Whatever steel had kept Morwen upright through the tumult of the previous afternoon, it had finally deserted her when she entered the solitude of her own chamber. Weariness kept her from doing more than scrub the dirt from her hands and arms after changing out of her rumpled overdress. She draped the garment carefully over a chair under the window and threw herself into bed with less care.

When she awoke the next morning to birdsong, the weight of the day dropped into her lap like an overfed cat. Morwen clambered out of bed, untangling a foot wound in the blankets. She could tell from the quality of light filtering in through the window that she had overslept. How had she done that? Yesterday had been a full day of hard work, but she hadn't overslept since she was a girl.

Of course, she hadn't witnessed what amounted to a near scalping before. Life must keep little stomach-wrenching surprises in her pockets to keep poor mortals on their toes, Morwen thought, and life had certainly marked Morwen out for a full share. She had discussed the situation with Gildis the night before and they agreed the overseeing of the patient's health and that care of his master would fall on Gildis. Her upbringing, however, led Morwen to feel obliged to put in an appearance in the sick room, not to mention to satisfy her curiosity. Morwen wanted to know that nobody had died under her roof during the night, proving that spring had laid a curse on Lossarnach.

Spring ought to bring hope and renewal, but lately it seemed only to bring news of death. With an ache that forced her to stop and lean on her dressing table, Morwen wanted her father. Randir made responsibility look so simple. She had spent the year proudly filling his shoes, pretending to be fearless when her knees were knocking together. Now Lossemeren loomed overhead and a near corpse lay in the other room. When standing on her own counted most, she wasn't sure if she was equal to it.

Coincidence, she told herself. Only a coincidence that her father had died unexpectedly just after the blossom festival last year. Her cousin Hardang's death just a month prior had been completely unrelated. Rangers died in Ithilien all the time. And the prince's guard suffered from sheer bad luck, but thanks to Nanneth, would probably live.

Morwen concentrated on her breathing until the pang subsided. The shame of Bar-en-Ferin falling down around her ears and her love for the inconsequential little valley of wild roses forced Morwen to finish dressing. If she left at once, she wouldn't be too far behind Beldir, she thought as she clawed at her tangled hair with a comb from the table. It chafed thinking that she wasn't with them. Her overseer was a capable man, but the orchard was a matter of pride — well wasn't it? She had a lot to prove. Slowly, Morwen's resolve grew.

How many women her age had the complete run of their own households? A hands-off landlord, Hardang had left her alone, but with Lossemeren around the corner and her other cousins coming to stay, it was an opportunity to prove to that she could handle the responsibility.

But she also had a responsibility beyond the orchard and that was one of hospitality. Morwen sighed and jerked the comb through another tangle. In the end, she had to choose people before trees. She wouldn't have to linger, just put in an appearance to satisfy her need to know that the rider would pull through and to pay her respects to the prince.

Morwen twisted the long heap of black hair into a knot and pinned it up, remembering why she shouldn't wear it loose when she worked. The knot should do until she could work out the snarls later. Then she hastily threw on the surcoat over her wrinkled shift and retreated toward the door.

No one but Morwen stirred along the somber line of shut doors when she stepped into the corridor. The quiet felt odd and cast a lonesome air over that wing of the house. Gildis and one of her girls should have had the doors open, airing the rooms while they worked. But perhaps fear of disturbing the sick room kept them away.

Morwen bit her lip, trying to decide if she should avoid it too and get on with her morning duties, or take the chance of disturbing the prince and his men while being a good hostess. Hirwen would choose the orchard, Randir the guests. Although she knew she had a reputation for having her own way, in reality, these disparate ghosts often dictated Morwen's decisions. The only philosophy she could claim for herself was to fain certainty until it became a reality.

The bare walls and floor amplified the sound of another door latch. At first Morwen expecting Gildis, but Prince Thengel's grim guard, Cenhelm appeared on the threshold. He held one of Nanneth's vials in his hand. They blinked at one another awkwardly. Morwen because she had expected Gildis and Cenhelm because he hadn't recognized her as the lady of the house, at first.

Cenhelm stepped into the passage and gingerly closed the door behind him.

"Good morning, my lady," he said grimly.

"Good morning," she replied. "How has Guthere fared?"

She felt doubtful from the haggard lines on Cenhelm's face.

"He is awake."

It took a moment for Morwen to realize she had heard correctly, the news had been delivered with such a melancholy humor. She almost didn't know if she ought to feel as relieved as she did.

"When?"

"Not a quarter of an hour ago. Guthere spoke a few words, said he was thirsty," said Cenhelm. "The prince is with him now, so I meant to trouble your housekeeper. The old woman instructed us to mix the contents of this bottle with wine to provide relief against the pain."

"As I have not yet seen Gildis this morning, I will bring you the wine myself," Morwen promised.

Cenhelm thanked her before disappearing behind the door again.

In the hall, she retrieved a decanter of wine and one of the glasses stored inside the locked cupboard between the windows. She had just locked it again when Gildis crept up on her from behind.

"Oh! My lady, I thought you would be out with Beldir by now, but I'm glad I found you. There's this bundle that came for you yesterday."

Pulled in yet another direction this morning, Morwen felt a knot form between her shoulders, radiating tension and annoyance. She faced the housekeeper and tried not to show her irritation.

"Just a moment, Gildis," she replied, tucking the key into a pocket. "The injured rider woke up."

"And he asked for a whole bottle of wine?" Gildis asked incredulously.

"Of course not," Morwen replied sharply. "Nanneth said to mix it with a tincture she left."

Gildis shifted a bundle from under one arm. "Give me the wine. I'll bring it to them. Hareth has their breakfast ready anyhow." She held out the parcel toward Morwen. "I want you to take a look at this instead, so I don't have to keep carting it around with me. I think it may be important."

"Whatever it is, it can wait." Gildis looked mutinous, so Morwen held up a hand and said gently, "Leave it in my room, if you must. I will take the wine myself and you bring the breakfast. Now that they're awake, I should at least greet all my guests before I disappear up the slope. Besides, I want to see the rider's condition for myself."

Gildis's lips pushed in and out as if she were sampling different words to find which ones she wanted. Finally, she said, "I think you ought to leave it to me like we agreed last night. I've already ordered their breakfast. Besides, it isn't exactly seemly for you to be going in and out of another man's bedroom. It's the appearance, you know."

Morwen huffed. "Gildis, in my house, I can go into a sick man's room without it appearing to be anything other than what it is."

"There are certain rules about —"

"In my house, I make the rules," Morwen countered. It was a cheap shot, but really, who in this unimportant little valley would care what Morwen did?

"Very well." Gildis sniffed. "But about this package, Lady Morwen—"

"Please, Gildis, just wait a little longer," Morwen replied over her shoulder as she hastened to deliver the wine to Guthere's grim attendants.

Cenhelm met Morwen at the door and ushered her inside, into darkness. The door closed soundlessly behind her. Drapes covered the windows but for a small sliver that admitted enough light to keep anyone from tripping over the quilt rack in the middle of the room or the chairs spread throughout the space. She wondered at the rack, then realized one of them had probably used it to prop up their legs while they slept. She really needed to make sure they had proper places to sleep now that Guthere had awakened.

The sliver of light dissected the chair pushed against Guthere's bed. The prince leaned over the arm toward Guthere, with his back to Morwen. So engrossed in watching over the sick bed, Prince Thengel did not seem to know she had entered.

"It's so dark," she murmured to Cenhelm. It seemed wrong to disturb the darkness by speaking above a whisper.

"The light pains Guthere," Cenhelm explained. "But I will draw the curtains if you wish."

She touched his arm to stay him. "No, no. I won't linger long. Don't trouble him on my account."

Falling silent, Morwen listened to the conversation across the room. Prince Thengel spoke in a low, rhythmic tone in the language of his homeland. He sounded deadly serious and she thought she better not interrupt him. Guthere's voice, muffled by pain and a swollen face, responded with a word here and there.

Cenhelm cleared his throat. "My prince, the Lady Morwen is here."

Prince Thengel turned his attention away from his charge only briefly to see for himself. Morwen thought he looked like a man who had spent the night in a chair, hair rumpled and the deep lines on either side of his mouth and eyes seemed exaggerated with fatigue and worry. Morwen felt a jolt of guilt, despite the fact that both Prince Thengel and Cenhelm had refused beds of their own. If the prince had a stiff neck…it was because of his stiff neck.

He acknowledged her with a nod in her general direction, and began to speak Guthere again, this time in Westron. Beside the nod, it seemed the only real acknowledgement of her presence. She felt surprised and a little annoyed to find that the subject of the deadly serious conversation happened to be fishing! Guthere seemed disappointed in the prince's ideas of technique.

"Where is the vial?" Morwen whispered to Cenhelm, feeling she ought to get her part of the business over with.

Cenhelm fished the vial out of his pocket to show her. He indicated the table across the room where they could mix the potion with the wine. They experienced a moment's confusion, since Nanneth hadn't specified just how much wine to use. In the end, Cenhelm decided to err on the side of too much wine rather than too little.

Nanneth's tincture smelled like a molding compost heap and wet ashes. The wine added a sickly, sweet bouquet that made the bile rise in Morwen's throat. Prince Thengel accepted the wine glass from Cenhelm. He sniffed, grimaced, then held the glass as far away as possible. He said a very short word in Rohirric probably not meant for her ears.

Morwen approached the bed hesitantly, feeling like an outsider and yet curious to see the affects of the potion. The prince and his guard seemed to accept her presence at the bedside, or at least to tolerate it. When she saw Guthere up close, she flinched. Although the bandages covered the worst of his injuries, the poor man looked like a purple goblin from the swelling and bruising, exaggerated by shadows. Guthere's eyes were dark and tight with pain as they fixed on Prince Thengel. Then they widened and relaxed on Morwen's face when she stepped into the thin sunbeam.

"Good morning, Guthere," she murmured.

"This is Lady Morwen," Prince Thengel said in a low voice. "You are in her house."

To her surprise, Guthere smiled just long enough to erase the visage of pain. She found herself smiling back at him. Then Cenhelm carefully slid his arm beneath Guthere's pillow to bolster the man up so as not to choke on the mixture. The poor man looked like he didn't want anything to do with jostlings or potions.

"I'm warning you, Guthere, it smells like a troll's—" Prince Thengel started to say when Cenhelm cleared his throat. The prince glanced at Morwen, then back at Guthere, so she never did get to hear what exactly it smelled like. "Well, just hold your nose and think of Fengel King."

Morwen felt at a loss to understand what Prince Thengel meant by those trivial words without any context, but Cenhelm gave his prince a black look, sharp with disapproval. The look was wasted on the prince who concentrated on not drowning Guthere while he tipped the contents of the glass down the man's throat. Guthere coughed and sputtered, before the medicine began to work and his body relaxed. A few garbled words passed his lips, then he dozed off.

Now that Guthere had fallen asleep, Morwen had done her duty.

"Nanneth will be along again soon, I'm certain, but I'll send someone to tell her of Guthere's progress," Morwen said to excuse herself. "Your breakfast should be along soon."

"Thank you, my lady," Cenhelm said.

Prince Thengel passed the glass to Cenhelm, then rose from the chair. He pressed his hand into his back as if he had a pain there. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then Hareth let herself in with Ioneth to set out a small feast. The servant girl, being extremely shy of these visitors, slipped from the room as soon as the tray hit the table. Hareth rolled her eyes.

"Is there anything else we can get for you?" Morwen asked.

"No, this will do," the prince answered, really looking at her for the first time. He smiled, though it was a pale one. It made him look even more tired. "Thank you."

Sensing her dismissal, Morwen slipped out of the room with Hareth.

"They don't say much, do they?" the cook noted with a snort once they were in the hall.

Morwen had to agree. She would have felt almost unwanted if not for Cenhelm and there had been an undercurrent in the exchanges between the three men that she could not begin to guess at on less than twenty-four hour acquaintance.

"They've had a nasty time and little rest," Morwen by way of justification, as much for her benefit as for Hareth's.

The cook shrugged her broad, round shoulders. "Did Gildis find you?"

"Yes - oh dear!" Morwen suddenly exclaimed as the hall door burst open. "What's he doing here?"

Hareth's son Gundor, apprenticed to Beldir, ought to have been by the overseer's side on the orchard slope. Instead, he trotted toward Morwen with sweat dripping down his face. He bobbed at the waist like a crane bobbing for insects once he reached her.

"M-my lady, Beldir sent me to ask if you mean to come this morning. We're shorthanded on account of the miller's daughter eloping last night and now the miller's shut up all the children at home. And now Beldir says the world's going to end," the boy rattled off with barely a breath between.

It took moment for the meaning to settle. Then the blood drained from Morwen's face.

"World's end? Is that what Beldir really said?" Hareth snapped before Morwen could manage a word.

Gundor's eyes flicked back and forth between mother and mistress. "Well," he whinged, "he really said Lossemeren would be ruined and that's sort of the same thing."

Ruined. Gundor voiced her fear and Morwen felt her rib cage tighten as she tried to breathe. Then she felt the weight of Hareth's hand on her shoulder.

"Beldir is an old shroud-hanger and you know it," Hareth told her mistress with a stern tone. "It can't be as bad as all that. You can't help it if the entire valley decides to lock up their daughters for the rest of the day. Those silly girls will be back before you know it or I don't know their father. He'll send them flocking back as soon as he misses the few coins they earn doing next to nothing."

The cook had a point, but anxiety had already set in. As the miller had an enormous family, they were down a considerable part of their workforce. They could cope in a general way, but not in time for the feast. If they didn't clean up the orchard, everyone would notice and everyone would know that Morwen had failed to run Bar-en-Ferin and worse — to live up to Hirwen's reputation.

The world really would end if the orchard wasn't in order for the feast.

"So, what should I tell Beldir?" Gundor asked.

"Tell Beldir —" Morwen threw her hands up in the air; it would waste time thinking up a message. "Oh nevermind, I'll be right there."

Gundor gave his mother a look, perhaps wondering if he could get a chance at another meal before he left, but she only waved the empty tray at him. He took the hint and scarpered, bowling over Gildis on the way out.

Once recovered, and after a few choice words for Gundor, Gildis stalked toward Morwen with a look of determination on her face. Her arms locked around the parcel with a vice grip.

"Ah, Lady Morwen, your business with the Prince has concluded," she said with only a hint of acid in her tone. "Good."

Morwen swallowed back a groan. Stars! After the news that she had lost much needed help in the orchard, the last thing she wanted was another delay!

"What is it, Gildis?" she asked as calmly as she could.

Gildis's wiry frame seemed to bow beneath the weight of martyrdom. "Lady Morwen, I have waited for you half the morning. You might spare me one tiny moment."

Morwen sighed. "Oh, all right." If the world happened to be ending, what difference did it make if she joined Beldir or not?

"Excuse us, Hareth." Gildis gave the cook a look that suggested she wouldn't put up with a third party in this particular discussion.

Sniffing indignantly, Hareth sailed between them, back to her kitchen.

"This won't take a moment," Gildis reassured Morwen. "It's about this package."

Morwen took the bundle in her arms and turned it this way and that. "I was not expecting anything. When did it come?"

"It arrived yesterday morning. In all the excitement, I forgot to give it to you."

The paper had a crinkled look that led Morwen to think that it had been opened more than once. Nosy Gildis - and probably Hareth too! She sat down on a chair pushed against the wall while she untied the strings holding it together. The paper fell away in her lap, followed by a cascade of rich silk embroidered over in blooming roses, yards and yards of it. She forgot the orchard immediately.

"Gildis," she breathed as she fingered the needlework. Custom work from Minas Tirith, she didn't doubt. It would cost a small fortune. "What is this?"

"A gift, I imagine," Gildis answered.

"A gift?" A line appeared between Morwen's brows as she puzzled over the costly fabric. The queasy feeling she experienced during the surgery returned. "But where did it come from?"

Gildis pulled a card out of a pocket hidden within the folds of her skirts. "The carrier brought it up from Arnach."

"Arnach?" Morwen stared at the card feeling more puzzled than ever. The seal, a rose in bloom flanked by two buds. Her cousin's personal stamp. "Why would Halmir send this? He never brings me anything back from Minas Tirith when he visits."

Gildis pressed her lips into a paper-thin line when Morwen looked up at her for an answer. She knew that look well. The housekeeper reserved it for the times when she either didn't like the answer she had to give, or else she felt that Morwen acted purposefully obtuse. Morwen had a feeling that Gildis's sour expression related to both in this instance.

"Only Lord Halmir can say," Gildis answered with a cryptic thread in her voice. "What would you like me to do with it?"

Morwen stood and shuffled the fabric into Gildis's arms as if it was woven from stinging nettles. "I have no idea," she said glibly. "What use do I have for such fine cloth?"

"It is a conjecture, but the intent might be for a dress," Gildis pointed out, giving Morwen's faded surcoat an unsatisfied glance. "A proper one."

Morwen stared at her. "I can't trim branches in silk."

"No," Gildis agreed slowly. "You might find other uses for a lovely dress."

Doubtful, Morwen thought to herself. Her needs were practical and this fabric had frivolity sewn all over it. Leave it to Halmir to choose something beautiful and useless. She had a nice dress refitted from one of her mother's and it came out but once a year for Lossemeren or whenever she visited Cousin Angelimir and Adrahil in Minas Tirith. But those visits had grown rarer since Randir's death and Adrahil's marriage.

"He probably sent this in a fit of generosity precipitated by grief. He knew I favored Hardang," Morwen added thoughtfully. She knew her cousin never gave anything away for free, least of all to a little cousin he once left in an apple tree while he carried off the ladder.

"I can't accept this from Halmir. It is common knowledge that he's impulsive," she said with disgust. "I shouldn't wonder if he already regrets the loss of coin."

"If you say so, my lady," Gildis replied.

Morwen tossed the card into the empty fireplace. "Wrap the silk again.

"Shall I send a courier or would you like to return it to him at the feast?" Gildis asked.

Morwen hadn't thought of that. "Find someone to take it right away. The sooner the silk is back in his hands, the sooner he'll be relieved of whatever folly made him send it in the first place."

Gildis smiled unexpectedly.

"What?"

The smile disappeared. "Oh nothing. I just remembered that Hareth owes me a few silver pennies."

"I see," Morwen replied dryly, though she didn't. The cook and the housekeeper seemed to have a secret understanding that went back long before Morwen had been born. Servants' prerogative, she supposed, choosing not to inquire.

"Well, you had better go," said Gildis, suddenly urgent now that her own business with the mistress had been attended to. "It's almost noon!"

As if she needed the reminder!

Morwen felt the pressure on her chest release as she stepped out into the glorious sunshine that filtered through the trees shading the yard. At last, the free air! The stress of the sick room and her kinsman's odd behavior, even the weight of her responsibilities felt like nothing. Busy hands were the best cure for bad feelings and an anxious heart, Hirwen always said.

The air still smelled of wet dirt and freshly bathed grass and leaves. The yard seemed strangely quiet. All the dogs must have chased Beldir and the others into the orchard. She didn't mind them being underfoot. Later, when the fruit began to grow, the dogs frightened away the birds and other animals all hoping for an easy supper of cherries, apples, peaches and plums.

If she ran, she could make it to the upper slopes before everyone stopped for their midday meal. First, she would have to get out of view of the house, or rather, out of Gildis's line of sight.

The shingle crunched beneath Morwen's boots as she followed the long line of the house toward the back where a path lead through the birch grove, a shortcut that bypassed the wandering path of the greenway before it arrived at the orchard walls.

Morwen made a sharp turn around the corner of the house. Instead of an empty path, she came face to face with a the velvety muzzle of a horse, nearly receiving an unfortunate knock to the head. Woman and horse startled. Morwen fell against the side of the house while the horse sidled nervously by. The tall, dark rider reined in the creature before quickly dismounting.

Morwen pulled together what dignity she had after a scare like that while the rider apologized profusely. Tousled and dirty, he looked as though he had spent more than one night deep in the woods. Behind him, a man with a shaven head and an alarming set of tattoos down his neck waited with a line of horses. Both men looked haggard, with shoulders stooped by weariness. Their lips were grim lines.

Morwen recognized the filthy Gondorian as Gladhon, the son of a woodsman who lived in the valley. Gladhon passed the reins on to his companion. Touching a hand to his breast, Gladhon bowed.

"Begging your pardon, Lady Morwen. I did not mean to run you down," he said humbly.

"Hello, Gladhon," she replied dryly, rubbing the elbow she skinned on the wall.

Gladhon scratched the back of his neck where the dirty hair met skin. "Er, we've just returned with the Prince's horses."

"I see that," she replied. After all, at least one of them had nearly trampled her.

The tattooed rider, and the grimmest of the two, dismounted and murmured something to Gladhon. A thick accent obscured whatever he said.

"Thurstan wishes to be presented to you, my lady. He is another of Prince Thengel's Rohirric guard," said Gladhon. The rider bowed at the waist. "He wishes to know what news you have of our wounded companion and Prince Thengel."

"Your companion Guthere is well. The healer managed to - to…well, she patched him up." Morwen swallowed. "Guthere awoke this morning and even spoke a few words with Prince Thengel."

The men looked at one another. Gladhon laughed and clapped his companion on the back. The Rohirric guard managed a smile. "Well, that's a good word. We'd imagined the worst. I feel much lighter. Don't you, Thurstan? No, I suppose not."

"The horses need proper attention," Thurstan replied gravely in highly accented Westron.

"I believe Beldir outfitted the stable with everything you will need," Morwen told them. "I can show you the way."

"I remember where the stable is, my lady," Gladhon told her. "Don't trouble yourself. Only, the Prince should be told we have arrived with our quarry."

Morwen's heart sank beneath the duty of hospitality. "Oh course. I will tell him myself right now. If you'll follow me."

The orchard never felt so far away as Morwen retraced her steps across the yard. She didn't believe in fate. Yet, she couldn't help wondering if fate had conspired against her, whether she believed in it or not.

"Did you have a difficult time tracking the horses?" she asked politely as they followed behind her across the shingle toward the outbuildings.

"Sure," Gladhon replied. "Thurstan thought they were trying to gallop back to Rohan. I say they didn't care where they went, so long as they didn't have to spend another night in Teithalion's wormy lean-to."

Thurstan looked impassive at the mention of the artist.

"I thought you would have better sense than to stay the night in his hut," Morwen pointed out.

"Oh, I'd forgotten his eccentric ways. I haven't been this way in so long. You know, I was just telling Thurstan here about the years I used to work in the orchard as a boy," Gladhon mused. "There were some days in Ithilien where I wished I could go back to those simpler days, climbing trees and picking apples."

Morwen's agile mind saw light. She would have stopped dead in her tracks if not for the immediate danger of getting trampled again.

What if she had mistaken the omens? What if fate had just conspired in her favor? Albeit, in a roundabout way involving an unfortunate accident. What were errant miller's daughters to two or three grown men with nothing to do while their friend convalesced?

Morwen gave Gladhon a radiant smile. "Who says you can't?"

TBC

Many thanks to Lia, Gythja, Thanwen, and Gwynnyd for helping to turn this train wreck of a chapter around. :)