Then she fell on her knees, saying: ‘I beg thee!’
‘Nay, lady,’ he said, and taking her by the hand he raised her. Then he kissed her hand, and sprang into the saddle, and rode away, and did not look back; and only those who knew him well and were near to him saw the pain that he bore.
ROTK: The Passing of the Grey Company
~oOo~
~ TA 3015, 6th of Cermië: Today in naming day gift for my lord’s son received from the sisters Berel and Adel of their devising, one large shallow bowl of pottery fit for bathing, edged about with a design of rippling water, fish, and reeds, and one item most like onto a man’s member at its most erect that my lord and his kinsman are not to see. This last they gave with much laughter, advice, and their sympathies for my lord’s long absence. It is a full six months since his promised return, and we have had no word.
~oOo~
The sun beats upon my head so that the hair on my neck is a torture. I cannot bear to wear a scarf about my head and so have abandoned it. Still, though I wear my hair in a braid, errant strands cling to my skin. They itch and tickle and I push at them, wishing I had thought to plait its length atop my head. Ah, but it is hot! My very shift seems as a second skin pasted to my back. The current rushes burbling against my knees as I stand balanced on bare feet amidst the river stones. The distant rattling beat of a woodpecker echoes o’er the river. When I scoop up cool water and pat it upon my face and beneath the line of my shift, I search the trees for the bird’s telltale flicker.
Come this winter it shall be three years since the folk of the Angle need hide themselves behind my lord’s fortress of earth and timber. We have had no need of it, though it still stands well-kept and more greatly provisioned and settled in the location of its granaries, paddocks, cellars, and sickhouses.
My lord did not return with his men to the Angle after their victory but sent word with them. He then took to long months away. Mayhap he had spoken to his kinsman of what led him to search upon roads so far from the land of his birth, but I knew naught of his purpose and could but await his return.
I had not the chance to speak to my lord of Master Bachor and his bitter thoughts. Halbarad knew of them and I had no need to tell him. But, in my lord’s absence and in the absence of further incursions of our foes, it soon came to a cautious ease between us. It was no greater understanding we achieved, but merely a lack of urgency to our disagreements. Peace lay upon us again. Though our folk ne’er forgot their fears, they need not live only in wait of their deaths. And so, we returned to the petty dealings of furlongs and ploughs, and minor thefts and nuisances.
Were there any hint of what had passed, it was seen in the renewed vigor with which Master Bachor asserted his will upon the Council. He resisted aught which might increase the House’s hold upon the Angle and saw to an e’er increasing tangle of ties of obligation and loyalty among his oathmen. One day, mayhap, I will rue it. But I could do naught but the same, and hope that when that day came, it would be enough.
Today, the air lies heavy upon the pastures, fields, and gardens, and the Angle is quiet beneath its weight. The forest is dull as a long-closed room and its beasts sleep in the heat of the day. Staying indoors is insufferable. For in these days of midsummer no breeze will begin to stir until the sun has set. I have come to the river to find relief. Here upon the boundary of my lord’s pastures the creatures of forest and air are awake, rustling in the grass and singing from the trees whose boughs hang o’er the water. The young Ranger set to guard his chieftain’s wife and child paces the bank upstream and, forbearing all other tasks, I kilted my skirts in my belt and wade out to gather reeds.
True, ‘tis much late in the season to gather their newborn shoots for eating, but their tough siblings have many uses, and their roots can be dried and ground for a thickener in soups and stews. The thatch above the shed is wearing thin and the last storm sent water trickling onto our stores of hay. A mold has attacked the baskets in the buttery and weakened bottoms of one or two, and so they need replacing. But, today, with the sun shining brightly upon the water and the foliage a thicket of green upon the shore, I think I shall boil the plants to make a soft dye the color of newly opened leaves. I have a wool in mind, a thin yarn of creams and flecks of brown that will take the color well, or mayhap, in its stead, a fine linen spun from last year’s flax. No. Aye. Yes! The linen.
The reeds crunch in my arm as I wade to the shoals and lean to the water again. In my mind, I weigh the merits of wool and linen and listen to the warblers’ high twittering coming from amidst the reeds. Their shadows fly across the water as they skim the air for the bright buzzing insects aloft above the river. The water is blessedly cool when I dip my hand below its surface and grab hold of a reed. The Shadow seems but a distant thought today, for my lord has sent word and we expect his return within the month. Today is my day of rest and I plan to make good use of it. I hum a simple tune from my mother’s journals while I work, singing when the words come to me.
By dint of much tugging and wrenching, the plant comes free and, shaking it in the river, I clean its root of mud and resume my song. The woodpecker’s thrum sounds loudly, as were it just nearby. Still humming lightly, I glance up to find the bird when, at a glimpse of a tall dark shape lounging against a tree along the riverbank, I straighten and twist about. He stands there amidst the grasses and seems to have been there for some time.
“My lord!” I call. So pleased am I that I cannot help but exclaim, “You are come!”
His face lights with a smile at the warmth of his welcome and he pushes away from the tree. “Aye, and just in time, it seems.”
Ah! But he had been so long gone it seems I had forgot just how fair his face when delight shines from it!
I am deep in the water and must fight against the current to approach the shore where he comes to the edge of the river. The rocks in the bed of the stream are large and smooth, but the brown moss that covers them is slippery and I make less progress than I would like.
“In time, my lord? In time for what?” A suspicion rises in my mind. “How long were you standing there, my lord? And where is Ranger Treldir? Why gave he no warning?” I raise my voice above the plash of water as I wade heavily through the river. I slip and catch myself among the stones, the folds of my skirts now laden with water.
“I sent him back to the house,” my lord says and, seeing me struggle, with a quick motion pulls off his pack and rolled cloak and coat where he has lashed them. “I heard you singing.”
The sun dances through the leaves, lighting his hair and confounding my vision. He has taken a step to the edge of the land along the river where it rises above the shallows and alights to one knee as I approach. I shade my eyes against the glare and laugh.
“I wonder, then, it did not drive you away.”
“Indeed? Quite the contrary,” my lord says, his smile broad. He knows full well I do not raise my voice in song where it may be heard, and with good reason.
I stand there in the shallows, my arm wrapped about a bundle of long grasses and my legs bare. As I am still, tiny fishes dart about my ankles and nip at the hairs. My lord is much grimed by dust and sweat. Yet, still, his eyes shine with the shimmering river and I can think only of the warmth of his voice.
“Shall I take that for you?” He extends his hand down to me.
Hastily, I add the last plant to my bundle and raise it to him. The reeds squeak as they rub one tother but soon my lord has lifted them from me. His face clouds with confusion and, I would think, some dissatisfaction, when I do not take the hand he now stretches to me.
“Shall you not come to the house?” His hand drops. For a heartbreaking moment, it seems he is taken aback by my apparent refusal to welcome him home.
“My lord,” say I, “truly does your House welcome you home, but you have not visited it yet and so do not know what you ask. The house is unbearably hot. I have put Elesinda to watching your son splash about in the bathing tub. Should you like, you can chase after your naked and slippery son in the shade of the garden.”
At this, he laughs and lays aside the bundle of reeds.
“My son is well?”
“Aye, my lord,” I say, “last I saw, he had doused Elesinda from his play in the bath.”
“Ah, she cares for him well,” he says, his eyes bright with a fond pride and the dazzling sun.
I peer at him through the shifting light, but my lord is silent, looking upon me as he leans his arms upon his knee. It seems I cannot read the tale his face would tell. The throb of insects from the trees and the steady rush of the river are broken only by the swirl and plop of water running over hidden boulders.
“My lord?”
“Mayhap the house can wait,” says he, and then a smile lights his face, “and I may be convinced to aid you in gathering rushes were I promised to receive a song in exchange.”
“Ha!” say I. “My lord would do better to implore the frogs to give him a chorus. ‘Twould be the sweeter of the twain.” I turn for the deeper water, calling lightly over my shoulder, “Did not the Elves teach you their speech in your youth?”
“I learned much in Rivendell, lady,” he says, raising his voice as he stands at the river’s edge. “But I do not believe its Master studies the tongues of the river frogs.”
“Is not the river there its greatest feature? Or so I have heard. I would think, then, it a strange thing to neglect, my lord,” say I. “Very well, mayhap you should join the frogs in the shadows of the reed beds, where they may tutor you in their way of song and complete the lack in your education.”
Whatever answer my lord may have made is lost in the rush of water. I do not need to glance behind me to know he does not stand at the river’s tall edge; for his keen glance no longer burns upon my back. Insects buzz undisturbed from the grasses, for my lord walks the bank to find an easier place of entrance. As I wait, I wade to a bend in the river’s course where the trees lean over its currents and send shadows reaching across the water. Silt collects in the river’s trap and my toes sink deep in mud. The heads of the reeds, heavy with their lace of blown flowers, nod above me. I slip my hands into the murk of the shallows and tug against the bulbous roots of the reeds, but my mind is on my lord.
Soon I see his shadow through the lens of the river. He has stripped to his breeches and plunged into the river’s depths. Sporting in the water, he lets the current carry him downstream and then strikes toward the shore. His hair is as sleek as the river otter’s when he breaks the surface and finds his feet among the stones of the riverbed. The current roars against him as he trudges toward me, wiping the water from his face and wringing out his hair. It is as had I ne’er seen him afore. Ai! I cannot take him all in at once. A glance is all I manage ere I must look away.
He joins me in the shallows and, without speaking, bends to pluck the reeds from their muddy bed. We work in silence amid the music of the river. Dragonflies whisk downstream, lighting briefly upon the reeds, their bright bodies flashing colors of green and blue. We move from sun to shade, working our way down the river and its tune changes as we move through its stream. Soon, for the heat of the sun and the plucking of the reeds, I forget my discomfort and work easily beside my lord.
“You said my son is well?”
I look up from where I am washing away the mud of the river to find my lord squinting into the reeds.
“As well as ever, my lord,” I say. “He eats heartily, grows plump, sleeps well, has Halbarad twined about his fingers, and turns the house upon its head at least twice a day. You should recognize the likeness, my lord.”
A great laugh bursts from him, halting his attempt to gain a hold upon a plant. “Indeed?”
“Indeed,” I say and return to my task.
“Plump, you say?” he asks after a moment. He grins broadly, as were he inviting me into some source of mirth only we two have shared.
“Ah, in truth,” I say, smiling, “mayhap no great resemblance now, but I am sure you will grow more like with your stay.”
“I look forward to it.”
In my mind, I rifle through our pantry and gardens. Honey, flour, butter, and eggs, I surely have, and the brambles I planted about the outer wall of the garden are heavy with a dark, sweet berry. Aye, my lord’s frame will not be so spare for long, should I have somewhat to say in the matter.
“I did not realize I turned your house upon its head,” my lord says, though he sounds less contrite than pleased at the thought.
“Did I say so?” I ask, my voice sweetly puzzled.
“I believe you did, lady.”
“I do not recall it.” I shake my head, frowning.
“Mayhap, then, have you forgot, it is time for me to reassert my proper authority.”
I laugh. None would question that he stood in last judgment upon his house, but my lord ruled with such a gentle hand it lie lightly upon us. He lays the reed upon the stack growing in his arm.
“I note you do not contest your effect upon Halbarad.” I swipe at the hairs loose along my neck, hoping to dislodge them from where they cling to my skin and tickle.
“I do not think he minds terribly.”
“No, mayhap he does not,” I say. “He certainly does naught to discourage your son and the child would command every spare moment Halbarad has to offer.”
“Are they grown so fond?”
He speaks quietly, and, at a glance, I see that his look is solemn.
“Aye,” I say, “you chose your Great Hound well, my lord. He dotes on the boy.”
My lord does not answer, but peers into the reeds and grasps one close to the root. His hands are deep in the water and he tugs mightily. By his silence, I know his dilemma. Torn in two, no doubt. For the sake of the son, he would have Halbarad’s heart fully his. For the sake of the friend, he would have his son return that regard. And yet, he would not see his son consider another as he should his father, no matter how much he may love the man who stands in his place.
I go on, speaking lightly, cleaning the roots of a reed as were that of which I speak no matter. “Still, your son looks forward to your return with an eagerness that is unmatched by his other appetites.”
“I cannot see how, at his tender age.” The reed comes free and my lord straightens.
“Ah, but my lord, you know not.”
He has abandoned all pretense at gathering reeds and scowls mildly at me, his delight twinkling in his eyes. “What is it I do not know?” He knows his wife well enough to see she enjoys the spinning of more than just wool.
“You do not know, my lord, the insistence with which your son demands his favorite tale every night. He will not sleep without hearing it.”
“And what tale is that?” he asks with a jerk of his chin.
“When your father returns home…” I glance up from where I work. Reeds sway in my lord’s arm where he has them pressed against his breast. He pays them little heed, for he gazes upon me as were he seeing the dawn after a night of weary toil.
“Wilt thou tell me the full tale?”
Smiling, I look away. I lean into the reeds and my voice falls into a patter over the burbling of the stream and the rasp of the long leaves.
“When your father returns home, my love, he will rise upon the morrow and wake you to the day. He will lift you from your bed into ours. There you will be warm and snug under the blankets with your sire.
“When your father returns home, my child, he will race you down the stairs. There he will seat you at our table and you will eat together of pottage sweetened with honey and topped by fresh cream.
“When your father returns home, my lamb, he will walk with you through the fields. There he will take you upon his shoulders and you will see all the lands to which you are heir.
“When your father returns home, my little one, he will take your hand and lead you into the forest. There he will teach you to walk softly as does the wolf when he stalks his prey. There he will teach you the names of all the trees that tower o’er your head and of all the green leaves that scatter beneath your feet. There he will teach you to have the hands of the guardian and the healer.
“When your father returns home, my son, in the even he will take you upon his knee. There he will tell you stories of the Eldar race, the house of Beren the One-Handed, and the kings of Númenor. You will hear how you bear the blood of the Faithful and how you will hold our people in your care.
“But tonight, my precious one, you must sleep and dream of your father, and await his return home.”
My lord stands as one entranced, the head of the reed he holds bobs gently in the river. He takes a deep breath and recalls himself. “You say he never tires of this?”
“Never, my lord, though he may know it so well he corrects me should I speak the words out of turn,” I say, straightening my back against hours of bending.
A slow smile breaks across my lord's face. He bends to drag the roots of the reed he holds through the water, rinsing them clean. Slowly, he strides through the river toward me and places the reed upon the stack he carries.
“I see you have set me the task of satisfying my son. Mayhap I should command Halbarad to keep my return to himself so that I may do so undisturbed. What think you?”
“I think, then, you will tire of us my lord, and return to your ranging all the sooner.”
“I think not, lady.” He stands near, gazing down upon me.
I bend again to the reeds, unwilling to look upon him so closely; for in his eyes I see the river running.
“Hmm,” I say. “We shall see once our son has visited the wrath of every heir of Elendil, from Isildur to your father, upon you.”
His solemnity falls from him as he breaks into laughter. I say it lightly, but, in truth, I am proud of my lord’s son. He has the strong will of his father and shall have need of it. From his look, it seems my lord takes pride in him as well.
“’Tis the battle of the wiping of the nose,” I say, “the washing behind the ears, and the laying down to bed while others are yet awake that he fights, my lord. I am afraid to say victory eludes him on these fronts, though I have yet to prevail in the battle of the eating of pease. I fear he resists until they congeal to a cold mush that but strengthens his resolve.”
“Glad am I my son has at least one field on which he does not submit. I would not have him abandon all hope.”
Though his words are light on the surface, I rise from the river and study his face.
“Is that the reason you were so long gone?”
“It is,” he says and will say no more.
Instead, he takes the reeds I have gathered in his arm and waves away a dragonfly that buzzes to a rest upon my shoulder, sending it flying over the water. The touch of the river seems to have grown cold and I shiver.
“I would not have you abandon hope either, lady,” he says, drawing my eyes; for he has laid a light touch upon my cheek and stands so near that, were I to raise my hand, it would brush across his side. “Not when you brighten my return with your tales.”
My heart seems nigh to leap from my breast at his touch and his eyes fasten upon me intently. I dare not meet his gaze.
“How long will your stay be, my lord?”
“Weeks, a month, no more.”
Ai! So short the time.
The sun darts in through the shifting leaves and the light sparkling off the water plays across his face. He is in no hurry to return to our task, but, instead, his gaze seems to trace the tendrils of hair that have worked their way from my braid and trace the line of my neck. It seems I can look anywhere but in his eyes.
“I am sorry to hear it, my lord. Your House will barely have time to welcome you home then, ere I must prepare your farewell.”
“Aye, I would have it otherwise, but it cannot be helped.”
He bends toward me momentarily under the force of the river and I wish this to end, this torture.
“Then we must make the most of you while you are here,” I say lightly, attempting against the warmth that rises in me to strike a tone of fondness that will not press for more than he can give. I touch his arm with a briefness that will both reassure and send him back to gathering reeds.
But it is as had he been waiting for that touch to bridge the gap between us. I cannot draw my hand away, for he has found the small of my back and pulled me into him. The river rushes against us and I sway, losing my footing but my lord strengthens his embrace, crushing the reeds between us. He does not seek my lips. Rather, he releases me to run tender fingers along the skin of my leg. His gaze softens as he watches my face, the heat crawling from his touch.
I think my heart will break for my shame. Tears well in my eyes. I cannot look upon him, for I shake with the strength of my need and the fear he will spurn me because of it.
“Ah, lady,” he murmurs when I turn my head, and sighs. His hand returns to my back and he clasps me to him. His lips press warmly into my hair where he lays his face.
I must not weep. Should my tears fall, he will know it, for I lay my brow against his bare breast, the reeds creaking between us as my lord brushes a fond thumb upon my back. I wish he would not tease me so, my tender tormentor.
My lord speaks softly, his breath in my hair and my eyes closing at the sound of his words.
“How stands your fortress, lady? Is not the foundation well-laid?”
“Aye, my lord,” I say, my voice a whisper against his skin.
“Do you not deem it time we build upon it?”
He draws back his breast, though his hand remains against my back. By refusing me refuge or release he forces me to either return his gaze or reject his affections outright. He will accept none other.
When I raise my face, my lord’s eyes are all I see. They gaze upon me and fill my view. I know naught else. In them, I see a fire that well I know, for have I not come too near afore and been burned by those flames? And yet, truly, what choice have I?
The topmost reeds slide from the bundle and splash into the water, but I care not, for my lord has claimed my lips in a kiss the warmth of which threatens to send us both sinking into the river. I cling to him against the rushing waters, the smell of the river about us until we can stand no more.
~oOo~
The grass along the river is green and smells sweet and makes for a soft bed. There my lord lays me down and kisses me. I thread my fingers into his dark hair as my heart pounds like a wild thing caged in my breast. Between the touch of his lips, he says naught, but runs his hand along my back and thigh from where we lay upon our sides, and draws my knee o’er his hip.
When I trail my lips along the sinews of his neck beneath his ear, he murmurs, “Aye, little wren,” his voice soft and fond.
My eyes fly open.
“Wren?”
In all the years we have been married and all the nights we lie together as husband and wife, he has ne’er spoken my name nor called me aught. Though delighted by the impulse, I am dismayed at the word he has chosen. Is this how he thinks of me? A drab wren?
“Aye,” he says and draws a hand down my hair until he can tug loose the tie at the end of my braid. “For the darkness of your head,” he says, “the brown of your skin where it has seen the sun, the softness of your breast where it has not.” At this he presses me to my back. “And the high warble of your voice when you sing.” Here he presses kisses down the bone of my breast, though his lips smile against me.
“It does not sound so ill in the high tongue,” he says when I tut my annoyance.
“’Tis not the sound which offends, my lord.”
He laughs gently and returns to distracting me with slow, wet kisses and I with the feel of sun-warmed skin over broad shoulders and the long, long line of his back.
“I suppose I should be grateful you have not chosen to call me somewhat else,” I say as his lips and tongue work at the line of my shift and his beard chafes at the skin there. His fingers untwine the tie that holds my dress closed. Though I protest, the flick of his tongue beneath tightly-bound linen draws fire upon my skin and my voice falters. “For all I know, having heard my voice, you might think ‘little crow’ would be as fitting.”
At that, he bursts full into laughter. Overcome, my lord must cease his attentions and lies helpless and heavy upon me, his breast shaking against mine. Then, struggling to contain himself, he lifts his head to nuzzle at my ear.
“Aye, then, should it please thee, lady, thou mayest call me thy woodpecker,” he whispers. I snort and clap my hand to my face, so caught unaware am I by my laughter.
“‘Tis not a name to be so freely given when you have put so very little effort into earning it, my lord,” I say and a great shout of laughter bursts from him.
For a long moment it seems we cannot move, but cling each to the other, quaking with merriment at our own cleverness. When I can breathe again, I find his face above mine, smiling.
“Mayhap then, should I put it to verse, lady, you would find the name the more pleasing.”
With his breath skimming upon my ear, he hides his face beside my cheek and chants softly.
O’er water’s course, beneath the sun,
the little wren’s sweet call it trills.
Song lightly lifts the wandering heart
and hope for house and hearth fulfills.
With tresses dark upon her head
and soft and warm the small bird’s breast,
the tender heart beneath lies hid,
gives promise to the restless rest.
When he lifts his head, I find it is to turn upon me a young boy’s smile, so delighted in himself he seems. So, ‘twas this that occupied my lord’s thoughts as he waited and watched from the riverbank. I know not what he finds upon my face, for my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth and it seems all I may hear is the beating of my heart within my ears.
Locks of his dark hair have tumbled from his neck where they have dried and sway between us. I gather one and twine it about my fingers. It is heavy and warm with the sun and smells of my husband and the river in which he swam. My lord’s face quiets, his eyes first searching mine and then resting upon my lips, where they linger. But it is I who tug his head gently down as I rise, so that our lips might meet.
It seems I have forgot much of what brought pleasure when laying with my lord. No matter the memories that stilled my thoughts or the dreams from which I awoke with the lingering flush of heat, they are but a pale shadow of the pleasures brought by the press of naked flesh. We twine together on the high bank of the river amidst the scent of damp earth and crushed grasses and take our fill, as had the time apart been a famine and we both starved of touch.
I have ne’er known my lord so eager. For in the depth of the pleasure he takes of my hands upon him, he laughs, the sound short and low but full of joy, ere he captures my mouth in his. With his men below stairs to hear, most oft my lord must urge me to silence, but not now. But for the distant thundering of the current as it rushes past the high bank where we lay and the call of the birds upon the river’s edge, we are alone. Here he whispers soft words of encouragement.
“Aye, little wren, sing for me,” he commands softly into the crown of my head, and only then do I hear the sounds issuing from me.
I open my eyes to find my lord gazing intently at me, taking in the heaving of my breast as the heat raises upon it, the sweat that slips and gathers in the cup of bone and skin at the base of my neck, and my face as it contorts with my pleasure. Closing my eyes against the flicker of sun sifting through leaves above our heads, the pleasure of warm, living flesh is a shock against the years of wanting. I cannot think why I had so tightly clutched onto those parts of my heart I had withdrawn behind high walls of defense.
Glad am I he would tuck his face in the tight space between my raised arm and brow, for when, at last, stillness comes upon us and I come to myself, I know not why, but find I am weeping. The tears I shed slip from my eyes to mingle with the sweat that trickles from my brow and collects in the short hairs upon my lord’s jaw where he is pressed to me. Ai, but my heart aches. I am in a confusion so deep it seems I drown in a pool made bitter by longing.
“You set a sweet ambush upon me, lady,” my lord complains as he breathes heavily against the crown of my head, his breast heaving against mine.
“Should my lord not be satisfied with his efforts, mayhap he would wish more practice,” I whisper, fighting for breath. It sets him to chuckling against me, but I can spare little further thought for our word play.
“Aye, lady, in truth, I would. ‘Twas worth every step of the long journey home,” he says and then chuckles low. “You have been speaking to the wives of the Angle, again.” He releases my hands and resettles himself so he is not lying so heavily upon me. “Aye, ‘thy kisses are sweet, but thy touch is sweeter still.’”
“Later,” he promises ere he cups my cheek to press warm lips to my ear, then cheek and brow, “after I have caught us some supper and you and I have a chance at bathing in the river.”
With this he groans and resettles on his side with his head lying upon the crook of one arm and the other lying upon me. The breeze rising from the river slips chill against heated skin where he had lain.
Once his breathing has calmed, he opens his eyes and pulls back a little, so he may look upon me. His face is graced with a wicked smile and I see that light gleaming in his eyes. I clap my hands to my face. Oh, ai! I had hoped my lord would let it go without comment. I twist so that I am small and hidden in the shadow of the long line of his body.
“I had thought, mayhap, you did not know my name,” says he. I shake my head, hiding from his mirth. Strands of hair slide from where they had gathered upon my cheek and cover my face.
It seems not right, the sound of his father-given name upon my lips. It is as had I cursed him and laid him low.
“Be easy, lady.” He gently teases twig or leaf or moss from my hair and flicks it into the river. “There are few who know my true name; fewer still who would say it so sweetly. But I will not demand you call me by it should you be unwilling.
“Though,” he says, and here he lifts aside my hair so he can smile broadly at the eye that blinks up at him from between my fingers, “could I convince you to call out to me at the height of your pleasure again, I would not be unwilling to hear it.”
He falls still of a sudden, his eyes fixed on mine. Horror dawns upon his face and by this I know I have lost the battle and he sees my tears for what they are.
“Lady?” he asks low, but I have turned away deep into the corner between his breast and the grass on which he had laid me down.
His hand comes gentle upon the back of my head. “Lady? Tell me I did not hurt thee! Truly, had I thought thy cries of pleasure and thee willing, else I would not – ”
I shake my head against him, forestalling his thoughts,though still I school my body to a rigid stillness that must not give him comfort.
“What is it?”
“I know not, my lord,” I say, my voice muffled in my hands, and truly I do not, but this does not satisfy him.
He lays a hand upon my shoulder and pushes me away. He does not force me to open my eyes to look upon him but moves so he may clasp my face between his hands.
“What distresses you, lady? Tell me.”
Despite the apprehension that gives urgency to his voice, he presses lips to my tears, gentling them away and pressing his brow to mine. But for a long moment I cannot speak, for even this brings me pain so that my eyes squeeze the tighter closed and I must breathe deep or soon go to sobbing. For now, at these tenderest of touches, it comes to me.
I had thought, mayhap, what my lord had given afore had been his limit. And yet it was not. I had not known him capable of such generosity of fervor and tenderness. My heart aches for it and I can but weep for the lost years of resignation.
At my silence, he has drawn me to him as he laid back and tucked my head to his breast. There he waits and, I think, peers into the shifting leaves above us and listens to the river, and wonders. His hands are unsure upon me, but with one he steadies me against him and with the other he brushes my hair from my brow.
Ai! What am I to do?
“I have done somewhat to cause you pain, lady. Will you not tell me?” he asks after some time.
At this, I ease myself from his grasp and, sitting up, turn my back to him. “I cannot do this, my lord. I cannot do this thing you ask of me.” I wave a hand at the grass where our forms are yet pressed within it ere rubbing at my brow. “And then you are gone.”
“Ah lady.” My lord’s hand comes upon my hair, smoothing it from cheek to my back as he rises to sitting behind me. “What would you have me do?” he asks low. “I cannot stay. Things move upon the world I must address, or all is lost.”
“I speak not of your duties that take you from us. Those I shall bear without complaint. I speak of the nights you lay beside me and cannot bring yourself to touch me. You do not allow my touch when I might wish it and I must wait upon the time when again you will suffer it. I am at my end, my lord. I cannot.”
At this, he falls silent, for my tears have started afresh, and I feel his hand no longer.
Ai! I had made peace with the beast within my heart and now it has burst free of its cage, for the outpouring of pleasure battered gates long barred closed and now all is swept away in the flood of too strong feeling and too free a tongue.
“My lord, I know you would not wish to bed a woman without feeling or affection, but you are much changed in this your return to us. I wish you would not exert yourself to awaken these very things in me and then abandon me to them once you have achieved your aim,” I say, and then must halt, for my throat clenches upon the words I must say next. I draw in a deep breath to quiet the shuddering of my voice. “I am not a tool to be taken up at need and then set aside when I have quickened and bear your child.”
“Thou art no tool to me,” comes his voice, low and insistent.
“Then should it please thee, my lord,do not treat me as such!”
With that I am left to still my weeping on my own. So long does my lord remain silent and unmoving behind me, I wonder, then, should he e’er speak.
Ai! I am a mess of tears and snot; an unlovely thing to look at. I swipe at my face and do not stop the sound of disgust it would wring from me. I am such a great fool! With that I lean across where my lord had laid me down. I jerk the corner of my shift to me from where we had abandoned it so that bits of leaves fly in its wake.
No matter how I might press the linen to my face and wipe at tears, it does little to remove the sight of my lord sitting behind me. There he has drawn his legs to him and leans upon them, his shoulders bowed o’er his lap. I saw not his face, for his hair hangs o’er his brow where he bends over his hands and rubs at his knuckles.
Ah, so fair had been the day and joyous had been my lord’s return. I have done naught but spoiled my lord’s welcome. We have so little time with him and not only have I wasted it but doubt not I have ravaged this fragile thing between us beyond repair.
“Forgive me, my lord,” I say, releasing a long breath to bring stillness to my heart. “I should not have spoken. You need not fear. I shall be content.”
“Content?” He has raised his head and now looks upon me with somewhat of alarm.
“My lord, I pray you do not put great weight upon my words. I am done with my tears.” Sighing, I tug upon the cloth, pulling it about in search of the neck of my shift. “You were gone many months, and I think your wife just lonely for her husband.”
There it is. I have found it. I gather up the cloth so I might throw the garment over my head.
“Stop.” My lord reaches his long arm about me and grabs at my shift. “Lady, I beg thee, stop!” he says as he snatches it from my grip.
I clasp my hands about my knees for want of aught else for them to do.
“Of all the things you do that I dislike,” he says as he balls up the cloth, “it is this that pains me the most. It is as had you taken a sharp blade to parts of yourself, cutting them off in order to leave naught but what you think is most pleasing to me.”
At this I wince and find I have turned away. “My lord,” I say. “In the measure of all the burdens we bear it is but a little thing. It will be as it was afore. You need not –“
“I do not wish to be the kind of man that would ask such a thing of you!” He casts aside my shift and pauses. “Even though, it seems, I have most grievously failed of my attempts to avoid it.”
“Ah, lady,” he breathes when I cannot bring myself to look upon him. He draws me to him, his arms wrapped about me, shoulders and knees and all. "I had not thought... I did not..." He lays his brow upon my head and remains silent for a long moment, as were he gathering his resolve.
“You are not blind, nor unfeeling,” says he at last, drawing me from my thoughts. He speaks softly so I must attend closely or lose his words in the rush of water at our feet. “I had thought I could ready myself to be wedded through an act of will. But it was not so.
“Indeed, you have been most patient with me. For this, and the pain it has caused you, you are owed a full accounting.” He swallows with some effort ere pressing his face to my neck to release a long breath. “But I cannot speak of it and know not shall I ever be able.”
He sighs after a moment, and, opening his eyes, resettles against me. “I have spent many years amidst soldiers and hirelings. I have sold my own sword to kings and stewards. I have most oft lived among hard men and have the look of it. And so, have oft been asked, afore, had I naught waiting for me; home or kin or family. And for the first, I knew the answer and knew it dependent not upon some striving or trial or chance of the world to achieve. I could speak of you, that you were a good woman, and of my son, whom his mother was raising to be strong of will but kind. But, of the first, too, I was asked, in all my wandering, an you and my son knew me. And, for my shame, I knew not what answer to give.”
Here he stops for a little, and, ere he goes on, my lord’s thumb moves gently against me where he holds me to him.
“Aye, I deem you have the right of it. Mayhap, I am changed. I was gone long, lady, and I fear the time away was fruitless. I did not find what I sought. In the last, I despaired of making sense of the signs I had found and thought to retrace my steps and take counsel. I passed through many empty lands for many months,” he says low. “There were times I thought I had lost all power of speech for want of practice and was as dumb as the beasts with whom I shared my path. I had little then to hold my mind and the darkness of my thoughts was my only companion.
“I spent much time in thought bent upon my son and my own infancy as a lone child amidst the Elder-born. And thought much upon my mother and her loneliness and long grief. Bitter, now, seems the cup of cares that wore at her until her heart had naught left to give. In truth, I had not known how bitter ‘til now. I would not force you to drink it, too, should I have the power to prevent it. That way lies a despair you and I can ill afford.
“Of all the things I fear the most, it is this; that I shall fall to a trap of my own devising, that I shall not be worthy of the tests yet to come. They will push me to my greatest limit and tempt me with every weakness I have. I have been drinking deep of my mother’s cup, lady, but can do so no longer. You have been generous in your wait for me. But, I think, should you be willing to forgive me for the suffering it cost you, I am ready.”
At this he falls silent.
At a sudden impulse, I rise against his hold and grasp his hand ere he can draw it away. I am unsure should I wish to accept an offer born of regret, but though my lord’s look is solemn, there I see a longing that sharpens upon the present, not the past.
“I know thy name,”I say, his fingers warm and strong and palm toughed by his labors between mine, and his eyes drawn to me from where he had looked down at our hands. “Thy father laid thee afore our very hearth and blessed thee with it when first thou drewst breath and opened thine eyes upon the world. And that name thou shalt ever carry with pride. But this too, thou hast a name thou hast earned through thy long trials to bring thy people peace. It is thine already and thou hast no need to wait for its bestowing. Thou art my lord. And I would call thee by thy name, shouldst thou accept it.”
For a long moment, he regards me steadily and I know not his thoughts. But then he draws his hand from my grip, folding mine in his so he might press his lips to my knuckles ere he holds it against his breast and speaks.
“Thou art híril nín. My House was desolate and all but abandoned, but thou madest of it a stronghold of light and comfort to stand against our Enemy. I shall then call thee híril nín, my lady of the House, shouldst thou accept it, and hope for the days when the Shadow is no more.”
His hand cupping my cheek, his lips find mine. For a long moment we are thus, and I forget the heat of the sun bearing down upon our heads, the rush of water at our feet, and the tickle of the grass upon which we sit, and lose myself in the tenderness of their touch.
~oOo~