Chapter 11 ~ Home Again
Belecthor breathed a sigh of relief as the palace came into view, Morwen standing upon the front stairs, her dark tresses blowing in the wind. She waved to them as they entered the gate and Belecthor could tell, though a goodly distance away, that a smile graced her fair lips. He always enjoyed returning home after a long battle, for Morwen tended to spoil him for a few days and he was looking forward to that treatment as he rode.
He dismounted painfully as the reins were taken by a stable boy, removed his helm and climbed the stairs to where his younger sister waited. He pulled her into a tight embrace, savoring her fresh scent after three months among sweating troops and horses.
She pulled away to embrace her father before the rest of the family poured from the palace. She was forced to relinquish Narion to her mother and stood silently by for a time, watching her Aunts and cousins as they laughed and cried, hugged and kissed, and talking almost constantly the entire time.
Belecthor approached her from behind, taking her elbow in his hand. "Come," he smiled, "let us go inside."
She nodded happily and together they escaped the group on the stairs and entered the palace. She led him to his room and shut the door behind her. "Any wounds?" she questioned.
"None to speak of, my dear sister."
"Any sore places?"
"Several."
She smiled as he set his helm and gloves upon a small table and gently lay himself on his bed, his arms spread out around him. "Sit up," she commanded lightly, crossing to where he lay.
Obediently, he slowly raised himself up, sitting as straight as he could, a hand held over a large dent in the side of his cuirass. Morwen began gently removing his greaves and vambraces, laying them carefully on the table to be put away later. She then removed the cuirass with all the tassets still attached to be removed for cleaning.
Belecthor closed his eyes and hissed through his teeth, pressing his hand gently to his ribs as she removed his steel collar and the heavy woolen tunic. When all that was left was the woolen under-tunic and leggings with their attached mail sections, Morwen departed to allow him to change into something a little more comfortable.
She closed the door softly behind her and journeyed to the kitchen. Upon arriving, she found her mother already preparing a tray for her husband. Morwen smiled. "How is Father?" she asked as she filled a tankard with ale for her brother and placed it on her own tray.
"Rather tired," her mother replied, "and he has several new scars. The worst is an arrow wound in his shoulder that has barely finished healing.
"His face is also marred. Somebody gave him a rather large scrape on the cheekbone. He will have a shallow groove there for the rest of his life."
"Does it mar his good looks or accent them nicely?" Morwen questioned.
Annariel laughed with her daughter, both pausing in their small tasks for one blissful moment. "It accents them very nicely, and if he was not so old as he is, I would fear the maidens would plague him as they did before our marriage, and as poor Belecthor is now plagued.
"Now that we speak of him, how is Belecthor?"
"He has barely a wound on him, as far as I can tell. It would seem that he escaped in better condition than Father. But then, Belecthor is like that. And he did promise me he would return alive."
"As he promised us all, dear," her mother answered, placing a large helping of meat on a plate and setting it on her tray. "I shall return to your father now. Take good care of Belecthor."
"Yes, Mother." Morwen hummed happily as she piled food upon her tray, deciding against the small vase of flowers she would have placed beside it had she been taking it to anyone else. Belecthor would not have said anything about it, but she knew he would not have approved.
When at last she had all she thought he could eat, she journeyed back to her brother’s room where she tapped with the toe of her small boot. Belecthor opened the door, his hand still to his side, and stepped aside to allow her to enter.
She cleared a space on the table with one hand and carefully placed the tray there. Crossing to the bed, she pulled back the covers and fluffed the pillow. "Do you wish to lie down, or sit at the table?" she questioned brightly.
"I shall sit," he answered, his voice heavy with pain as he closed the door. "Tell me, was Ithilien attacked at all?"
"No, we have not seen any fighting here at home. Grandfather is quite pleased about that. Sit down," she ordered firmly, taking notice of the furrows of agony creasing his forehead as he crossed the room.
He eased himself carefully down into his chair, his hand never leaving his side. Morwen pushed his hand out of the way and removed his light shirt. "I thought I asked you if you had any wounds," she complained as she worked.
"It is not a wound," he protested weakly, "I am merely bruised, that is all."
"Yes, you are bruised, badly," she answered, examining the black and blue welt on his side. "Your ribs are bruised, also. I should have known, for your armor was rather badly dented. What happened?"
He muttered something rather grumpily and shoved a piece of meat into his mouth rather violently. "I beg your pardon," she said, adding a note to her voice that plainly informed him that he had better speak up.
"I fell off Celebros," he growled, a flush rising to his cheeks and his accent thickening.
Morwen struggled to stifle a laugh; she managed to escape even a slight smile. "Surely there must have been a reason. For that could not have bruised your ribs with all that armor on. It must have been something more."
"I was hit with a scimitar, alright? I wish you would just forget the entire thing."
"That will be a little difficult to do," she answered sympathetically. "For you see, it will hurt so very much, that neither of us will be able to forget about it for a long time."
"I plan on trying," he answered, shaking a piece of meat at her. It was a mistake. Morwen had peppered his meat liberally, just as he liked it, and when he shook it, some of the pepper drifted into the air.
Neither of them noticed for awhile and Morwen began gathering his armor up from wherever she happened to lay it when she had removed it. Suddenly Belecthor sneezed loudly, a small squeak of a scream following it closely as his damaged ribs were jostled rather violently and all his breath was cut off.
Morwen rushed to his side, pushing the plate of offending meat farther away from him on the table. "Are you alright?" she asked, wishing there was some way in which she could help him.
"No," he growled irritably, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, his teeth clenched tightly.
"Do you want me to get you some fresh meat, without pepper?"
"No, Morwen, you do not have to do that. I will be fine in just a moment." His breathing slowly became deeper and more relaxed until at last he was able to continue with his meal, albeit carefully.
Morwen lifted Belecthor’s tunic from its place in the corner where it had been thrown when he removed it. She would have to get that cleaned, she decided, wrinkling her nose at it. It smelled horrible after being worn in battle for three months straight without a wash. She coughed softly.
Belecthor turned to look at her, careful not to jar his ribs. "Ah," he said softly. "Before you turn that over to the washers, Eradan sent you a letter. It is in the pocket."
With thumping heart, Morwen pulled the note from Belecthor’s sweaty pocket and slipped it down into her own clean one. She longed to open it, but it would have to wait until later. Right now she had more important things to attend to.
"So he arrived unharmed and before the battle was over?" she questioned calmly, gathering together all of the dirty linens.
"Oh, yes. It would seem he has a good deal of friends. Everyone in camp was glad to see him and things looked brighter simply because Eradan was back. And I could see why, for there are few men who are as skilled in battle, and as willing to go into it. Watching him spar with Ostoher is something one must see to believe. You know Ostoher, do you not?"
"Yes, I met Ostoher in the hall while he was on duty as a guard."
"Ah, yes. As I was saying, both of them are amazing fighters, and to see them struggle against one another is quite a show of skill. They are two of a kind."
"I am going to take these down to be washed," Morwen said, tucking his dirty linens into a small sack. I shall return for your armor in just a moment. Do not get up. I will take care of everything, just as I always have."
"Yes, my Lady," Belecthor said around a large mouthful of meat.
"And do not talk with your mouth full. Did Mother never tell you that?"
Belecthor nodded apologetically as he chewed. Morwen smiled and closed the door behind her. On the way to the washroom would be a good time to read the letter. She pulled it out slowly and broke the seal. Inside were three paragraphs of neat, clear writing. She read through the lines slowly.
Lady Morwen,
I thank you for all that you have done for me in the past months. Your gentle care has brought to me better health than ever I have had before. Fear not for me, for I have survived the battle, but rather remember me as your humble servant, who cannot repay all you have done and who will come to your aid should ever you have need of my assistance.
Thank your kind mother for me, and tell her that never have I fared better, than when she was cooking. Her skills over a fire are remarkable if not amazing and like none I have ever known before. I long for them now as I am served the fare of war, cooked over-long and over a fire of green wood.
Last of all, send my deep gratitude to your Grandfather, the Prince Faramir, for allowing me to remain so long under his roof. His hospitality has touched the life of a simple soldier in the service of his King more than he can ever know.
Your grateful servant,
Eradan of Gondor
She reread the first paragraph and smiled to herself. It was not much, and there was nothing to hold to her heart except his offer of assistance in her need. ". . . remember me as your humble servant . . ." She felt that she was up to that task. She smiled to herself; little did he know how she thought of him.
Looking up, she found she had completely passed the hallway she needed to take and turned around, slipping the letter back into her pocket. She would take good care of that.
~*~*~*~
A small matter of whether or not they would have pepper has been discussed between myself and Coriel. I have decided that they had just finished a war with the South and they are bound to have captured something. Maybe they managed to take a bunch of pepper, or maybe they have it all the time, but however they got it, Belecthor is regretting it whole heartedly. :)
Amaniel, this was your idea you know. You are cruel to poor Belecthor, bruising his ribs that way. Why’d you go and hit him with a scimitar? ;)