Peonies bloom and the world is full of liars. by Urloth

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The charms of the ordinariness soothe the threat of anxiety.

Chapter title is the last line of 'By the Peonies' by Czeslaw Milosz.

Unbeta'd for now.

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Lithwaloth was truly a master of his discipline. Whatever he had put in his nerve soothing brew was so very effective that Baradui only managed to raise her eyebrows when a significant chunk of masonry fell off the bridge she was crossing when making her way over. 

She had not known what to make of Iavel’s proclamation and neither had Lithwaloth. He had apologised and she had accepted. Intense waking-dreams were commonly observed in those who had experience Lúrien’s cradle. Perhaps this was that she suggested anxiously.

Lithwaloth had agreed that it was possible though his gaze had been troubled. Nothing though had diminished his palpable joy at his daughter’s awareness. 

Iavel’s eyes had not left Baradui though she had not managed many more words after her startling statement. She had worked up such a sweat in levering herself upright that the white cotton of her nightdress was translucent by the time she was settled in an upright position against several large sacks stuffed with clothing. Light had gleamed on a flat gold chain around her neck, interrupted by flat medallions in the shape of gold flowers and pulled sharply down by the weight of whatever pendant was attached to it.

The incongruity of it had caught Baradui’s attention, the richness of the chain against the poorness of its owner. Iavel had, for an invalid, a surprising amount of wealth about her person. Not only the chain and its unseen pendant but a row of intricate filigreed gold rings had pierced up the side of each of her ears. The amount of piercings was not uncommon, ears were meant to be adorned; Baradui had four piercings apiece in each ear. 

But the gold was.

Baradui spared a thought that perhaps whichever Avari group Lithwaloth came from, was one that used dowries and perhaps required their women to wear a percentage of said dowries. She remembered something of the like from the ethnic diversity classes the House required of students.

Iavel displayed clear frustration at them as they talked over her. Her annoyance shot the theory that she had been wake-dreaming like a fish in a barrel. It had also made Baradui feel uncontrollably guilty. The sharp eyes that had watched her belonged to someone with their mental functions fully intact. 

Lithwaloth’s daughter had lain there, staring at her, with her hands clenching rhythmically on her covers, reminding Baradui of nothing so much as the naked reaching branches of winter-raped trees. There were yellow-green bruises in the cuticles of her nails and under her eyes; blue veins branching out around her mouth. The sallowness of her skin suggested a skin tone darker then Lithwaloth’s snow-whiteness when healthy.

Baradui could not accurately judge height with Iavel so swaddled in blankets but she suspected Iavel could look her father in the eye easily. It made her wonder why she’d not noticed Iavel about. Surely she would have noticed a woman that tall and so startlingly coloured. Perhaps Iavel had not resided in Menegroth normally.

Every so often Iavel’s nostrils would flare and Baradui wondered if she was scenting the air. It had made her uneasy though Lithwaloth’s brew had been starting to kick in there and the unease had faded every time she noticed. 

Dead things seeking vengeance was what Iavel claimed to smell. Baradui pillaged her memory to try and remember a patient she had failed or someone she had caused harm to that might have died.

Baradui had finished her visit with a promise from Lithwaloth to deliver some of Nirthon’s belongings to her. Nirthon had been cremated with his fibula, but Lithwaloth had scavenged all that could be recovered of the Great House’s book collections and library. Somewhere in his second wain which was packed full of documents, several of Nirthon’s treatises and anatomy books lay. 

“Better they sit on your bookshelf and be used instead of sitting in the wain and gathering dust,” Lithwaloth had forestalled her protestations. 

By that time the brew had thoroughly kicked in and she had smiled but not gone dancing around the wain in excitement at the prospect of the books as she might have.

“Are you alright?” Férinael’s voice interrupted Baradui’s reflection.

“I am fine,” Baradui reassured her, “though perhaps a little shaken; half the railings came off the bridge on Abalone Canal whilst I was crossing it.”

“Oh you poor thing! Do you need something for your nerves?”

“NO! No…thank you,” Baradui hastily shook her head. If she had anything more to sooth her nerves she’d be so nerveless she wouldn’t be able to walk. 

“I shall be fine after perhaps some lunch,” she added when Férinael stared at her questioningly, “I’ve only had tisane and a biscuit so far.”

“Oh that is just not healthy!” Férinael scolded. They were sitting in a seamstresses’ workroom. It was in fact a loft floor, with sky lights all along the roof to let in as much light as possible. There were six women sharing the space along with five of those limbless, headless bodies that seemed so important in making clothes. They gave Baradui the chills just looking at them.

“Come, we will go to the market-hall now. There are several food stalls.” Determination seemed to give Férinael’s crisp skirt an extra snap to its rustling pleats. 

“Girls I am going for my lunch break,” farewells ushered them out the door. The other seamstresses all seemed to be cut from the same cloth as Férinael, to use an unforgivable pun; quiet, smiling and polite; hands swift and eyes sharp.

They descended the loft stairs onto the shop floor where one could buy premade shifts and plain gowns if one was of average size, or be fitted, if you were not, behind lattice screens of wood.

Out the door they went, the bell ringing after them and Férinael began to lead Baradui down a street far busier than the healer was used to. This was one of Sirions’ two economic centres, this particular one where one went for anything unrelated to sea matters. Here were the tailors and the seamstresses; shoemakers and saddlers; carpenters and masons. Further down the street in the large market hall, the produce of surrounding farms and trade coming from inland routes was hawked.

The sound that hit them as they entered the hall was immense. Baradui staggered momentarily as her ears were assaulted by merchants calling out their wares from every which direction. Férinael, quite used to this, simply grabbed her arm, slotted it through her own and began to lead her firmly between the aisles of stalls.

A meaty smell caught Baradui’s nose.

Her mouth watered. 

Suddenly it was not Férinael doing the towing but herself as she tracked the scent down mercilessly, hunger suddenly raring its head and snarling. Then finally she saw it and nearly wept. It was a stall, first and foremost, that sold smoked meat but the enterprising owners were also brought in some fresh meat and were cooking, then serving it on thin slices of bread.

The owner saw her coming and the look in her eye must have warned him for he had a generous amount served before she had reached the stall. She slapped down the copper coin required down, took the bread, and glared at Férinael over her first mouthful, daring her to say anything.

“Been a while since you had red meat?” the seamstress inquired tactfully. Baradui nodded, chewed, swallowed and debated taking another mouthful. No. She had manners. She was not some savage.

“The only meat I get is the two fish meals they serve at the House,” she then allowed herself another bite as self-congratulations on her civility.

“I see,” Férinael had covered her mouth with her hand but there was no hiding her amusement. Baradui took another bite instead of defending herself. There was nothing to defend. She was making up for six years abstinence from the truly terrifying diet she had, had when working with her march-wardens. 

“I ate mostly meat in Doriath; my wardens patrolled an area with not a lot of fishing but bountiful with birds and rabbits,” she found herself needing to explain, “and occasionally we waved leaves over our cooking and called that our vegetables.” Six years of fish (cooked in all the ways you could cook fish) and steamed vegetables hadn’t been bad per say… just mind numbingly boring, and lacking that certain something that digging your teeth into a bit piece of venison had.

She finished the morsel with a sigh. She debated getting another serving then decided that she could not afford to. She had better things to spend her coppers on then filling her stomach when the House provided free food. The stall owner offered her a jug of water and she washed the grease off her hands then gulped a whole mug of it.

“Thank you,” she sighed, looking longingly at the meat for a moment more, “that was wonderful.”

“My pleasure. Please come by again,” the owner solicited.

Férinael tucked her arm in Baradui’s again and they left.

“Ate the whole serving in less than three minutes,” they heard the stall owner whisper to his neighbour.

“I know. I saw!” the neighbour whispered back.

Férinael clearly could not stop herself any longer and laughed softly. Baradui simply blushed from her toes to her hair.

“Where to now?” she asked Férinael, trying not to think of how her skin was burning and must appear to be fuchsia to the rest of the world.

“Where-ever you would like. There is one stall I would like to stop by but it is on the other side of the building and up two floors to boot. Perhaps we could circle the floors so you can see what this market-hall has to offer.”

“Sounds like a plan,” and so Baradui let Férinael lead her in circles around the market-hall. It felt a little silly at first, and useless, walking about the stalls without much intention of buying anything. She noticed after a while though, that she was not the only one idling through the stalls with no particular purpose, arm and arm with company.

They finished the first floor in good time; most of it dedicated to those who hawked food. Then up onto the second floor they went to where cloth and clothing was sold. She expected Férinael hustle her past this floor, decrying the quality. In fact their pace slowed down whilst Férinael floated between stalls like a bee between flowers. 

Baradui herself was enjoying counting the many different ethnicities she saw behind the stalls. She’d lost count a few times and simply restarted. She had heard Sirion was a trading city first and foremost, but she had never seen the evidence before, life spent in transit between working in the Healing House and sleeping in cheap boarding houses.

“This will suit you,” Férinael said suddenly. They had halted before a stall filled with bolts of cloth and she was holding a swath up to Baradui’s face. It was brilliantly turquoise. Baradui was instantly reminded of the tiles of her grandfather’s great hall. 

“Oh?” she reached up and touched the cloth, finding it soft but definitely wool of some sort. “Far too warm for this weather and I do not think I can afford it, never mind have it made into a dress.”

“For winter. Buy the cloth now. It is cheaper than buying it closer to winter.”

Baradui looked at the cloth then at Férinael. “I have a winter dress.”

“You have my sister’s winter dress, ” Férinael indicated to the cloth’s price which Baradui saw to be very reasonable indeed, “the one with the large patch sewn over the arse of it.” The cloth was still dear, but certainly better than if she had thought about buying a dress closer to winter.

Férinael’s comment was true though, the one winter dress she had did have a rather noticeable patch across the backside of it. Or more like it was missing the back half of its skirt which had been replaced with an ugly brown wool. It was like the repairer had not been able to source any cloth remotely close to the rose wool the dress was made out of.

“I will make it up into a dress for you in my spare time if you are that worried about the cost, same discount as the rest of the women at the boarding house get,” Férinael offered when Baradui almost wept as she paid for the cloth and then clumsily helped the merchant wrap the cloth in a protective sheet of cheap linen. She had to pay for the linen too but she was reassured it was suitable to be cut into loin cloths when she was done. 

“Thank you,” Baradui was relieved to have that cost taken off her hands. She tucked the bundle of cloth under her arm and wondered if she should acquire a side-slung bag like she had seen some of the women in Sirion favouring.

They finished perusing the second floor and then up to the third they went. Baradui did not know how to categorise this floor and dubbed it miscellaneous.

“Amazing is it not?” Férinael confused her contemplative silence for awe at yet another packed floor revealed to her. 

“It is even more amazing when you realise that this is only a quarter of the whole building that is open to the public. The rest is where the truly serious business takes place. Eiriengíeth and I used to go sit in on the flower auctions. It is amazing to see how intense betting can get over bunches of irises.”

“Eiriengíeth?” Baradui twisted her tongue around the name.

“My sister…have I never said her name before?!” Baradui shook her head. No, not once in the seven months they had known one another.

“Well how about that, how silly I was to avoid saying her name,” Férinael mused.

“You were grieving,” Baradui fell back on her usual reply for this sort of thing.

“Yes but… that badly?”

“She was your sister,” Baradui said before she could help herself then cursed thricely.

“Yes, my beautiful baby sister,” Férinael sighed and the smile fell from her face. Her eyes focused somewhere in the distance as she began to lead Baradui through the stalls without giving her time to look at the truly fascinating wares up on the third floor.

“We were the middle of five siblings you know,” Férinael said abruptly.

“Were you?” Baradui hurried her pace so she was not dragged, wondering where Férinael was going at such a pace.

“Yes, we had two older brothers and a younger sister, they were all in Menegroth,” Férinael’s determined gait had lead them up to a stall well adorned with weavings for sale. No matter how much Baradui searched her dusty memories she simply could not place which tribe the very clearly Avari running the stall belonged to. 

They all had very distinctive tattoos across their faces, winding designs across their foreheads or crawling up from their chins. They were silver haired and golden skinned; eyes the colour of robin’s eggs every one of them. Dressed in dark grey and brown tunics, liberally decorated with white-work, they cut distinct silhouettes against the reds, whites and greens of their stall. They wore their hair drawn back save two locks left on either side of their head, woven with strips of coloured leather from which hung fresh water pearls, bright pebbles and small, carved wooden tokens. The rest of their hair and indeed the great part of their heads were covered by long shawls of muted greens and browns.

One hanging had been hung at the back of their stall with a great amount of care. It was bright ochre red with a device in black upon it. The device was a circle with five stylised arrows pointing out of it to form the image of a single star.

Something at the back of Baradui’s memory stirred, like a bear coming out of hibernation. She found herself squinting at the standard in disguise. Which tribe or clan was this? She must have heard of them before.

“Férinael!” one of the men greeted cheerfully as he caught sight of them both, sparing Baradui an appreciative glance. He had a tattoo rising from his chin in sinuous tendrils that were organic in shape; suggestive of plant life without directly depicting it. It continued down his neck, coiling in the dip between his collarbones which Baradui could just barely see given the modest cut of his tunic.

“Hello Iethrovan,” Férinael greeted cheerfully.

“And what can the Tribe of Five Arrows do for you today?” Iethrovan grinned widely. 

Whatever it was niggling at Baradui stirred again. She had definitely heard that name before, even if she could not place this tribe by their dress.

“You can hand over those embroidery samples you promised me of course,” Férinael prodded him authoritatively. A change had come upon her, her expressions were lively and her eyes gleamed. Iethrovan laughed and ducked into the shelving along the side of the stall.

“Oh! Hello Pethras!” Another Avari was sorting some tapestries and looked up at the greeting. He had a tattoo also, though a little less abstract. Baradui was fairly sure that the careful work between his eyebrows and then flowing up over his brow into his hairline had something to do with the moon and its phases.

“Férinael how are you?” he asked, glancing at Baradui for a moment, eyes widening before his gaze swept swiftly back to Férinael.

“Oh I am good. I don’t suppose Asgarthur is about?” Férinael asked so casually her intentions were painfully obvious. Baradui’s eyebrows slammed up. 

“Ah, no…” Pethras looked alarmed at the question, he hesitated then opened his mouth as if to say something more but the return of Iethrovan interrupted him.

“Found them!” The samples were handed over. They did not look impressive; the same dark material of the tunics Iethrovan and Pethras wore with the same embroidery. Férinael looked excited though. “I heard you inquire about Asgarthur as well,” Iethrovan added. “I am afraid our resident owl is sleeping. You will see him about though once the sun goes down.”

“Thank you,” Férinael blushed under his knowing look, tracing embroidery patterns with her nail until he laughed again and reached up to tug lightly on the red cord about her neck. “Still wearing this I see; truly this is a childish affection. If you want a proper good luck charm you should ask someone who actually makes them for a living.”

This was all said with a smile on Iethrovan’s face but Pethras’ face became so dark and hateful as he stared at the two that Baradui took a large step back from the stall with her heart rising up in her throat in fright. The other two did not see him but she did.

“Are you not a little old to be jabbing at your brother like that?” Férinael admonished Iethrovan teasingly, “I wear the bracelet you made me as well.”

“Ma’am are you interested in buying anything?” Pethras suddenly addressed Baradui, catching sight of her instinctive flight. Baradui’s skin crawled at how quickly he had adopted a smiling demeanour identical to Iethrovan’s.

“Oh no I am just accompanying Férinael,” she shook her head, keeping her distance from him.

“Oh? Are you a new seamstress at her workshop? A friend?” Pethras asked. It was a perfectly innocent inquiry but Baradui balked at the Avari knowing anything about her. Pethras smiled inquiringly at her and the words seemed to crawl up her throat and out of her mouth despite how she tried to swallow him; the syllables desperate to fill the silence that began to grow taunt between them.

“I am her roommate at the boarding house,” came the compelled words, “I am a healer.”

“Oh, you work up at the Healing House then? I have visited there twice. You are all very proficient in your art.”

“Thank you,” Baradui glanced at him, finding him fit and healthy looking though who knew how many years he had been coming to Tirion and what accidents he might have become involved in.

“I took Férinael and her sister to the House when they first arrived in Sirion because both were quite ill,” Pethras explained, “and then I once broke my leg and had to have it set.”

“Oh you knew Férinael and Eiriengíeth?” Baradui gave herself a mental pat on the back for getting Eiriengíeth’s name right on the first time.

“Yes. We travel from the East every other year to trade in Doriath and Sirion; we came upon them on the road, walking to Menegroth though we were not aware of why they were so determined to go there at the time. We took them there and when they found that there was nothing left for them, we took them with us to Sirion.”

Férinael glanced towards them, breaking up a conversation with Iethrovan about some common acquaintance they both knew. Pethras gave her a warm smile. “Just telling your friend how we met,” he explained quietly.

“Oh where are my manners? Baradui this is Pethras! Pethrs, this is Baradui and yes; I am not sure what we would have done. Likely starved to death or fallen prey to wolves before we reached Menegroth,” Férinael glanced at a hanging that was draped next to the large hanging at the back. It was woven with geometric designs in bright blue and white.

“Thank goodness for your father and his generosity… is that his weaving at the back?”

“What? The blue one? Yes it is,” Iethrovan gestured and drew Férinael’s attention away from them again. He seemed very eager to engage her attention. Baradui wondered if there was perhaps Iethrovan held a tendresse for Férinael. Pethras’ gaze upon the couple was stony though he was being careful not to let his expression drop as it had the last time. Perhaps more than tendresse. And Férinael had mentioned another with clear affection in her voice. Asgarthur was it not? What a vicious name.

“You look like a woman who might need a bag of some variety,” Pethras interrupted her thoughts about drama and just how quickly Férinael was moving on from her betrothed now that she had decided to end her grieving. Baradui glanced at him as he pulled out several woven bags, all of the side-slung variety she had pondered acquiring earlier.

Baradui sighed and calculated what she had left in her coin purse. 

“How much?”

-

“Do you have other plans for your break-day?” Férinael asked as they left the market-hall. Baradui’s new bag had acquired not just her parcel of cloth but a few fripperies. For all her worrying over money, she had not exactly spent a lot on herself for six years and there was still the small box of coins she had hidden away for emergencies.

“Just my usual ones,” Baradui smiled at her as Férinael glanced at the sun then exclaimed over the time. She squeezed Baradui’s hand.

“Thank you for visiting me, I hope I might see you tonight instead of being asleep when you stumble home,” she laughed as Baradui nodded with a blush. They parted ways, Férinael rushing back to her workshop whilst Baradui turned towards the centre of the city and began to walk.

It was earlier in the day than she usually paid this visit. Usually her half break-day began at lunch when she would partake in the House meal then disappear back into her workroom to give it a thorough cleaning. After that she might spend an hour catching up on any paperwork she was behind on. Finally then her break would begin and she would allow herself a hour to read in the light of her lamp. Reluctantly she would extinguish the lamp after an hour so that she would have extra oil for the next day and leave the House to make her way to the Eru-Home in the growing twilight.

The large wooden gate of the Eru-Home was painted blue and black, tile insets depicting long empty lines of music, representative of the song they knew not one note of. It was never locked, for no one had the right to deny any Eruhini from finding contemplation of His splendour or comfort from His love.

It opened under her touch without a sound, and she stepped into the courtyard. There were no acolytes or priests in sight but that did not matter. She needed no permission for where she was going. She did not enter the great Eru-Home with its magnificent coloured glass windows. She circled around it to the large field at the back of it. Here large pillars stood amongst lush grass, adorned with brightly coloured tiles. Each and every one of the tiles bore a name and a date, sometimes two

The bodies of the quendi returned to Eru’s great design with greater speed then their mortal brethren. Because of this it was not uncommon for bodies to be placed in internment houses, on the borders of the city, until within a matter of months they had turned to dust and earth. Then usually this matter was scattered to the winds and some sort of memorial was created.

The memorial garden of the Eru-Home of Sirion was colourful and bright; there was a cottage industry for the brilliant tiles that captured names and dates in careful tengwar then enlivened them with images of sea waves and dancing ships; bright birds and impossible flowers. 

Baradui settled herself on a bench and stared at the pillar that she had painstakingly paid for in her second year in Sirion. The names were embedded into her mind and she did not need to read them. The colours were soothing and pleased her; she was sure that those they commemorated would enjoy the colours she had picked for them as well: mainly spring imagery with oaks, stags and waterfalls joining together to form a mural down the left side of the lined up tiles.

In the first year of her life in Sirion Baradui had escaped to this garden often, during her lunch break;sometimes even skiving off working to come and sit in the garden until midnight bells roused her. She felt guilt about it now but she also realised that Sirion had been stupid to ask her work immediately (and she to accept), not with how fractured she had been.

This pillar had not been decorated then; it had been a bare cement construct waiting for someone to pay for use of its surface. She would stare at its barren planes for hours and babble to herself, reliving the days after the kinslaying inside her head. Usually a priest would eventually notice her and come sit with her then; holding her hand though she’d never acknowledged their attempts to counsel her. 

Their faces blurred together, she could not remember the distinct appearance of one of the many men and women who had sat with her and listened to her rambling recounting of how the dark had come over her march-wardens and her.

How the distant smell of burning meat told them that there was nothing but death waiting for them if they tried to go to Menegroth and so they had turned towards smaller settlements.

How each of those settlements had been completely empty of life.

How they had walked and walked and finally come to the decision to abandon Doriath entirely and try to get to Sirion.

The darkness came chasing after their heels though they had not realised it at first. They had travelled and one by one they had begun to disappear. During the night at first but then whenever one of them separated from the main group. 

The girdle had been broken and now the march-wardens were scattered. Morgoth’s followers seized the chance whole heartedly to wreck a little pent up frustration on the sheltered realm.

Her march-wardens had banded tighter together but it did no good. Slowly they began to dwindle and soon it was not just the hand of the dark one but their own hands that thinned their numbers down. Baradui had, had no cure for wrung-necks bruising from well strung ropes, and had not been able to stop the raiding of her pack for the poisons she kept down at the very bottom.

The last days had been spent the merciless grip of fear. There had been five of them, then four, then three. They ran and ran through the night and through the day but still they were pursued.

There were three, then there were two and finally there was just Baradui sprinting for her life and knowing she would never make it. She could hear them behind her for they did not bother to hide themselves anymore. They had such heavy footsteps and they would laugh when she stumbled.

On she ran, knowing she would never make it to safety; never find light again until abruptly she had. 

She had run straight into the city-border patrol’s campsite; actually literally running into their fire before she could slow her momentum, feet flying across the coals so fast she did not burn herself. Her pursuers had come after her and met their end as pincushions for Teleri arrows.

She had been a gasping, sobbing wreck of a creature, soiled by terror and death. She wondered how the Teleri had known her from the yrch pursuing her.

A warm hand was holding hers. Baradui jerked a little, coming out of dark memories with a slight gasp. She glanced at the priest who had silently taken a seat beside her unnoticed, and who taken her hand in his. He had callouses and a warm smile as she blinked like a sleeper come awake.

“Ah…thank you sir,” she shook her head in alarm, dismayed that she fallen prey to the mental trap of remembering. 

“Be well Sister,” she no longer needed a priest’s hand on hers to stop the feeling that she could step outside her body to join her march-wardens, where she had once imagined them, watching her from the corners of the garden. It was still nice though to feel warm skin on hers. 

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Do ghosts exist?” Baradui thought of Iavel’s dark words in the morning, and of how she had once seen her captain beckoning her from the deep shadows behind the wisteria trees crawling up the garden wall before her.

“There are many kinds of ghosts Sister. The ghosts of the mind created out of guilt and grief. There are also the Houseless, those who have chosen not to go West for reasons best not known and who linger.”

“What are they supposed to be like?” Baradui asked.

“They are cold creatures who long only to live again and thus be warmed once more. They will try and take advantage of the living to necessitate this. The Avari have a great many stories about the Houseless.”

Suddenly the priest gave a contemplative sigh. 

“There are some who believe that in death we are given two options. We may go West to the Halls of Mandos or we may go East and return to the earth-womb that birthed us. Those that ascribe to this belief believe that those who are Houseless either do not wish to go West but do not know they can go East or have refused both options because they have business that they must complete in the realm of the living.”

“I had never heard of that belief… the one about the East I mean.”

“You were a healer amongst the march-wardens were you not Sister? I see you wear Melian’s badge.”

“Yes I was sir,” Baradui cautiously agreed, unsure of what he was getting at.

“Did you ever hear your march-wardens ask one another whether they would “go east or west?””

Baradui thought. “Yes I did,” she said after a moment, eyes widening, “often.”

“They would have ascribed to that belief then; that they could go either to Aman or to Cuiviénen if they died. It permeates far more of our culture then the Orthodox would like,” the priest was of clear Sindar stock and spoke with experience colouring his voice but no judgement. 

“My family was Orthodox and then I did not have time for religious learning when I was studying. I believe I have just had my eyes opened,” Baradui looked at the pillar of her march-wardens with fresh eyes.

“The race of Men have an expression that ‘one learns something new, every day that they live.’ I shall leave you to your contemplations Sister,” The priest murmured a blessing over her and touched her forehead. She accepted the gesture without protest and watched him leave in a swirl of indigo cloth. She stared at the pillar and reached out to wipe imaginary smudges off the bright ceramic.

-

It was only just blushing twilight when Baradui returned to the boarding-house, a new occurrence for her, just like waking when the sun was up. There was a communal pot of peas-porridge that her rent technically covered. She helped herself to a large bowl without guilt and ate it before the fire.

Lithwaloth had warned her that the brew he made her would not make her drowsy but that she would feel its side-effects towards the end of the day. She felt them now. Her head was beginning to feel like she had a few rocks packed inside.

Yawning she made her way into her room where Férinael was sitting on her bed, reading a book of some variety. There was the large stamp of the municipal-library on its cover.

A hideous screeching and yowling suddenly started up beneath their window. Baradui jerked in surprise and stumbled away from the alarming racket.

“Elbereth preserve us,” Férinael grumbled angrily, “those damn cats again. I am sorry Baradui, you are not usually home to know about this. The local cats seem to enjoy battling beneath our window at sunset. It has been happening for about a week. I think there must be a queen in heat about.”

“Really?” Baradui asked in alarm.

“Aye and pouring water out the window does no good either.” 

The cats continued to fight for a good five minutes before they wore themselves out or one was victorious. The sudden drop in noise was as startling as the start of it. Baradui resisted going to the window to see if she could espy the fleeing felines and undressed instead.

“Tired?” Férinael lit the lamp in their room and began to copy Baradui’s actions, making the healer feel twice as self-conscious as she already suffered when Férinael was awake and Baradui was dressing.

“Exhausted. I am not used to walking about. All that sitting in the House all day.” Her bed seemed to embrace her as she slid between the sheets and rest her head on the pillow. Oh yes the after-effects of the brew was certainly setting up shop now.

Her eyelids grew heavy and her breathing was evening out whilst she was still aware. Férinael’s reply became a mumbled noise as the ocean roar of reverie sucked her under.

-

The recollection swept through her reverie suddenly, taking her from a gentle drifting between half conversations to bodily standing within a childhood memory.

Her hands seemed impossibly small though she was not all that young; 35, her body rebellious and all limbs. Her hands moved before her eyes as she turned the page of the grand book before her. Only five years into her studies and spending her break-day in her mentor’s parlour, tucked up with one of the books he had written.

“Anything with bones!” she begged Nirthon who raised an elegant, pale eyebrow at her before presenting her with “Observations of bone spurs and other excessive bone growth in the Yrch of the Greater Doriath Region.”

Payment for being allowed to read the book was a specific set of instructions in dealing with any visitors that came into the parlour.

The subject was fascinating and she was so engrossed in the material she did not hear the opening of the door out into the public hallway. She only noticed an extra presence in the room when footsteps passed by her spot and paused. She was curled up on a settee, the book balanced on her lap and she had to crane her neck to peek over the edge of it. There was a man was staring at her as if she were one of the oddities Teacher Aewagar liked to present at the start of each of his classes. He had a tenseness about his eyes and a frown on his lips; the burden of worry upon his stiff shoulders.

His hair was the dead-straight, pure-white hair she associated with Teacher Nirthon’s House, but with liberal streaks of old gold interrupting the pristine pallor of it. One eye was dark green like Teacher Nirthon’s but the other, like his hair, seemed to have been stained and was a vivid gold. Not the light brown that some people might call gold, but a genuine gold which focused with a raptor’s intensity on her.

“Can I help you Sir… Lord… Sir?” she warbled nervously.

“Is Nirthon within?” the man asked her.

“He is in his study sir,” she pointed nervously at the door, “if you are visiting him socially.”

“And if my visit is not social?” the probably lord asked her with an indulgent smile.

“If you’re here on business then it is his break-day and Healer Galdineth is overseeing the ach sad today. If you are his family, he says to s…s…s…s…s…” her voice trailed off as his smile became amused.

“Go on,” he gently encouraged her.

“Sod off Sir…Lord…Sir…” She shrunk down so that the book hid her whilst he laughed, a loud peeling sound like a great bell had been struck.

The door of Nirthon’s study clicked open and she peeked over the book to see her mentor eye the visitor with something between a sneer and a welcoming smile on his face.

“Ah Celebengion. Given the rumours I have been hearing I wondered if I might see you.” 

The amused smile on the visitor’s face dropped like a stone into a pond and the burden of worry returned. He swept into Nirthon’s study without a word and the door clicked shut. The catch must have been faulty however, for it clicked back open a moment later, allowing a small gap to open between door frame and door.

“Ah but before you ask me anything, how is your father? I have not seen Celebeng since we last tried to heal the breach between our families and he called my mother a pox riddled, grasping whore.”

Baradui found the book before her far more engaging then the discussion of family troubles. Others might have found the dealings of the House of the White Snake fascinating. Sadly Baradui’s great-grandfather headed the House of the Verdant Cloud and it was all the same to her, save with a touch more swearing and poison. She returned to her reading, riveted by a generous depiction of an yrch’s head, both with the skin on and with the skin removed to show how its apparent horns had grown out of its skull.

It was hard enough to judge time when engrossed in reading; being in reverie made it even worse and she jerked, not knowing if it had been hours or seconds, when Nirthon’s voice rose enough to be heard through the crack in the door.

“Five Arrows?! I wash my hands of this then!”

She brought her head up, alarmed to hear real fear in Nirthon’s voice.

“Please you must help! No one will talk of them or even hint as to what Annestel has become involved in. Your reaction is more than I have received from any else!” 

“They are sorcerers and sages of the worst variety! They sold themselves to the Dark One for survival in the lands they once called home and HE taught them unnatural ways! Dire-Witches, Necromancers, and Death-Brokers the lot of them!” Nirthon snapped. 

“They might have come crawling to Elu King, hands on hearts that they had escaped Morgoth but for all Elu’s forgiveness they still practice what their former master taught them. What are they doing this far west as well?! They are supposed to have removed themselves over the Misted Chain into the Green Woods there.”

“I do not know,” Celebengions voice was despairing, “all I know is that Annestel has been dealing with a man of the Five Arrows on my behalf, and since then… he is so drawn and pale, flighty and given to shaking at the slightest sudden sound.”

“You should have left poor Annestel alone. Bad enough you hid your betrothal from him till the last moment. But then to come crying to him when you found your wife sterile, expecting … no demanding the continuance of his love for you…”Nirthon’s voice was so full of censure that Baradui’s skin shrank tight though it was not directed at her.

“Oh I am well aware of how you ‘comforted’ Annestel,” Celebengion’s voice was laced with jealousy and fury, “but I did not come here to take issue with that. I came here because I worry for him and so should you if you shared even an ounce of my regard for him!”

“Why,” Nirthon’s voice suddenly became weary, “why is Annestel dealing with this man of Five Arrows for you? And do not feed me that lie again about possible trading opportunities. Annestel is a gold-smith and has nothing to do with the merchant branch of your family.”

“He said he could find a way for a son to be born to me without causing a scandal,” there was a silence.

“All I can advise you to do is kidnap Annestel, take him West and sail as soon as you reach the water. Even then you might not be safe,” there was the sound of robes rustling as Nirthon stood and began to pace. 

“But if Annestel has already brokered the deal then I am afraid you can do nothing. The price will have already been paid and it is now upon your head, what happens next. There are a great many married couples with no children and given how you treat those you profess to love – ”

“I love Annestel!” Celebengion’s voice was passionate, “I have always loved him but he could give me no children and there was nothing I wished for more than to be a father! My son when he is born will be loved and want for nothing. Annestel as well… I owe him that much.”

“Yes you do,” Nirthon came to the door of his parlour and opened it, showing Celebengion out of his quarters.

“I will spend my life repenting for how I treated him,” Celebengion promised with sincerely as he came to the door and turned to look at Nirthon.

“Annestel is far too forgiving of your worthless hide, I doubt you will have to repent for that long. But know this, if I find that you treat your son with the same callous disregard that Annestel suffered then I will use every ounce of my power to remove him from your custody. Your family may have been removed from the register of the House of the White Snake but a word in the right ear can add you all again.” Nirthon sneered. 

“Now go. I am sorry I could not help you at all.”

“I am just glad to have a reason for why I was turned away when I tried to find out whom he was talking to. I will go to him immediately and see if he has already…” Celebengion’s voice trailed off, uncertain of how to define what his lover was doing.

“Go, though I fear the chance to intervene had been lost,” Nirthon shooed him from the room, sighing deeply as he closed the door. Then he turned and caught sight of Baradui who was studiously staring at the book before her without reading a single certh.

“Apprentice Baradui,” the formality of his voice made her head reluctantly lift, “how much did you hear?”

“Your uh… kinsman had a male lover whom he left to get married. His wife turned out to be sterile. His lover is now trying to find a way for your kinsman to have a son without causing a scandal,” Baradui summarised, blushing to the roots of her hair. 

“Possibly with black magic,” she added when he raised his eyebrow at her.

“Which is something you must never share with anyone else,” Nirthon said firmly, coming to take a seat beside her. She glanced up at him; he was staring at her with his pine forest green eyes solemn and his generous lips turned down in a frown.

“I promise.”

“Promise me properly.”

“I swear unto The All Father and his Powers that I will not tell.”

“Good.” Nirthon looked exhausted and as worried as Celebengion had looked when he had arrived.

“Your kinsman had a gold eye…” Baradui tentatively mentioned.

“Hmmm? Oh! It is light brown,” Nirthon denied.

“No it is not,” Baradui objected indignantly, “I saw for myself. It is gold!”

Nirthon pinched the bridge of his nose. “If someone asks you for your opinion upon it, you will tell them it is light brown. Do you understand me?”

Baradui set her jaw stubbornly, “tell me why.”

“When you are older,” Baradui made a frustrated noise. Her parents used that excuse to avoid ever telling her things.

“I swear unto the All Father and his Powers that I will tell you when you are old enough to hear such truths,” Nirthon sighed.

Baradui nodded victoriously, “I swear upon the same that I will always state that your kinsman’s eye is light brown.”

“Good girl.”

“Teacher?”

“Yes?”

“I hope that everything will be alright…for your kinsman I mean.”

“So do I Baradui, if only for the sake of Annestel and the future Oropherion,” Nirthon’s gaze was pensive. “Promise me that if you hear of a tribe known as Five Arrows that you will stay clear of them.”

“I promise Teacher,” they had sounded nasty. She did not want to go anywhere near people who had served the Dark One.

The recollection faded conveniently at that point and she drifted back into half remembering every day occurrences for the rest of her reverie. She finally awoke at an early hour feeling anxious and flighty. Her eyes were drawn to Férinael’s neck but for once she did not find herself admiring the brilliant red of the cord. Instead a cold hard shudder ran through her and she longed to rip the charm away and throw it in the fire.

She had never heard another mention of Five Arrows after that and after the initial excitement they had been relegated to the back of her mind. More than the back really. They had totally disappeared from sight, lost behind the action and the now of Baradui’s life.

HE taught them unnatural ways

There came a rattling at their window. Baradui lay still and calmed her breathing which had hitched at the noise.

Again the window rattled, determinedly and unceasingly till at last she heard their cheap little catch give way under the vibrations. It was a struggle not to scream, really it was. She felt trapped in her bed as if her limbs had turned totally to stone.

The smell of flowers filled the room at first though she could not pin point which floral scent it was. Upon their dresser beneath the window a hand came down the brace the body sliding through the portal. It was a lovely hand, delicately boned and sure of itself as it felt for the edge of the dresser to pull the body forwards. Its fingers flexed and the skin across the knuckles ripped, white bone shoving through the bloodless wounds.

The rest of the body suddenly slid forwards and landed on their floor in a crumple of twisted limbs. The tattered remains of some sort of dress pooled on the ground and the head was obscured by a shawl of some coloured cloth (perhaps lavender?) Slowly it propped itself up and slithered towards Férinael, levering up onto the seamstresses’ bed and perching upon her chest. Férinael moaned in her sleep but did not wake despite the horror, even when it stroked her face with loving hands.

Baradui smelled rot now, saw the maggots winding their way through the pale skin of a bared neck.

Whatever held Baradui in its paralysing grip released her then and she screamed.

A head swung towards her; Férinael’s face! But no it could not be for the Seamstress still lay on the bed beneath the monster! Hair was slowly falling off a desiccated scalp and the jaw hung loose under bloated cheeks and white sheened eyes. Still beneath that she could see the same bone structure, the ruined remains of Férinael’s face.

There was a kerfuffle out in the common room and the sound of feet running. The door was thrown open, allowing briefly the light of a dying fire to enter before a mass of bodies blocked the light again.

“AI! WHAT IS IT?”

“AN INTRUDER!”

“WHAT IS THAT?!”

A cacophony of female voices filled the air. 

The thing suddenly leapt with far more speed than it had shown entering the room, shoving through the small window. There was a thump and the sound of something moving in the garden.

“He’s down below! GO GET HIM!” 

“Somebody go and summon a night watchman!”

More running.

“Baradui! Baradui! Are you alright? You can stop screaming! The intruder is gone!”

Baradui realised she had not stopped screaming and silenced herself. Over the room Férinael was stirring, groggy and terrorised. Her movements dislodged the red cord about her neck and let the little pouch hanging from it come into view. It was made of the same vermillion silk as its cord save the embroidery across it of a white peony in full bloom.

Dire-Witches, Necromancers, and Death-Brokers the lot of them!

---

Chapter End Notes

ach sad:

ach taken from http://www.realelvish.net/reconstructed_sindarin.php as the reconstructed word for bone

sad taken from hisweloke as n. limited area naturally or artificially defined, a place, spot 

so bone-area which I thought would do for orthopaedic department :D