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

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The peony, low but not without its silver spoon.

Chapter title by Taigi (d. 1771)

Unbeta'd for now.

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“And the intruder then slid in through your window?”

“Yes,” Baradui croaked and huddled more under her blanket, wishing she could have some of Lithwaloth’s nerve soother right at that moment. The night-watchman had asked her that question three times now, making her go through what she had seen over and over again.

She was wilting where she sat, sandwiched within a protective line up of the women who resided here.

So far she had not told them of the true horror of what she had seen, editing her account to be of a shambling, shadowed creature she could not properly make the features out of. There were plenty of holes in this, she was well aware of all of them; the first being that with elf-keen eyesight, the amount of light in the room should have been plenty.

She had no wish to be thought mad at best or tossed into the enclosed walls of the hospice for those so mentally deranged they had to be locked away from society, at worst. She had experienced a near brush with such an incarceration in her first year of Sirion. The experience had left her terrified.

The watchman seemed to have guessed she was holding back though and kept making her go through the scenario with a fixed, understanding smile on his face.

“That is quite enough is it not?” the owner of the boarding-house interjected sharply as the watch-man looked to ask her why she had woken up (he had asked this every time after asking her how the intruder had entered.)

“Your questioning has become harassment; Baradui is a fine girl, she pays her rent early and works tirelessly as a healer, she is not lying to you sir watch-man. She does not have a dishonest bone in her body. Look at her! She is exhausted and terrified and you are making her say the same thing over and over and over again!”

“Just routine ma’am,” the watch-man eyed the owner with some trepidation. She was a tiny slip of a woman but she had a voice like a brass horn, when she decided to use it, and a scowl like a punch to the face.

“You have repeated your routine three times and it is tiresome and causing my boarders anxiety. If you have nothing new to ask then get thee hence and do not return until you have information or better yet, have brought this intruder to justice.” The owner’s little chest swelled.  Looking at her the first impression that a casual observer got was she should have had a much larger body, possibly rotund though their kind could not attain such a shape. Certainly she should have been born into a body with a much larger bosom to swell impressively when she took her decisive breaths inwards.

“Yes alright. Just to check your details ma’am,” the watch-man gave up what would be a lost battle anyway and turned back to Baradui, “you are Tuiweril Merilthuiwiel. You are 64 years old. You are a journeyman healer by profession and you work exclusively at the House of Healing located on the junction of Tern and Kingfisher?”

“Yes that is me,” Baradui agreed tiredly.

“And just to be certain, you will continue to reside here or will yo-“

“We will be replacing the catch on her window, free of charge,” the owner interrupted, sensing a possible loss of a reliable and respectable tenant.

“I will be staying here,” Baradui agreed to the unspoken offer in the owner’s voice.

“I will be back then Healer Merilthuiwiel. Please take care of yourself. “ The watch-man turned and gestured to his fellow who had been questioning Férinael (in a far nicer fashion) and after a few minutes the common room was completely devoid of the presence of military power.

“Well then girls, it is almost dawn, perhaps you had better go back to bed whilst you can. Glassíliel? Merilthuiwiel? We can make up beds out here if you require it?” well almost devoid of military power. Certainly the owner house could have been a general with her deep brassy voice.

“No thank you,” Baradui yawned till her jaw cracked alarmingly, “I should probably go and dress. I have work this morning.”

It was harder than usual to get dressed and leave the boarding house. She was escorted part of the way by another boarder given the shared group consensus that the intruder might still be lingering.

“Of course it is Férinael that I am truly sorry for, you seem to be holding up fairly well but she is in a complete mess,” Meduivereth (call me Medueth!) commented, strolling along like it wasn’t the arse-crack of dawn and she was wearing her nightgown under her dress instead of a shift.

Férinael had gone chalk white the moment she had awoken and discovered what had happened. She had not regained that colour either, instead she had started trembling in shock and her eyes had rolled in full terror. She had been laid down in the common room until she had a better control of her nerves but she had still been a shaking mess when Baradui had left, barely managing to wave goodbye.

“Yes,” Baradui agreed quietly with Medueth’s assessment.

“After everything that has happened to her. Losing her sister and then her suitor and his brother disappearing… though if you ask me,” Medueth looked around for anybody who might overhear her, “I feel sorry over the sister but not the suitor, the shifty bastard.”

“Oh?” Baradui made motions with her hand for Medueth to carry on. With that guilty but pleased look of gossips everywhere, Medueth did so.

“I did not like the look of him from the first time I met him. He was far too callous with Férinael’s feelings and whenever Eiriengíeth was in the room; ah you had to feel so sorry for her the way he did not bother to hide his lust.”

Medueth shook her head in disgust, “but then of course the bastard had to go and show that he was a good heart underneath all that. Joined the night-watch in a good wage so he could care for both of the girls. Paid their rent for them so that Férinael and Eiriengíeth could save up to buy their own work-shop. Still I just could not feel comfortable in their presence. Bad business both he and his brother, thick and thieves and constantly making you feel like you’d been dipped in slime just by being in their presence.”

She heaved a sigh, “Eiriengíeth, on the other hand, was a true sweet-heart. Cheerful, happy and always willing to help someone. She seemed to good a person to be true and together with her beauty it could make you feel obsolete as a woman.”

Baradui chewed this over. Medueth glanced over at her and abruptly nudged her in a friendly but firm way. In Baradui’s ponderous sate this almost sent her stumbling into a gutter.

“And you are only 64? I thought you were MUCH older! You are so serious all the time! I thought you had seen an Age at the very least.”

“O..oh,” Baradui was taken aback. She was not that dour was she?

“Ah well, here is where I turn back. You make sure you take good care of yourself. I think Thirthil is going to try and be here this evening when you finish.”

“If you see Tirthil you can tell her that I will be alright. I finish very late at night; later than most night shifts.” Baradui clasped Medueth’s hand, “thank you for walking with me.”

“Ah well, it is not a problem to me. I was not going to be able to sleep after the excitement.”

Baradui left Medueth at the rise of the hill that lead to the House. Her footsteps slowed as she reached the House. The windows were all dark and closed, the curtains closed over most. There was not a single sign of life within. Dread rising she tried the door and found it locked.

She was so early that the House had not been opened by the official first day-patrol.

All the nervous energy in her limbs seemed to desert her and she sat down hard on the doorstep. It would not be long before the patrol came past to unlock the house, given the angle of the sunlight barely staining the sky.

Dawn was just a breath away, usually she would be rising at this moment and preparing to flee towards the House in fear of being late. It was actually nice to be able to arrive early and sit here, enjoying the encroaching morning’s artistry.

No it wasn’t. It was dark and silent in this part of the town, and every time a bush rustled or she heard the slightest sound her muscles went tight and her heart rate accelerated.

At least it was cold… colder than the day usually was.

She debated getting up and walking to Lithwaloth’s wains to see if he was possibly awake and so too, Iavel. The likely hood of this was quite small though. She also had a feeling that turning up at the crack of dawn to interrogate his daughter about ghosts would not endear her to the master-healer.

She stared at the low hedge of green peony bushes before the House, the bulbs larger than the last time she had bothered to notice them. There was definite white pushing through and the lacy edges of petals were beginning to reveal themselves.

“Those descendants of the Minya who made the Great Migration have their own word for peonies you know. It translates roughly as ‘poetry-flowers’,” a voice said.

Baradui shrieked and threw the doorstop (a large rock left out on the front doorstep at night) in the direction of the voice.

Pethras merely inclined his head to the side, the doorstop sailing past his head without even ruffling his shawl. “The Vanyar especially prized white and yellow peonies and grew them in great numbers. Well I use the past tense but they probably still do.”

Baradui wheezed in a breath and then another, finding that her chest had tightened up in fear. Her skin shuddered and began to writhe against her muscles in discomfort. How had she not heard the Avari approaching her? Why had she not noticed him? Why was he here?

“The Noldor also have a specific word for peonies,” Pethras continued, unworried that she had just tried to brain him via rock, “Though it is specifically meant for white and yellow peonies. It translates as ‘infidelity-flower.’”

“I di-did not see you,” Baradui wheezed, forcing air in and out of her lungs even though it felt like there was an iron band around her chest squeezing her ribs shut.

“You were very deep in contemplation of the peony bushes, I thought it might be best to break the silence talking about them,” Pethras glanced over his shoulder at where the doorstop had landed on the street and split in half.

A simple good morning could not have sufficed? Baradui swallowed roughly, finding her throat sore both from the constriction in it and from her earlier screaming.

“Sorry about the rock,” she gathered her pride around her and sat up straighter, ears burning as her blush made an appearance right on cue, “you surprised me.”

“Yes I could tell that,” Pethras reached out and caressed a peony bud which bloomed before both his and Baradui’s eyes. Baradui shouted in alarm, not just because of this blatant act of power but because she had noticed that each one of Pethras’ fingers had been tattooed black right down to the last knuckle. Some space had been left untouched to form twisting tengwa or perhaps cerith. Her eyes could not focus on them properly to see which. Every time she tried to stare her eyes began to water and it was like trying to read through a heat haze.

“It is rude to stare,” Pethras admonished her.

She dropped her eyes then raised them again angrily, the heat of her flush burning away the chill of the morning air against her face.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded rudely.

“I am here to see a healer of course,” Pethras took off the strips of cloth he had wrapped around his palms and held up his hands. She winced, seeing large, deep scratches all over the pale skin of his palms. They were deep, ugly things and looked as though they might need a few stitches.

“Of course,” she agreed with just a little sarcasm, “but I am afraid the House is still locked. Surely you know the working hours of it, having visited before.”

“Of course,” Pethras agreed, taking up her exact tone, “but I want to be first in the waiting hall so I see a healer as soon as possible, Iethrovan is away today and I am the only one who can manage the stall.”

“What about your other fellows? What about that Asgarthur I heard Férinael mention?”

Pethras’ face contorted darkly for a moment, “Asgarthur…” he paused, mouth working silently before he shut his mouth hard enough for the teeth to clink together. “Asgarthur,” he tried again after a moment that seemed far too long for Baradui, “Is sleeping. He is usually up all night and sleeps from dawn until just before dusk.”

“That seems very unhealthy,” Baradui commented.

“It is normal for Asgarthur,” Pethras dismissed but his face twisted in distaste as though Asgarthur’s name left a bad taste in his mouth. He moved forwards and Baradui instinctively moved away until the small of her back pressed against the step behind her.

“I get the feeling Madam Healer that you do not like me,” Pethras commented. He paused, standing above her and his shadow was the darkest of all the early morning shadows. Then he sat beside her without another word. The scent of him enveloped her: earth, clear spring water and ancient forests.

Baradui lifted her chin up in defiance and wished for a dagger or a scalpel close at hand. “I know who the Five Arrows are.”

Time crawled treacly as Pethras narrowed his eyes at her, the thick rill of his silver lashes nearly eclipsing the bright blue. “Oh,” he said in tightly measured tones, “I did not pick you to be one who believes in casual lies and rumours Madam Healer.”

“I heard what I know of your tribe from my mentor who would never lie. He was far too smart a man to believe rumour or unsubstantiated whispers.”

“And who is this paragon of wisdom and sensibleness?” Pathras asked and she got the distinct feeling she was being mocked.

“Nirthon Sigilion,” she answered proudly but his face did not even twitch, remaining mildly unimpressed. “The last Prince of the House of the White Snake,” she added, legs twitching uncontrollably under her; aborted attempts to leap up and run away.

“Ah,” Pethras’ expression changed and his eyes ceased to narrow. He looked thoughtfully at her now, like she had suddenly gained a value that she had not had before. Baradui abruptly wished she had not opened her mouth. Words though, have a way of escaping and nervousness is the great unlocker of reticent tongues alongside alcohol.

“And I knew a man who dealt with your tribe,” she stepped out onto the fragile ice of semi-lies and deception, “Annestel the goldsmith.”

“Ah Annestel,” Pethras signed abruptly and his voice was laced with a longing that had her skin prickling with a different sort of unease, an interested twinge zinging through her blood in spite of her unease. There was only so much lust one could pack into a word, but Pethras did his best to exceed that.

“But we were so good to Annestel and he got a far better deal out of us then he should have,” Pethras arched an eyebrow, “so why so chill and angry?”

“Because my mento-“ perhaps she should not say anything more. She was only putting herself into a highly uncomfortable and dangerous feeling situation.

“…Nevermi-” Baradui’s words dried up on her tongue as Pethras turned his head and stared directly into her eyes.

They were incredibly blue. Like the concentrated pigment a painter turns into paint. Yes indeed she had never seen such blue eyes…

“You were going to tell me what your mentor said,” Pethras coaxed and his voice seemed to come from a distance and had a golden sweetness like honey. It was such a nice voice, her unease and discomfort fled before it.

And his eyes were so blue…

“Dire-Witches, Necromancers and Death-Brokers the lot of them,” Baradui mumbled willingly and unknown to her, her voice took on a timbre and depth that it should not have been able to; the voice of Nirthon Sigilion gliding out of her mouth like it belonged there.

“Are you two alright?” a voice interrupted their conversation. Baradui blinked, finding her eyes were sore and dry like she had not blinked in a while.

“Yes we are both waiting for the House to be opened, she is a healer and I am unfortunately in need of a healer’s services,” Pethras replied pleasantly. Beside him Baradui was getting her head back. It was swimming like she had imbibed a shot of strong spirits. The past few minutes were an incomprehensible blur but no matter, it was probably just the tiredness and lingering shock from last night’s fright jumbling her head.

One of the day-watchmen was standing in front of them, fumbling for a set of keys on his belt with a embarrassed expression on his face.

“I hope you have not been waiting too long,” he pushed past them to unlock the door and bobbed his head nervously.

Your mentor was correct.

“Not at all, thank you for all your hard work in this city,” Pethras pressed a hand into the small of Baradui’s back and ushered her into the House. Mechanically she lit the candle laid out from the night before, for the morning, using it to light the lamps in the waiting hall as Pethras exchanged idle pleasantries with the day-watchman and then with the first arrivals at the House. Two healers bustled in and then the woman who ran the Waiting-Hall when Lagorwen did not. She took over the lantern lighting and shooed Baradui off to her room.

But it is not the usual talents of those you mentioned that are the danger here. No, the danger here is a rare condition that can develop from the use of those powers.

Baradui walked down the long hallway with the tread of her feet sounding far too loud. She clutched the candle she had taken like it was a life line, manoeuvring through the still night-dark hallways where no windows could let in the light of day. Up the staircase she went to the second floor. She reached for her keys, unlocked her room and sat down behind her desk.

Hunger.

Abruptly she began to shake. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

“Oh dear Madam Healer, you seem unwell,” Pethras followed her into her room with cat-silent feet and a smile that was so innocent Eru himself would be fooled.

“I am well.”

Her head hurt. She rose and lit the burner that would boil water for her, intending to make some willow tea.

Hunger for the uniqueness that some faer develop over the course of an interesting life lived.

“I believe you wanted your hands looked at?” she found herself asking distractedly. The wounds had not looked infected but she could not risk it. She picked up a new salve that had been distributed just a few days prior, Lithwaloth’s stamp set in the ceramic lid. She wondered how he had, had personalised containers made for him so swiftly then dismissed the thought.

It was both an anaesthetic and an analgesic, suitable for minor to medium flesh wounds. She rolled up her sleeves, poured herself a mug of hot water and dumped a spoonful of willowbark tea into it. Then she spooned a descent quantity of the bitter powder which would make her an astringent wash into the remaining hot water and selected a freshly washed cloth from the pile upon her desk. 

She brought the pot of water over and dipped the cloth in. Pethras silently presented his hands to her and she began to very gently clean the wounds. He hissed a few times but that was par the course, the astringent had a quality to it that made one aware of the smallest papercut on their hands if doused in it.

Once she had cleaned the hands to her satisfaction she poured the soiled water out of the window and tossed the cloth into her laundry basket. She reached for the pot next and cracked the wax sealing on it.

A small part of her mind rebelliously muttered that she should not be wasting such precious material on a servant of the dark but it was shushed swiftly.

Such a stubborn mind. It goes well with your fae. Now listen carefully. I cannot say much for I am bound to silence. Be wary of Asgarthur.

She had no proof at all now did she? How unfair and bigoted of her.

She dipped a clean blush into the salve and applied it to the largest wounds. Then out came the needle and thread to stitch shut the largest wounds. Just a few over each.

“I did not know that the House used the services of an Herb-Witch,” Pethras commented lightly.

Confused and aggrieved at this slander, Baradui bristled. “We do not,” she replied sharply. Pethras looked her in the eyes and abruptly her head prickled and her mind felt like it was being squeezed.

So blue…

“Master Healer Lithwaloth created this salve,” she added unbidden.  Not a threat at all, she thought with relief.

She applied more salve with a tuneless hum coming to mind. Her work was swift this morning, possibly the fastest she had cared for such injuries and all whilst maintaining a good standard of neatness. Satisfaction washed through her; good, now she would be able to return to the stall in good time.

Baradui took a roll of bandages and her cutting sheers from their drawer and set about covering up Pethras’ hands, paying attention to wrapping the material so he would have as much dexterity as possible.

“How did you receive such injuries?” she wondered, securing the cloth.

“Iethrovan had a temper-fit and threw something precious of mine into a bramble patch,” Pethreas sighed.

Keep your eye upon Férinael. If she begins to act strangely, come to me.

Baradui clicked her tongue in disapproval. “I am done, do not strain your hands and no more bramble climbing.”

“Thank you Healer Baradui, you do not know how pained my hands have been,” Pethras rose and dropped a few coins into her box with a smile. To the door he went and as he opened it Pethras turned back to say something more. His eyes caught hers.

Baradui drowned in blue.

A bird chirped in the tree near her window.

Sunlight was slowly sliding over the windowsill, as reluctant as she to be up so early in the morning.

Baradui paused in the middle of doing something important. She found that there was a strong herbal scent in the air that did not quite gel with the usual scent of her rooms. She glanced down and found she was holding a brush loaded with the new salve Lithwaloth had created for the House.

Now why…?

Her free hand pulsed with pain. She bit her lip and glanced down, alarmed to find a cut running across the side of her palm. Now where had that come from?!

Her eyes flicked about the room and she saw the shears she cut bandages with lying on her desk, an incriminating sheen of red upon the left blade.

Oh yes that was right. She had cut her had on the shears. She had not noticed them on her desk and had put her hand down, cutting herself in the process. Her mind must have stalled. Not surprising given the night she had, had and her general tiredness. She inspected the cut and found it needed not stitches. She applied a layer of salve, sighing at the relief of the anaesthetic quality of it as it sank into her skin.

Applying a bandage she cleaned up the mess that she had created.

That would teach her to forget to put her shears away with her bandages like she usually did!

-

“How is the fish cooked today?” Baradui asked as she joined the milling line into the small dining room at the back of the house.

“Fried I think,” Healer Sedilhul raised his thick eyebrows enough to see out from under them, glancing at Baradui when she lightly nudged his shoulder to get his attention, “it certainly smells like it.”

Baradui smiled, “oh good.”

“Oh good? A fan of fried foods are you? They are bad for you in large quantities you know.”

“Prove it.”

Sedilul touched his gold fibula meditatively, “If I had no decided I wanted ten more years out in the wilds before I locked myself up in the Great House again I might have the treatise and the mithril that would be all the proof required.”

“Aye but you would also most likely be dead,” Healer Brécherves pointed out, a few places in front of them in the line and evesdropping without shame. There was a rumbled agreement down the line. Sedilul nodded at this wisdom, not irritated.

“Ah but to calm your concerns I am going out of the House for my lunch break and it is easiest to eat fried fish when walking,” Baradui reassured him, grinning as someone near the front of the line told an off colour joke involving birthing forceps.

The fish was unseasoned but tasty enough. She ate it in quick bites as she walked towards Lithwaloth’s wains.

She found that a section of the lot had been sections off with modesty screens of the like found in Férinael’s workshops or in the rooms of girls at the boarding house who wanted privacy from their roommate. She washed her hands at the water-pump and then idled over to the screens. She knocked on the edge of one.

“Healer Lithwaloth, it is Baradui,” she peered around the edge of the screen.

She found Lithwaloth kneeling on the ground in front of Iavel. The ground had been covered in a canvas and Iavel lay on it naked. Lithwaloth had a sponge in his hand and a steaming pail of water beside him. A scent rose from the steam that took Baradui straight to the long term wards of the Great House where the patients often smelled of this particular herbal mixture. It helped prevent bed-sores and skin-infections in general.

“Do you require help?” she offered immediately.

Lithwaloth eyed her for a moment before reaching for another sponge and offering it to her, “I do not require it but it would be helpful. I have quite a build-up of work I have to complete but this had to be done today. Start with her feet if you please. Iavel dear, Healer Baradui is going to help me. I trained her. She is trustworthy.” Baradui felt a burst of pleasant warmth as this praise.

Iavel’s eyes were half-shut and remained so but she made an agreeing noise, indicating her acknowledgement and to Baradui’s relief, the fact that she was still awake and aware.

Baradui started at the feet, carefully getting between the toes and then migrated her way up the ankles and onto the leg.

There were a damn of a lot of scars. Old white things and mostly slashing marks. Here and there however the puckered remains of arrow-strikes lingered. Across the knee a set of scars that had definitely come from claws. Further up the thigh and a deep bite-scar, possibly wolf by the look of it.

Iavel mumbled softly to herself and Baradui paused, finding she was being stared at.

Iavel’s nostrils flared once and then twice. Her eyebrows furrowed sharply but then relaxed when Lithwaloth made an inquiring noise.

“Smells like Peonies,” Iavel muttered.  Her voice was raspy and prone to croaking mid syllable.

“Peonies have a scent?” Baradui sniffed at herself, trying to discern an actual scent apart from her skin, cheap soap and the herbal smell of her rooms.

“All sorts of scents,” Iavel confirmed, eyes sliding fully open, “some like roses, some like lilies, some like lemons and some entirely their own.” Her eyes were startlingly aware for a woman who had been sleeping for the past two weeks. They had the same affect that Lithwaloth’s had; pinning Baradui until Iavel shifted restlessly and pressed her leg against the sponge dripping over her.

Baradui set herself back to work but then paused once more. She was up near the pubic area now and abruptly noticed three things. It was not that she was looking specifically at the site and looking for oddities, but her eyes simply picked up on them as she raised her gaze and her mind filled in the blanks.

She noticed firstly that for a grown woman, Iavel’s hair was oddly sparse, more in line from what Baradui would expect from a girl halfway developed. Secondly that Iavel’s hips were small; small enough to possibly give her problems delivering a child. The third distraction confirmed the tentative theory formed from the second; that those narrow hips had given Iavel difficulty because she had a unique scar lying low on her pubic area, livid red where it slashed directly across the invalid’s womb.

Theoretically Baradui knew exactly what procedure had caused the scar which was so out of synch with the battle scars littering Iavel’s body. In practice she had never seen one because most women who had ever had to endure a uterine section birth did not survive. It was a procedure for when all hope was lost for survival of the mother but the child had a possibility of living.

“Um,” she said after a moment, realising that she had been staring and that Lithwaloth had paused and was staring down at her along with Iavel.

“How did you survive?” she asked bluntly, deciding the best course of action was to be honest and direct after being caught inspecting Iavel’s loins like she was a exhibition.

“By the skin of my teeth,” Iavel rasped out, clutching her father who had returned to washing her, tilting her upper torso slightly.

“Well yes I would imagine so,” Baradui wondered if she should cease inquiring; Iavel’s short, snappy answer indicated she did not wish to talk.

“One of the finest healers to walk the shores of Arda,” Iavel added after a moment, “not adar,” she added when Baradui looked at Lithwaloth with the start of awe.

Lithwaloth rolled his eyes, unconcerned with the unintentional jab at his skills.

“Was it particularly painful?” Baradui inquired, unable to help herself.

“Yes but I was near to stepping outside of my body when the decision was made, it is really all a confused mess in my memories until they placed my son on my chest.”

“But you survived,” Baradui was impressed. She rewet the sponge and continued upwards.

“Well,” Iavel looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, “Mandos said something that pissed me off rather badly. I decided I was not going to give him the pleasure of continuing to say such things to my face.”

“That… that is not how it works,” Baradui protested.

“Tell that to Mandos,” Iavel retorted, voice clicking hoarsely over irritated words “because he surely remembers me as the woman who told him to go fuck himself.”

“Now, now,” Lithwaloth murmured, pouring a fresh bucket of water over Iavel’s unbound hair, “no need to get your temper up. Baradui did not doubt you.” He began to massage soap through the wet, heavy mass. Finding the rest of Iavel’s body clean, Baradui shuffled up to help him.

“Why not cut it?” she asked the both of them. Iavel’s hair had to be knee-length at the very least.

“Extra insulation during winter,” Iavel grunted. Baradui glanced at Lithwaloth.

“I could not bring myself to cut it,” Lithwaloth admitted, “She has her grandmother’s hair.” He stroked a long strand wistfully. It took several buckets of water to rinse Iavel’s hair to suitable standards and as the water flowed off it, strands of silver glowed within the cream white of it.

Teleri grandmother possibly? Lithwaloth’s mother or the mother of Iavel’s mother? Baradui pondered this as she helped squeeze out the extra moisture and then dry Iavel thoroughly with soft cloths.

Clean and freshened Iavel was laid out on a blanket in the sunshine. The modesty screens kept anyone from seeing her naked figure. This was good because ten minutes after they had laid her out, a frantic voice interrupted their discussion about willow-bark and ways to improve the taste.

“Healer Lithwaloth?! There is a patient who is developing a rash after the use of … um… amixturetohelphimmaintainanerection.” It sounded like an apprentice, too inexperienced with barely enough knowledge to keep them afloat. Sirion was hardly the best place to be learning either. It was much like being tossed into the middle of the ocean in order to learn how to swim.

“I left instructions in the case of that happening,” Lithwaloth replied, annoyed that he had to get up.

“Those were for a red or pink rash sir, this rash is purple,” it was indeed an apprentice. Baradui recognised him as having joined only a month ago.

“How purple?” Lithwaloth asked wearily.

“Lilac,” the apprentice said decisively.

“That’s very specific,” Baradui commented.

“We have a lilac tree outside our house ma’am; the rash is exactly the colour of its flowers.”

“Baradui I must go attend to this, I know what is happening but I have to go see the patient myself. Would you please take Iavel inside in another ten minutes?”

“Yes,” Baradui watched Lithwaloth disappear into a wain and reappear carrying a small black jar which sloshed ominously which he carried down the street with the cautious air of a man who holds something deadly.

“Now that is convenient,” Iavel murmured when Baradui ducked back around the modesty screen. The invalid stretched as much as she could, muscles straining and Baradui’s eyes were drawn towards the scar across her pelvis again, finding that the sight of it made her skin crawl slightly. To have to be cut open for something that should have come so naturally…

“I did not develop properly as a child, my sexual maturation stalled then halted entirely halfway through,” Iavel’s hair had been gathered to one side of her head and she began to braid it.

“Do not give me that look, your pretty skull keeps your thoughts sacrosanct but your face blurts them out to the world regardless,” Iavel added with a sneer when Baradui gave her a sharp look, suspecting a touch a mind-reading.

 “But that is not important right now. Death comes on many different feet; dancing, striding, stalking,” Iavel croaked and laughed as Baradui drew back from the icy touch of her hand when it drifted to touch Baradui’s wrist. “I was barely awake the last time and did not get a good scent of you. Now though there is no doubt in my mind that you’ve been consorting with ghosts of varying natures.”

“Ghosts as in multiple?” Baradui croaked in alarm, “but I only saw the one last night.”

“Oh yes tell me Healer, how did Death visit you last night?”

At the mocking tone of Iavel’s voice, Baradui almost resolved not to tell her a damn thing but then she bit her lip. It seemed Iavel had some kind of awareness of what was going on, even if she had a flare for the dramatics that made Baradui want to throw her in the nearest harbour for it.

She began to tell Iavel of what had happened, starting with entrance of the … thing and then backtracking to her dream as an afterthought.

“Well,” Iavel stared at the sky. Baradui realised it had been far more then ten minutes since Lithwaloth had left. She hurriedly lifted Iavel up with a small grunt at the weight. Iavel was far too light for her body size and yes, unexpectedly light. That did not mean she lacked density. She still had all that bone which gave her, her height as well as what muscle was left and the rope of her hair.

Not to mention she was just plain awkward to manoeuvre around. Legs and arms had a habit of getting in the way.

“Wait,” Iavel protested as Baradui was going to put her down on the bed inside the wain. “Let me on my feet.”

Doubtfully Baradui righted her down on her feet beside the bed.

Iavel took exactly half a step and then she crumpled. Baradui caught her with a hiss as her shoulder wrenched, and wrestled uncooperative limbs onto the bed.

“I doubt you will be walking any time soon. You have months of relearning your body after six years of inactivity,” she scolded Iavel who glared up at her, as much sweat on her body as on Baradui’s. Baradui felt cheated. She’d done considerably more work!

“I don’t have months,” Iavel pointed at a chest at the bottom of the bed. “You will be dead by then and the entertainment will have passed on. Or it will be stalking someone I don’t have access to!”

Baradui opened the trunk and found clean clothing. She extracted a long tunic and helped Iavel wrestle herself into it.

“I am not your entertainment,” Iavel glared rebelliously up at her. Baradui felt no charity towards her.

“I am not. Listen to me! Something came into my room last night and …and attacked my roommate!”

“It did not sound that way when you described it the first time,” Iavel pushed herself up onto her temporary backrest of clothing sacks, inch by inch until Baradui helped drag her up.

“I … well what else was it doing?” Iavel glanced over at the dresser and pointed to a small ceramic bowl. Baradui picked it up, finding the gold chain and earrings she had noticed on Iavel were in it. She saw the pendant from the chain for the first time, a long rectangular piece of some white stone that was laced through with hair thin strands of silver and gold

Iavel cast a panicked look of impatience when Baradui paused and fished the pendant out to get a closer look at it. “I do not know but I would not be so quick to say it was an attack. I doubt this was the first time the Empty-One you saw has made an appearance. If it wanted to attack either of you it would have done so and you would not be here, gracing me with your lovely company.”

It had some sort of carving on it, containing writing but her eyes skipped over the inscription whenever she tried to focus on it, like she was trying to read through a heat-wave. De-ja-vu rippled through Baradui but she could not place from where she had experienced such a similar phenomenon.

She could make out the carvings on it though, framing the writing. Two trees arching over the words, their branches locking together in an embrace. The creator had taken the thin strands of gold and silver into account with some of the branches following the routes the threads took through the stone.

“What is an empty-one?” she asked, dropping the pendant back into the bowl and offering it to Iavel.

Iavel nearly snatched the bowl out of her hands and fussed with the pendant until it was sitting against her skin.

“It is the opposite of a Houseless. The houseless of fe-!!-fff-faaaah-kkk…Fae without a hr-rr-r…Rhaw” Iavel appeared to choke on her own spit pronouncing the terms and spluttered through the latter half of her sentence. She cleared her throat and continued.

“Houseless are haunted by the memory of having a Rhaw. It is why they try and possess the living. Empty-ones are Rhaw without Fae who are still compelled to move by the memory of having a Fae. I am not sure though, what it is they try to do or why.”

With slower movements Iavel inserted her earrings. The level of dexterity was astounding for someone who had lain within Lúrin’s cradle, as was Iavel’s ability to hold her arms up for so long. Then again the only case that Baradui had seen personally had been that of a Man. They healed far slower than edhil. Perhaps this was it.

Just as Baradui thought this, Iavel dropped her arms with a weak thump. There was a beading of sweat on Iavel’s lip and her eyes were tightened from pain.

Ah not so much swift-healing as sheer determination or stubbornness. Iavel was not a good patient; she was likely the sort that drove healers to fits by pushing themselves too far, too soon. Baradui could tell that much. Poor Lithwaloth, no wonder he had such an authoritative presence. He must have developed it to control his daughter.

“But that was Férinael’s face I saw,” Baradui took a seat and watched Iavel who was watching the ceiling like it held the answers to the eternal questions.

“Do not be stupid. You said she was sleeping. No it was not your friend unless she was the Fae to the Empty-One’s Rhaw which would imply she i-“

“Oh she is quite alive!” Baradui interrupted as quick as she dared, hands wind-milling in protest. Férinael was quite solid and quite strong given how she had dragged Baradui about the market.

“Well if you are so sure then that cannot have been her. Has she lost anyone recently? Close to her?”

“Her family in the kinslaying, then her fiancé and his brother were taken by orcs patrolling just outside Sirion.”

“What absurdly bad luck. It cannot be Menegroth, Melian committed a great deal of power to its very foundations, some of which prevented…well…there are no ghosts in Menegroth or who could have come from Menegroth. No one else?”

Baradui tried to shrug off the grief that mentioning her home had brought as well as the disbelief at the knowledge Iavel so casually distributed.

“Well her sister ran away a  y-“

“It will be her sister then, though I would check to see if there was a resemblance between them just in case. Siblings can look completely unlike one another,” Iavel did not seem to care how callous she appeared.

“I myself will check if she went East.”

“And just how are you going to do that?”

“I will go the junction a-“

“The what?!” Baradui snapped, frustrated at Iavel’s assumption that she would know all of these things she talked of. And her assumption that Baradui would believe the things that came out of her mouth.

‘And yet here we are’ a snide voice pointed out in her mind, ‘we sought this one out because of what she said before. Because there is no way what crawled in the window last night was anything human.’

“Well some might poetically call it the Crossroads of Life and Death but crossroad implies a road that lies perpendicular to the one you are on and is still a junction; a specific kind.”

“The point please,” Baradui encouraged sharply.

Iavel drew breath and let it out in a huff, her hand like ice as she pressed it to Baradui’s weakly. Alarmed at the coldness the healer began to rub it to try and encourage the circulation back into the fingers.

“Here then,  isten to me and I will tell you something not usually known until you die. Should your fae ever depart East it will follow a road of its own devising for half the journey before it reaches the junction,” it seemed to Baradui that the air grew darker though it was midday. Slowly shadows crept up the wall and a hush fell over them like that of twilight.

“Unnumbered roads meet hear to become a single road that leads straight into the heart of Cuiviénen.”

“How do you know this?” it had to be asked. In her grip Iavel’s hand seemed to grow colder and heavier.

“That is where I have lived the past six years, occasionally retracing the path I took though always I stumble and find myself back at the junction before I ever reach my body. This is the first time I have ever completed the journey instead of standing ten paces away from life and calling out, hoping Lithwaloth can hear me.”

“And it is because of you,” Iavel’s hand moved, would have squeezed hers if she had the strength, “because the smell of such suffering and desperation; of the desire to avenge and to murder was a beacon.”

“It cannot have really been me,” Baradui whispered, appalled.

“Nay, it was the smell of ghosts as I told you, two at the least, if not three; a sufferer, an avenger and a murderer.” Thoughtful dark eyes inspected her.

“Shall we talk payment?” Iavel said suddenly, apropos to nothing.

“What?” Baradui asked, knocked out of the secretive feeling of dark secrets shared by surprise.

“Well you need my help. Clearly. But I will not do this for free. I want payment… payment that you cannot tell Lithwaloth about.”

Baradui narrowed her eyes at Iavel who was squirming oh so slightly (or giving off the feeling of squirming without actually moving) in anticipation of this hypothetical payment.

“If it is something that Lithwaloth is not to know of then I do not think I can pay you in that currency,” disapproval laced her voice.

“I am a grown woman and what adar does not know cannot hurt him,” Iavel licked her lips salaciously and Baradui’s imagination supplied a hypothetical payment that was both ludicrous and suddenly quite possible.

“If Lithwaloth would disapprove then I think you should not be even contemplating whatever it is,” she stated firmly.

“Why not? I have needs you know. I have been an adult longer then you have been alive Healer.”

Baradui’s entire being recoiled. She knew why the scar had made her so uncomfortable now. It was not that Iavel had, had a child it was what Iavel had done to create that child. Iavel was an invalid; a creature not meant for sex or anything associated with such things. The knowledge, no the proof that Iavel had once engaged in coitus clashed with the neutered aspect Baradui had unintentionally applied to her.

It was a stupid line of reasoning, Baradui was well aware of it; she saw patients with children, patients who had grandchildren in fact, and once in a blue moon patients who had injured themselves in the bedroom. The scar seemed far more real than any of that. Or perhaps it was the patient that made it seem so wrong.

The aforementioned patients were usually all hale and hearty. Iavel was so worn away by her illnesses that even her father’s gentle repositioning had left bruises.

“Now,” Iavel licked her lips again and smiled in a manner that filled Baradui with dread, “as for my payment.”

“How are you even going to do anything for me while you are lying in a bed, unable to move yourself?” Baradui asked desperately.

“I have help,” Iavel’s eyes flicked away from hers swiftly, “those I have met at the junction are happy to help me and teach me in exchange for favours.”

“What sort of favours?”

“News about the living word or passing on a message to a loved one usually,” Iavel would not look her in the face now, her own turned towards the window and the birds outside.

“Now! Let us talk about payment.”

Baradui swallowed. Iavel was not going to demand that was she? Her brain was racing with excuses or laws she could quote. Nausea began to coil up in her stomach.

“Alcohol.”

The bubble of tension and dread popped.

“What?” Baradui asked.

“I want alcohol. If I’m to spend my days awake and malingering in here then I want some relief. Get me some alcohol…decent alcohol. Not red wine, Sindar cannot make red wine to save themselves. Perhaps white or a cider of some kind. Not beer or ale. It is disgusting.”

“I cannot get you alcohol!” she protested immediately, relief unlocking the tenseness in her spine, “it would kill you in the state you are in! I would not be surprised if Lithwaloth has you on a diet of gruel and broth, your body is likely so compromised!”

Iaven snarled; animal like in her displeasure. Her pale cheeks reddened and her limbs twitched as if she would leap to her feet though of course she could not do that.

Baradui drew herself up in a fit of annoyance, using the voice she usually applied to Teleri fishermen who thought: ‘Rest your hand’ meant: ‘Go pull nets in. Sure. Pull all the nets in that you want. Actually you know what? Anchors. I recommend pulling anchors up with that hand of yours.’

“You have been in Lúrin’s Cradle for six years. You would do well to remember that! Lúrin may have been gentle with your mind but your body has still suffered from the inaction!”

“I have not been anywhere Lorien! Did you not hear me?” Iavel growled, her voice surprisingly deep, “and even if I wished to rest in Irmo’s care the way to his gardens is blocked for me. I can no more step foot on the Olorë Mallé than you can step foot on the Eastern Route.”

Baradui found her tongue tripping over the unfamiliar name but she found she needed no translation. She must have read it in a text perhaps, or heard it in passing but she knew, immediately what it was that was being spoken of.

“The only people who cannot step foot upon the Path of Dreams are the Noldor and the unrighteous. You strike me as neither,” she responded with dread suddenly growing in her when Iavel’s face contorted and then a feral smirk stretched over the invalid’s red lips. Baradui’s skin tightened in fear and a sudden icy chill that swept through her.

“Oh Iavel is neither,” Iavel’s voice deepened even more and became no longer, by any stretch of the imagination, the voice of woman, “but I most certainly am not.”

It was still Iavel upon the bed before her but Baradui’s vision blurred and she saw a man lying there as well. It was like the afterimage of a bright burst of light; the strange way a sunspot continued to linger in one’s vision for a while. She could not focus on him but she still saw him there: pale haired and black eyed as Iavel was and haughty of face but the similarities ended there. The body she saw was in full health and clearly masculine; made of the sharp musculature that one only gained through the mastery of sword.

A circlet shone upon a proud forehead and he wore long robes of an unfamiliar cut and cloth, rich in embroidery; incredibly so. The embroidery was redolent with pearls and other gemstones as well. She did not need an in depth knowledge of foreign fashion to know who he was or who he had followed; an eight pointed star shone on the hilt of his sword whilst a sixteen pointed star glowed from a ring on his centre right finger.

A flicker and she saw him in soiled armour that gleamed through the blood that drenched him. Menegroth burned everywhere and there was not a space in the courtyard to step; the bodies piled up high.

“Tyelkormo Fëanárion at your service,” said the Houseless possessing Iavel’s body, “or Celegorm Fëanorion as your lot insist on calling me.”