was very quiet. Instinct drove her to protect her but now that she was here and had asked after her parents, she had no idea what to do next. Falaneth hovered silently, trying to provide a screen to the horrible scene with grey skirts and her petite frame, hoping it was enough while fearing it was not.

She began to consider bringing the girl to the library with her once she was able to do so. Inside it was darker, calmer, the only voices were soothing and hushed. One of her colleagues might be able to help the girl and then Falaneth could find comfort in a place that made sense where she could restore order, shelving books, and follow the coded aisles to locate items requested by scholars. The peaceful image was shattered when Aderic requested she take the girl to the Houses of Healing.

Her immediate response was to refuse. Guards always thought they knew best, ordering people around and expecting them to follow like mindless sheep. As usual, the guard hadn’t listened to a word she’d said: she needed to go to work, to get to the library. Did the guards only see what they wanted to see and here was a woman, how convenient, so she must look after the child as if she had nothing better to do? As if latching on to her resentment, the dream song turned over and played in her head once more…

She brought the heel of her palm to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. Go away, go away, she begged but it only seemed to drum deeper and deeper making her head pulse with pain. When she opened them, blue eyes reflected the rich sky above and focused on black wings overhead. A crow. Like the one that trapped her in her nightmare. She shivered.

A second guard landed on the scene like a hungry vulture. Where there was one, there were always more. He wasted no time in approaching them; how typical of a man bearing authority to swoop in and take control. At least he offered some comfort to the girl but Bram stood so close, Falaneth felt cornered between the guards, the girl and the corpse, still somehow stuck in a nightmare even though she was awake.

“You look after your doll and keep her close,” she told the girl, hoping it might distract her. Instead of stepping away to give herself the space she longed for, she inched forward, aiming to place herself between the little girl and the guard before she addressed Bram.

“I’m Falaneth. I don’t suppose you’ll really give me a choice in the matter even though I doubt anything I say will be of use to you.” Her voice was soft but the words were forceful. She stretched herself up as tall as she could and looked him square in the face. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The Limbërámë on the Anduin
Mylien, Ruindil and Afarfin

The ship had made the journey at break neck speed along the coast, at no point was there not a full crew on the sails trimming them or rowing upon the ores to push them even faster. Whatever offering Mylien and Afarfin had offered Osse and Uinen it seemed to have worked. The ship had sailed past Dol Amroth it's white sails full and a signal on their top mast marking that they had to travel at speed for medical help. It wasn't entirely a lie, and the grand flag of the House Raveara billowed behind them its red background and golden lion had been seen in Dol Amroth before not on this particular ship but it was not questioned. In fact there had been a few fights over who would get to go and who would stay at the Manor, the loyalty of the house and the many crews had all of them wanting to help Fuin. She had given them a home and safe harbor, that she needed help had ended in at least one fist fight that had been settled by Ruindil. Who had pulled the two able bodied seamen apart, and telling them they were both staying home that they didn't need that sort of behaviour on Limbërámë when they needed to work together to get every bit of speed from the ship.

If the Morifaire was needed they could be on that crew if they ended up in danger, and that they would be coming for war if they did need to sail. This was Ruindils order more to make sure that Mylien was safe in case her fears weren't entirely unfounded. Ruindil watched her from where she sat on the bowsprit now that they were in the middle, she was the only on shouting anything. Ruindil did not need to give the crew orders they knew their job and were working quickly and quietly so that he could concentrate on following Myliens orders as she shouted out the changing conditions and where sand bars were so they would not run aground. It was already half way through the day and they were charging up the Anduin smaller river fishing crafts getting out of the way of the massive ship that would not normally make such a journey.

Afarfin for his part was spending his time between the deck and in the upper hold keeping the three horses he'd brought so that they could ride hard for Minas Tirith once they had docked ready to be lead out of the hold and down the dock so that they could ride at speed. Something that would be interesting for Mylien as she would be in a dress. They were getting close however it would be late in the day before the made Harlond, he had no doubt no matter how hard they rode it would be night fall before they made it to Minas Tirith. He had never been to the city and he wasn't sure Ruindil or Myline had either which meant they would need help finding exactly where the House of Healing was.

The litte rivulet of her urine meandred it's way away from the small crowd without being observed, her wet skirts going completely unnoticed as she continued to cry even though she could no longer see her father anymore. Part of her wanted to run up to the "statue" to make 100% sure it was her father and not just someone who looked like him, but the other part of her had her rooted where she was, unable to move.

Tears stained her dirty face, creating little clean paths through the grime. Tears that would usually be wiped away by a loving hand, while pulled in for a reassuring hug. "PAAAAPA!" She sobbed, nose now running as well as the sobs intensified to where she was finding it hard to breathe. Unaware of more people gathering around her, she pulled the dolly closer to her chest as her whole body shook with the sobs.

'Is Papa.. dead?' She thought as she drew in a ragged wet breath, almost finding enough courage to step aside to peer around the woman in front of her, though before she could a man squatted down right before her. 'Don't talk to strangers! Never let a stranger touch you!' Her father's voice shot through her addled mind as the man placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. If her loud sobs hadn't caused enough attention, her sudden shriek of terror surely would. All she could think to do at that moment was to run and hide, body still trembling with fear as she turned on her heels and began running down the street in the same direction the "man" had gone, her tiny naked feet slapping loudly on the cold cobblestones.

@Lailyn @Winddancer
Ric's attention was called to the new arrival, someone wearing the uniform of the Watch, and felt relief wash over him as it seemed to be someone who knew how to handle such a situation. He straightened up, trying to pretend he had not come close to losing his own breakfast, as Falaneth had done, and gave a salute to the man. He was somewhat surprised to hear Bram ask if he was new to the Watch. "No sir. Lieutenant Androllius," He introduced himself. "It's a shame we didn't meet under more pleasant circumstances, but I am glad the matter has already been reported." That was one more thing off his mind, at least.

The woman, who gave her name to be Falaneth, seemed reluctant to cooperate, Ric noticed, and he also couldn't help noticing that she seemed distressed, and certainly did not seem 'fine' as she claimed to be. He frowned, wishing she would have agreed to go to the healers, but now another problem had arisen; the small child had panicked and fled, and Ric was quite startled by this. Having little knowledge of children, he stared after the little girl, unsure what to do. Should they run after her? Perhaps she was running to her parents... or perhaps she would end up lost. He couldn't help feeling convinced that the corpse now hidden beneath his cloak was the child's father... but where was her mother?

He glanced at Bram, who seemed a more experienced guard. "Should we go after the child?" He wondered, again feeling torn... this scene was not yet secured, and now there was a small, terrified child running around the city, and meanwhile the woman looked on the verge of falling apart... why were women so complicated sometimes, anyway? The young guard held back a sigh, wondering how the day could possibly get any worse... but then reminded himself that he dare not think such, as it was always capable of getting worse.

Well this morning was going swimmingly already. As Bram approached the little girl to check on her, the woman gave him a look that might have killed him had she been a witch. That was an unpleasant thought. He looked at her again. No, no she didn’t have the look. Was there a look, or was Bram just cycling through paranoia? Could he be blamed? After years of living in Minas Brethil and being forced to deal with seahags, pirates, and gangs of children run by little blonde girls he was skittish. Was there a way he could convey “I meant no offense; I’m not trying to stamp on anyone’s authority” with a look? Probably not. Well, there went that first impression. Inwardly, Bram calculated that if that sort of reaction kept up, this case was going to be his one and only case before getting shipped off to Cair Andros or somewhere. Seriously, can’t one place not have freaky murders and obstinate witnesses? Again, probably not. His brother was right, he should have just joined an order of ascetic monks and called it a life. He wondered if it was too late.

He stood up and turned his attentions to the other guard. Not new, as it turned out. Bram’s investigative skills were extra sharp this morning. It was no wonder the woman, Falaneth, had reacted to his arrive the way she did. Last night’s poor sleep could only be partially blamed on his hasty and overreaching behavior. “Good to meet you Lieutenant Androllius,” his attention went to the covered body. “It is a shame. Just transferred here from down south. Hope this sort of thing’s not the norm.” He didn’t really want an answer in the positive or negative, he was not sure which one might have been worse. Fortunately, he had other problems to concern himself over.

“I apologize ma’am, Miss Falaneth. This is clearly not an ideal situation,” had he really just said that? Black stars man, get your head out of your ass, “anything you could tell us might help. Details are often what mean a case getting solved and a case going cold. If you don’t want to do this here, I can arrange to come by later. I assume you work at the,” he’d never felt more like a hinterlander, “the library?”

Before she was able to answer, and before Bram was able to stop her. The little girl, the tiny creature that had been so traumatized, screamed and darted off like a bumblebee in the evermore crowded streets. A quick look at the ground told him all he needed to know. He sighed and cursed. “Dammit!”

His first instinct was to run after her, try and catch her before she vanished in the crowd like a rabbit down a hole, but something stopped him. The girl had been traumatized enough. Forcing her back here, to look at the body of her father, (the wailing cry of “PAPA!” had not gone unnoticed) would be a specific kind of cruel. However, she was still valuable to the investigation. He cursed himself for thinking like that. At the very least, the girl’s mother needed to be found. Did she have a mother? That thought chilled him. A girl on the streets by herself? He might lose his breakfast after all.

“Try,” he said to Androllius, “try and find her. At the very least we need to make sure she’s okay and doesn’t get hurt.”

This morning was going very, very swimmingly.

Tavern of the Seven Stars
Sundown, Highday
Mourgan Alarion meeting the lovely Chrysanthemum (Crissy)

“Would you like some wine?’ He asked her, not wanting to presume. She nodded. “That’d be nice.” He motioned for the waiter and within moments they each had a glass before them. She lightly sipped it and set it on the table. “It’s lovely.” She complemented it. She seemed to be unsure what to talk about.
Small talk had never been his thing, he now sat across from her unsure how to proceed. “My father tells me you had some trouble at your shop? A thief or something like that?” His voice deepened with concern. She nodded slowly. “Yes, but your father caught him. He’s currently serving a sentence in the city jail.”
“He’s fortunate he didn’t end up with worse.” Mourgan added, knowing his father could have inflicted a lot of pain on the man.”You were unharmed though?” He asked, his voice edged with concern. “Nothing some hot tea couldn’t fix.” She reassured him. “My shop was none the worse for wear.”
He suddenly remembered she had a shop.” I’m glad to hear you both came out of it unscathed.” She smiled. “Thank you.”
Soon their waiter arrived with their meals of chicken and asparagus. It smelled wonderful and the way she smiled at him as it arrived caused his nerves to settle. Then he heard it, or at least thought he heard it. His mother’s laugh.
He tried to be discrete as he leaned to his right to look around the waiter at the entrance to their area, the ferns in particular. He narrowed his brown eyes and it caught it, the slightly swaying of the fronds and dark hair. “Bema’s arse.” He muttered under his breath as he came to sit back in his chair.
Crissy tried to ignore what he was doing but she did catch the muttering. “Pardon me?” She thought it was something she’d done. He looked at her and raised his hand in defense. “Uh...nothing...I just meant to say this meal looks so good. “He tried to cover. Strange, she thought but she didn’t let it deter her from a lovely meal.
Over the next hour while they enjoyed their meals they talked and came to find out they both enjoyed the country more than the city, reading was something they did in their spare time and they both had very similar plans for the future.
They were both feeling good about their choice to come to dinner and as Crissy wiped at the corners of her mouth at the end of her meal Mourgan steeled his nerves. He didn’t want this to be the last time he seen Crissy. She intrigued him and made him laugh, something he rarely did much of anymore.
Crissy was just replacing the napkin to her lap when he cleared his throat. He seemed to want to ask her something but then seemed to think better of it. “Well, I don’t know about you but I liked that chicken.” She smiled, hoping to set him back at ease. “It was very good.” He nodded and sat his napkin on the empty plate.
At the end of their meal now she wasn’t sure really what to say but he found the words. “I suppose it’s getting late.” His bluntness caught her off guard slightly and she awkwardly agreed as she also sat her napkin on her empty plate.
“Uhm. Yes…I suppose it is. I do have work tomorrow.” She started to push her chair back but he quickly helped her and retrieved her wrap for her, holding it up for her to put it on. She smiled to herself. He may not be as cultured as Beren but she was sure in time he would acquire those skills. “Thank you.”
She was about to leave but Mourgan spoke up. “Can I uh…walk you… somewhere?” She smiled lightly at hearing his request. “I suppose it would be a lovely evening for a walk.” Mourgan’s smile widened and she decided she enjoyed his smile very much.

Cadil
Adventuring with Unalmis @Ercassie

In return for all the encouragements Nal only got a frown and a tip of the tongue from Cadil. "What's the use of all the running, getting sweaty and tired without a proper cause?" the weary youth grumbled. While he found a measure of satisfaction in the fact that he had been able to catch up with the cart, yet he saw the feat as rather useless; and therefore - in his opinion - he had to replenish the depleted energy.

After a quick search through his luggage, he first provided himself with a plentiful drink of water, and then retrieved a thick slice of bread and a wedge of cheese. Wasting no time, Cadil took a bite off the snack without offering anything to his partner-in-crime - Nal did not deserve a snack for setting him up for such a challenge.

"What do you mean?" he asked after a moment of quiet enjoyment of nutritious food and accidentally spat out a few crumbs towards Nal. "Even if it is illegal stuff... Whatcha gonna do? Stop the cart and arrest the guy?" However, the curiosity had been sparked, and as he stuffed the remaining morsels of bread in his mouth with one hand, Cadil ran the fingers of the other hand over the cover trying to feel the cargo beneath it. "What if there are corpses under there?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at Unalmis and chuckling quietly at what he thought was a smart joke.

Home Sweet Home
Lossarnach

A bright ray of sunshine had found a way around the heavy curtains and now shone straight into Pele’s face, tickling her closed eyelids; she was reluctant to respond to its warm touch. However, the black-and-white cat that had been sleeping curled up at her feet took the slightest sleepy stirring as a signal to commence with the wake-up proceedings. After a proper stretching, the furry feline padded up to Pele’s face and began purring loudly while rubbing his soft cheeks against her nose.

“Pepper… why…” she mumbled in his fur, reluctantly letting go of whatever was left of the morning’s slumber and reaching out to pet the relentless cat, opening one eye to determine his specific whereabouts. Only for a moment she regretted having let him in at night; but it was indeed just a moment for no one would be able to resist the heartfelt show of affection and constant purring.

Eventually Pele sat up and let out a wide yawn as she stretched her arms upwards and then out to get the stiffness out of her limbs. The scent of freshly baked pancakes found a crack in the door – or a keyhole – and wafted in to increase the sense of hunger in her stomach. The abundance of input to her senses proved enough to make her abandon any thoughts on lingering idly on the side of her bed, and she crossed the floor to the window to push aside the curtains and let in the light and crisp breeze.

Pele’s eyes lingered on the treeline of a forest beyond the pasture, and she could not help thinking that this was a much more pleasant view than a stony courtyard in Minas Tirith. She did not mind stonework either, but she did need a break from it now and then, even though she had often purposefully avoided returning home to receive the necessary share of outdoors.

Turning away from the window, the Ranger quickly exchanged her night clothes for something more fit for a life in daylight. A pair of black leggings and a sleeveless tunic would do, as she did not mean to go for a visit to the King that would require a fancy dress code. She took a stand before the mirror instead of a window now and proceeded to comb her hair. Her eyes though lingered on the scar that was now visible on her right shoulder.

A thought immediately popped up in her mind that she should exchange the sleeveless tunic for long sleeves, but as soon as she thought of it, she could hear the healer Linaiwe’s voice in her mind asking her how long she would deny parts of her past.

“Hmm?” Pele asked herself, as she fixed her hair in a ponytail and stared right into the blue eyes that looked back at her. She had gone through the pain; and while it had affected her, she was neither broken nor hopeless; and why not own even the extremely unpleasant experiences and use them as building blocks to a better future? With a deep sigh she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and smiled; she was ready to face the day.

“Meow!!!” Pepper demanded, sitting at the door and dissatisfied that Pele took so long to make ready and let him out.

“Fine, fine. Coming,” she responded, casting one last glance in the mirror and running her hands over the tunic to straighten it. Just two steps, and she had reached the door, and the cat ran out as soon as there was enough space for him to squeeze through – on to the kitchen. On the other hand, Pele first headed out into the yard and for a bucket of cold water by the well to wash the last remains of sleep out of her eyes.

He was something of an observer, often by necessity and therefore as a force of habit even more so. Many a performance he had witnessed whilst squatting in the theatre hall, and seen as much of the actors themselves as the charades they played out on stage. But none of those was so compelling as the scene unfolding here before him now, between the two estranged friends. The abrupt storm of panic and urgency which had brought Cali into the mix was now smothered by the young woman’s apparent want to help. An invisible wall of need had been erected, that held the eruption of worst fears barely at bay, and Cali tended to Iole as a mother might, voicing suggestions as she went, as though some other wiser spirit guided her essential knowhow out from the stores of her memory and into use. As though he were only truly a spectator, rather than the instigator of the womens’ woe, Arkadhur observed the scene with a growing sense of disassociation.

He could slip away, he realised. As natural as had Iole fallen into his grasp, so now had some means of delivering her from all harm. The Umbarian could retreat, leave the two young friends be reunited and in their joy surely forget that he had ever been there, much less involved. For the target would feel quite groggy once revived out of her stupor, and the other, her saviour, had scarcely afforded the hunter a mere moment’s glance. Because neither of them yet understood, that he was .. hunting …

More than once Arkadhur had extricated himself out of a deal that was heading awry. And his heart had never utterly been invested in this particular .. the means only to win back his former … did he want to return to his former life ? To those who would force his hand upon such deeds .. it had always been the only way to stay alive. But he was free now. He was come this far away. And he need not return. He could start afresh. With a clean slate. An empty …. Empty ..

Greed and pride raised up rebellion and assaulted such foolery. Before ever he might act upon it. He had come too far, he had learned too much. He was too good at what he had always done .. he did not want to be someone who did not manage what he could. He knew who he was. He knew deep down, who he would always be .. and the doubts that he even wanted to accomplish what he’d begun here were dismissed as doubts that he could get away with it. He had always gotten away with it ! He could again. He would ..

Crouching to a stoop, Arkadhur brought his hands low enough to know the grass. It was cold here to the touch, sheltered from the bask of outdoors. The wooden pole was cool as well. It numbed the palm which gathered up that threat within it’s grasp, so cool, so cold, .. anaesthesia convinced the man that it was not even completely he who bore that weapon, steady and ready to strike. He glanced down and considered the unconscious reflex of his survival instincts. He was a tool of his own circumstances, employed without proper understanding for his options. He could tell himself it was not down to him, it was not his fault.

Iole had drunk enough of the cordial her ‘new friend’ had plied her with, that she would not rise yet. A lax smile held her lips in dreams that would not release her, even as dark eyelashes sputtered at the gentle splash of cold water. A deceitful hope. A luring bait. A means to hold her ‘old friend’s attention from the silent shadow who spectated still.

He raised the hefty length of wood high, above where Cali’s head bowed already over her fallen friend. He hovered but a moment before gravity robbed his morality of option. The blow fell then, heavy, sure, and determined, with enough force to drive the distracted woman from any means of remonstrating him. If she did not find cause to turn in time. If she did not have the speed or strength to dispel or else elude the attack.

The discordent 'music' had reached in this direction as well, as this was the way the 'man' had left the scene. Too far from the library to be aware of what was taking place, people were still affected by the music, even though they had no clue that this was the reason for their gloomy and agitated moods. Stall and shop owners went about opening up for the morning, snapping at each other and grumbling curses under their breaths.

Her bare feet slapping on the cobblestones went unheard, drowned out by the noise of shops and stalls being opened and wooden cartwheels rumbling over the stones. She went unseen, nobody caring about a child running down the road, dodging the carts and horses as she flitted in and out as she tried to avoid it all. It had gotten far busier than when she had first stepped outside, finding it harder and harder to keep up the frantic pace with which she was careening down the road. The outraged cries when she accidently brushed against someone, only made her run faster, her eyes still streaming with tears that made it harder and harder to see where she was going.

She had no idea where she was running to, all she knew is that she needed to get as far away as possible, her cloth dolly frantically bouncing in her tight grip. Having almost gotten run over by a cart, the owner screaming after her to 'watch out', she finally ducked into a narrow alley. However it was a dead end, the alley ending with a high wall that she had no chance of climbing. Looking around frantically as if wargs were chasing her, she noticed a large barrel and quickly ducked behind it. There she crouched, trembling, crying and trying to regain her breath.

@Lailyn @Winddancer
“Try and find her. At the very least we need to make sure she’s okay and doesn’t get hurt.”

The words had hardly left the other man's mouth before Ric had given a quick salute and taken off, hoping that he might be able to catch the girl. How fast could a small child run, anyway? He had legs longer than her entire body, so why was she already so far ahead of him? He was gone before Falaneth had given them her look, but he didn't need it to feel like an idiot. Mentally berating himself for not being more decisive, the lieutenant wondered how he'd managed to make lieutenant at all. He must show more initiative if he were to prove that he deserved this promotion.

His first day with the new rank was really not going very well, Ric thought with disappointment as he ducked around people, dodged stalls, and tried to keep the child in sight. Despite his best efforts, however, he eventually lost sight of her and then his path was blocked by a group who would not move until he ordered them out of the way by authority of the Tower Watch. Realizing, only then, that they might be holding up a guard in chasing a fugitive(not a little child) the people cleared the way for him, but by then he saw no sign of the girl. He looked under a few market stalls, peeked around anything he saw that a child might hide behind, and then sighed in exasperation when his search was in vain.

Ric stood there looking around, feeling helpless and rather like a failure. What now? Take more initiative, he was telling himself before. Stop acting like a kid fresh out of training and think for yourself, he thought. Where would a frightened little girl go? He couldn't really remember being that little, and couldn't think of what he might have done in her situation. But he thought about someone else, who'd told him of caring for her younger siblings, and tried to draw from that knowledge. Bright colors tended to attract children, right? He looked around for something that might draw a child's attention, and headed toward a stall off in a quiet corner where there were some bright colored clothing flapping in the breeze.

(to be continued in the market, I guess)

@Ercassie

Worry for her friend caused Cali to focus all of her attention entirely on the unconscious girl before her. It briefly crossed her mind the thought that she might run and find a healer, or perhaps that, between she and Iole's new friend Lowendir, they might take her to the Houses of Healing, but then again, she really didn't like the idea of trying to move her. She'd heard from someone that it was usually best not to move someone, in case they had injuries you may not know about. She couldn't have said whether she heard that from her mother, a nurse in the houses of healing, or perhaps from Ryn when he was doing his ranger training, which she recalled had included some basic medical training, or if perhaps she had learned it from someone else entirely.

Either way, she thought it best not to move her friend, and so therefore the next best option would be to send someone to bring a healer to her. Lowendir, perhaps, might be a good option for such a task, because Cali, honestly, preferred not to leave her friend's side. Not only that, but she had not been inside the city since she left it, and preferred to avoid having to go there if she could at all help it.. but if she must, for Iole's sake, then she would. "She isn't waking," She spoke with deep worry. "Perhaps she needs a healer? Do they have any posted here at the fayre ground, in case of mishaps?"

Even as she spoke, Cali saw the other girl's eyelids start to flutter, and felt a glimmer of hope that perhaps her friend was awakening at last. "Iole? Can you hear me?" She asked with renewed hope, leaning slightly forward. "I think she might be-" Before she could finish with 'coming around', the pole struck her across the back of the head, and she collapsed to the ground, beside Iole without another sound, joining her friend in the world of unconsciousness.

Lossarnach

The water, freshly drawn from the well, was rather cold, and yet it felt pleasantly refreshing on Pele's face, as she splashed generous amounts of it - she might have just as well plunged her whole head in the bucket. Straightening up, she stood and took a few deep breaths, satisfied to let the breeze dry her face and watching the birds play in the nearby bush as they hopped around and chirped merrily. She could have stood here much longer, happy simply to be, and yet a slight shiver that ran through her body told her that it was no longer the heat of summer and she should get inside. In a light step, Pele walked back towards house and headed for the kitchen, following the scent of fresh pancakes.

"Why, the whole neighbourhood is filled with the aroma of pancakes," she stated, coming to a stop in the doorway and leaning against the doorpost in a leisurely manner. "Do you want to lure in all the travellers from the near vicinity?"

Mother responded with a quiet laugh, as she placed yet another deliciously golden-coloured pancake on top of a rather big pile that was already heaped on a plate. "Did you sleep well, Pele?"

"Yup, great, with an extra warmer in a form of Pepper," the Ranger responded, and it was quite true: she had enjoyed quite an uninterrupted stretch of sleep for once, and felt extraordinarily refreshed.

"Dad will soon return from taking care of the animals, and then we can have breakfast," mother said, and then continued: "When did you say you will have to leave again? Tomorrow already?"

"Mmm. Not the long vacation this time," Pele replied, a slight undertone of reluctance barely heard in her voice. She had not told her parents that she had chosen to spend most of her other days off elsewhere, but she knew that they were likely aware of it. And yet, despite all the reasons she had conjured up not to come home, it did feel good and right, and relaxing to the point she now wanted to stay longer.

Having made sure the last pancake was properly done, mother took the big plate with the whole tower of pancakes and placed it on the table, and then readied the other necessary items. "Have you thought of moving here, Pele? You could finish the part of the house that you and Maldir had started to rebuild, and..." her voice trailed off, when the loud noise from the front door told them that morning errands had been accomplished.

"I have, mum," Pele said, as she now leaned into her father instead of against the doorpost when he came up from behind her and wrapped his strong arms around her neck gently. "But I am not ready to retire just yet; it would be a pain to travel back and forth with most of my duties in the city. Besides..." she paused for a while, considering her words carefully. "I have enemies. Don't want to bring them here..."

"Who said they would fare well if they dared to come?" father's voice boomed almost in Pele's ear, as he now urged her towards the table. "But you do know that we won't press you, though we would happily have you around here more often."

"I know, dad, I know," Pele agreed, sweeping up Pepper from the chair he had occupied and putting him down on the floor as she sat down. The cat was not happy of being dethroned in such an undignified manner and promptly jumped back, right into Pele's lap.

"Oh bother..." she rolled her eyes, petting the cat who curled up contentedly to continue his interrupted nap. Not that Pele minded such attention terribly, and she could not help but savour the moments when she did not have to feel the heavy burden of responsibility and could even play a child to some level and to her parents' satisfaction.

Born Under a Bad Sign

Falaneth with Aderic, 'Dina' and Bram
Outside the Library, Second Circle

Details...details are the difference between a case getting solved and going cold. If not for the grim situation she was in, she might have laughed. She wanted to scream or to cry but could not let them see. Why did the details matter in this case and no one cared when it had mattered to her? Was it because the evidence of this crime was out in the open for all to see rather than tucked away quietly in a private home? Was it because this body was ravaged and made into a disgusting display of hatred rather than the one that held no mark upon his skin, killed from the inside out by an insidious poison?

“Is Papa..dead?” The girl asked.

Falaneth’s stomach sank as if a rock had filled the empty space. He couldn’t be, he was not...was he her father?

The girl was there and then she was gone, so fast on her light little feet. Falaneth watched her go and expected one of the guards to immediately give chase. When they didn’t, she gave both men looks of horror. Did they have any common sense at all? “Please go after her!” she chimed in. “I mean, if that man was her father...he’s not going anywhere, is he?” It was cold. And true. But the living needed help and the dead were already gone. A fact she knew very well. For a moment, she stared at the body covered in the cloak. She could still see fragments of the carnage in her mind’s eye. Branches and bones. Who would do such a thing? If that man was the girl’s father, Falaneth owed it to her to do what little she could to help them find the murderer. To give her a chance at what she would never get herself: justice and truth.

“I’ll answer your questions,” she told Bram softly. “But please, I need to sit down.” Searching for a space free of bodily fluids or shrouded corpses, Falaneth climbed up the lower steps toward the library entrance and sat in the shade. With her knees pulled up to her chest, she wrapped her hands around her ankles and sat with her shoulders hunched. “Yes…” The word came out resigned, defeated, toneless. “I work at the library. I am due to start the opening shift this morning. I walk this way often, even on my days off, and I have never seen anything like this...and I did not see anyone fleeing the scene when I got here. The street was quiet. There was no one here. What else do you wish to know?"

“Running about when there is no cause makes sure that we’ll be able to run without slumping to the ground in sweat, when there is need,” Unalmis shrugged, even as Cadil seemed to find his propositions hard to swallow. His grumbling companion had brought several complaints as well as a picnic, serving up only the former to Unalmis. The young Ranger though was not so easily discouraged, and had quite convinced himself that Cadil couldn’t be entirely against their adventure, else he would not have come running at all.

“That is a clever way to lighten your load,” he laughed, as his friend proceeded to consume things far less hard to swallow. “Stop the cart ?!” Nal gasped, and only the noise of their lumbering transport kept the driver from doing just that. “Well of course not. That would be a short expedition if we didn’t even make it out of the Pelennor ! Why, I’d stay low, see where it went, catch them red-handed and all their associates at that !”

The young Ranger propped himself up on elbows, and turned to see Cadil finally complete refuelling his stomach, then consider a jest of his own. “What if there are ?” he walked his one hand provocatively under the covered mystery goods, and glanced back at his unwilling accomplice. “Haven’t you ever seen a corpse before ?”

The question escaped him before memories caught up. Of the sailors from Lond Col, piled in a growing heap, sagitally sawn in half for the sake of the temple sacrifice, of the strange tremor which had possessed his grandmother’s face as she clutched her chest in mid protest that she would not flee from her perfectly clean house so that Orcs could lay waste to it .. somehow that memory was worse than the other. Somehow it was several moments before Unalmis shook himself off and, having lain prone and quite untypically silent for several minutes, his face froze to a pale mask as though some unseen touch beneath the covers had made a corpse of him too, ..... suddenly jumped up with a reckless shout.

“There is the South Gate !” he triumphed, even as the driver of their cart turned around, reined in his humble nag with the beginnings of cursing and campaigned to catch the stowaways.

“Remember when I said the running before was essential practice for a real need to run ?” Nal really ought not to have laughed aloud, but it was the best way he knew to shake off the otherwise oppressive thoughts which threatened to overwhelm him. There was no time now for that.

Grasping for Cadil’s wrist with a hand of urgent fingers, Unalmis showed the way to leap down from their unpaid ride, and head for the growing crowd there queueing to pass through to Harlond Harbour. Every other traveller was bemoaning the vast horde with their shoving and swearing under the hot sun. The Pelennor Fayre had clearly swollen passage both in and out of the gate, but there never had been a better provision of camouflage. “This way !” Nal threw the vain hope of his friend hearing and following him, over one shoulder. It took literally moments for those behind the furious driver to call him back to mind his cart and keep from holding up the line any longer. By which time he'd lost the youths to a hasty headstart.

@Ercassie
The news had spread throughout Gondor, that a fayre was coming up. People would be coming from all over to attend this thing. For many, it was a thing to look forward to, something to help restore a bit of normalcy after the war, and all of that. For Ademar, it posed a possible chance to catch the theif he had been hunting for for so long. He had no guarantee, of course, that she would be there. But there was a good chance that if people were coming from far away to go to this once a year event, then maybe, just maybe, she would risk going too. Maybe she would think that, in all the crowds, she would be safe from detection. Maybe, he would get lucky. And so he had to make sure that he was there, just in case. He had to make sure that he was in a position to watch everyone who came and went through the gates into the Pelennor. He would be the primary gate guard during the fayre.

It would be dull, of course, but if it achieved his goal, it would be worthwhile. And so he’d arranged it, very carefully. First, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant, he had gone to the man in charge of the duty roster, and volunteered for the post, for the entire month. It would only affect him for the time of the fayre.. the rest of the weeks, it would be Ric’s problem. And knowing his mild-mannered twin, Ric would never dream of complaining about being assigned such a post… he’d never make a peep to anyone about wondering why he got stuck with gate duty, and therefore would not be informed that he’d requested the post. There would be no questions arising about the matter, because Ric was so terribly predictable, at least to his twin brother.

Next, came the more complicated part. Forging the false leave papers, giving Ric the days off that Mar needed for taking his place. It wasn’t hard, just required a lot of care to make sure it appeared authentic, and in this, there was some risk that Ric may tell someone, out of surprise or joy, about having so many days’ leave. But again, he had a strong feeling that he wouldn’t have very many friends, and would not be likely to have anyone to tell his good news to. The only friend Ric had ever had was dead now, after all.

Mar made sure that the papers about the fake leave didn’t reach his brother until as late as possible, so that he wouldn’t have much time to tell anyone, and then, to his relief, Ric left town eagerly. Mar didn’t care where he went, so long as he stayed gone for the duration of his “leave”. That helped minimize his chances of being seen in two places at once. Once Ric was out of the way, it was beyond easy to take his place. Few in Minas Tirith knew that there were two Androllius brothers.. he suspected that Ric didn’t talk about him very much, and they’d gone through their basic training elsewhere.

And then came the dull, tedious work of scrutinizing every face that passed his gate. A job no one really wanted, as it was duller than watching a tree grow. Ric’s CO must have been astonished when he volunteered for the post, as he probably usually had to force someone to take the job. Had Mar not had a reason for studying every face that came by him, he probably would have been ignoring his duties, but he had to pay very close attention. This was not something he trusted anyone under his employ with, either. That didn’t make any less boring, and he was inwardly sighing with boredom as he watched the idiots flooding in through the gates, eager to go and see a bunch of jugglers and blow all their money on the rigged games to win things they could buy outright, at a tenth of the amount they’d probably end up spending. His main focus was on those entering, but he also didn’t let anyone slip out without first passing his scrutiny.

Somewhere down the line, he saw the disturbance as one of the wagons halted, and the driver started to give chase to a couple of young men. The fake guard rolled his eyes, turning back to his study of each face. Those matters didn’t concern him. Though, if he was right, he thought he might have recognized one of those two, from their childhood days, and his manipulative mind began turning, wondering if he could make use of this information in any way. He’d noticed a wall of posters listing potential troublemakers, and those who weren’t allowed through the gate.. If they were trying to sneak out, he wondered why.. and if he ought to stop them. Perhaps he could benefit from it somehow. He thought on it as he stopped another wagon, quickly searching inside…for his thief, not anything those watching might think he was searching for. Once his search was complete, he waved them through and checked the next one, all the while halfway keeping an eye out for the two who had tried sneaking out. If nothing else, it could add a bit of amusement to his otherwise boring day.

Cadil, adventuring with Unalmis
South Gate and whereabouts
@Ercassie

"Sure I have seen corpses, bleeding and slashed ones in the battle," Cadil muttered, as he remembered the one skirmish he had managed to take part in before he dropped out of all matters military. "Not sure I wanna see any today..."

He looked at Nal to see whether he found something suspicious in the cart and nearly held his breath while his friend had suddenly fallen silent. The following sudden shout made Cadil nearly jump out of his skin - and out of the cart.

"What did you have to do that for?" he asked, reproach clear in his voice, but there was no time to consider it any further. He barely managed to snatch his bagful of provisions, as Nal pulled him off to escape the cart owner that now was fully aware of them and came after them.

Supposedly they would not have gotten through the gate on the cart either way, but Cadil would have preferred to depart from their transport in a more peaceful way. Now that he tried to keep up with his friend again, the food he had just feasted on felt rather heavy in his stomach, and he began to regret eating so much. A loud burp escaped him, as he finally shouldered his pack now that the pursuit was no longer hot on their heels.

"Think they'll let us through?" he asked, quite sure that they might still be on the list of persons to be prohibited from leaving the confines of Rammas Echor. Though... at least he no longer was related to the military and hoped that this was a good enough reason to take him off the list of mischief makers.