It's a cold evening in the Edhellond, with the wind whipping a merciless rain against the manor house, and lashing through the trees. Inside, it is warm and comfortable; a gracious, kindly home - but the aura within better fits the weather without. A woman in her 50s sits beside the fire, some embroidery held limply in her hands and untended to. She is staring into the flames, and her eyes are red-rimmed, though dry.
Nearby, unable to settle to the book lying open on a table by his chair, her husband stands and stares at those same flames, his hands behind his back. Then he turns and strides across the room with a restless, furious energy; brought to a halt by the shut door, he looks at it blankly for a moment, before turning and coming back. There are no visible signs of grief as in his wife, but his face is haggard and old, despite his bare 63 years.
There are voices without, their words unheard over the tumultuous rain. A few moments later the door opens, admitting a lash of rain and a tall, dripping figure. High leather boots are dashed dry on the rug, the sopping cloak merely held out with a gloved hand. It takes a little length of time and the snapping of the man's fingers for a servant woman to come running and relieve Gwaithmir, for he it is, of the vestement. Gwaithmir's eyes rest unwavering on the rather sad forms of his parents, making no effort whatever to cover the sadness in his eyes, nor his frown. Pulling the gloves from his hands, Gwaithmir discards them on a chair, advancing towards the fire. His eyes never leave his father, until he draws near. "Father..." There is hope in the word, and agony, but Gwaithmir stops well short of the venerable man, and bows to him.
As if a spring is coiled inside him, Caronnen Girithlin whirls around at that hesitant word. Unhesitatingly, he clasps his son in his arms, staring rigidly over his shoulder, his face - unseen - working. "Gwaithmir..."
Then he steps back and frowns at the lad. "If you..."
"Caronn," says a gentle voice behind him. "Leave be. Oh, Gwaithmir!" It is a soft wail, as his mother takes his father's place, all but throwing herself into his arms. "I have missed you so."
Gwaithmir's eyes grow wide at his father's show of affection, and it hesitantly that his own arms are brought up to clasp his father's at the elbows. Tears spring into the lad's eyes that must be blinked back as he is rebuffed, trembling jaw steadied with sheer nerve to accept his father's rebuke with some composure.
The Lady's voice destroys all such walls. Her wail seems to grant permission for the tears to flow freely. Gwaithmir clutches his mother to him tightly, hands tangling one in her hair and one in her dress. "And I you, naneth," answers Gwaithmir quietly, letting his chin rest on his mother's shoulder, rocking them both back and forth.
Caronnen looks away, the muscles in his jaw bunching and relaxing. He swallows hard. "Son," he says gruffly, putting his hand on Gwaithmir's shoulder. "Have - have you ... any news? Lominzil, is he ...?" He doesn't put words to his fear, that his rash youngest son will have done something - well - rash.
Nelbrethil straightens at last, wiping her eyes. "We have needed you, Gwaithmir," she says, simply, and leads the way to their chairs, drawing one near for him.
"I am here now," Gwaithmir first answers his mother, tone more apologetic than reassuring. He sits in the offered chair, crossing one foot over his knee and anxiously jostling it. Gaze remains steady upon the fire, not daring to rise to his father's. A few false starts precede anything useful, "Locked up by one of his superiors, for his safety. I have kept an eye upon him as best I can. I will ask Gwendion to increase his guard, if it would please you, father." Now he looks up at the older man, not supplicating or hopeful, but resigned and numb.
The older man hesitates, then shakes his head. "If you think it is sufficient. I - I will leave it to your discretion." He comes and sits down, one hand clenched into a fist on his knee. "We will have to make arrangements for Eruiglas. Do - you know if his body was recovered?" His voice is over-controlled.
Nelbrethil's anxious eyes cling to her son's face. "And what - what of Farielle?" she asks him, daring to say the name they all have been thinking, but none have spoken. "Have you heard anything? Anything at all? Lindelin says pris-prisoners are most often ransomed, but we have had no word." Caronnen's face hardens farther, into immobility. Otherwise, surely, he will begin to weep - and never be able to stop.
The very mention of his brother's name causes Gwaithmir's gaze to flit away blinkingly to a dark corner of the room. He leans back in his chair, exhaling roughly. His lips are parted, moved soundlessly in the shapes of words and prayers. A flush comes to his pale cheeks and a light into his eyes like that of a man taken by fever. "No," the word is cracked, at odds with the intense bitterness of those that follow, "His body lies rotting in some southern field, naked to the cruel sun and the ravages of the carrion birds." He glances to his mother at mention of Farielle, yet does not speak, instead pressing the knuckles of one hand against his teeth.
Caronnen flinches, the agony in his eyes clear for a moment before being ruthlessly locked away again. There are things he must do, and cannot if he is prostrated by his grief. "Then we will have his services without. Others have done the same, we will not be less than they." His gaze flickers to his wife, and he gives Gwaithmir a warning look. "I will send a letter, requesting leave for Lominzil. In... a week's time."
Nelbrethil pales and chokes back a sob, but stiffens her spine though the tears run unchecked down her face. "A week," she murmurs. "Yes... " And she looks at Gwaithmir, silently waiting for the rest of his answer, reaching for her husband's hand as she does.
Gwaithmir's answer is a jerking motion of his head that might almost be a nod, but isn't. He waits silently under his mother's gaze, but when she does not relent he throws up his hands in defeat. "There is no word. She was taken alive and surely, surely, if they know she is a Girithlin they will not kill her. But I have spoken to men who know of such things, and they say it is strange that we have not yet heard anything."
The courtier uncrosses his legs, leaning down over his knees, hands steepled together. He lifts his head toward his father, his gaze steady and thoughtful. "Since no message has come out of Umbar, I have sought means to get one in. I talked to a Captain of the Fleet, Seregarth, if you know him. He told me nay, unless his orders could be altered, which maybe with pressure in the right places we could accomplish. I chanced, while out riding, across one of Manwe's eagles, the Valar be praised! He has sworn to give thought to my request that he seek out Farielle. And the Squire Menelglir has suggested that the Bragollachs may know of secret ways to get messages into the south."
"That is well," Caronnen begins, frowning in thought. "I shall speak to the prince, if I must."
Nelbrethil interrupts, "An Eagle! And he spoke with you! Oh, surely, such an one could find her, if any could!" She darts a glance at her husband, squeezing his hand.
"Bragollachs." It is an epithet, very nearly a curse. Gwaithmir's father is silent, frowning still more. "Still, if we must... I will pay any price. But wait. I heard, yes, recently - was this Menelglir of Telphekhor you speak of? I heard the Telpekhori ransomed back a child, a young girl, did he say nothing of this?"
Gwaithmir smiles encouragingly at his mother, nodding his head in assent. He gives a snort at his father's use of the Bragollachs' name. "I should tell you, Father, that I intend to do everything I can to utterly destroy Lord Bragollach. Neither tongue nor pen will be silent til his kin are ashamed to own him and another, more worthy, lord holds his title."
The rest draws a suspicious glance from Gwaithmir. "Yes, that was he. He said nothing of this ransom." His chin is lifted, trying to divine his father's intent.
"Strange," is Caronnen's comment. "Perhaps he did not know, though that seems unlikely. Still..." He is silent a moment, then straightens. "You must speak with the Telpekhori. Perhaps Lady Laeraelin. If they cannot help us, then... the Bragollach." He nods at Gwaithmir's stated intent, but it seems he is too weary to delight in vengeance, though he does not rebuke his heir.
"Gwaithmir," Nelbrethil chides gently. "You must not give way to bitterness. It is unbecoming. Though I confess to similar desires when I think..." Her voice breaks and she covers her face with her hand.
"I will speak to the Lady Laeraelin." Gwaithmir is drawn from his ruminations by Nelbrethil's distress. He turns to his mother, grasping her wrist as some sort of comfort. "Hush, naneth. I will let them alone, if it distresses you. I will speak with the Bragollach. I would rather die than leave Farielle in captivity because I was too proud to seek help."
He turns back to his father, though keeps hold of his mother's arm, "What else would you have me do, Father? I am yours to command."
Nelbrethil turns her hand up to clasp his tightly. "It only distresses me for you, my son. I do not wish to see you lower yourself to the level of such as they. Still," her gentle face grows hard. "I hope that justice is done upon him for what he has wrought."
Caronnen is looking back into the flames. He closes his eyes at his daughter's name, but opens them almost at once - they are still dry. "I must call for the steward and go over the accounts. Do you take thought for that end, Gwaithmir - I will give you that letter in the morning. I will see where best we can acquire a pledge for - her ransom." There is the tiniest of breaks in his voice, but he stares still, face hard and still, into the fire.
"Is it ignoble to see that justice is done?" A true question that Gwaithmir asks of his mother, not mere insolence.
Rising, he draws Nelbrethil's hand nearer to plant a kiss upon it. "I think you had best to bed, naneth. Sadness is a weary thing to bear."
"Of course not. It is the manner in which it is done that can be either noble or not. What may suffice for another house, does not necessarily become House Girithlin." Nelbrethil remains seated, letting her son draw her hand to his lips. "Yes," she says, "I will go soon." But she looks at her husband, locked away in his grief.
"I will be mindful of my honour, and of Girithlin's," says Gwaithmir with an inclination of his head. Nelbrethil's wishes to remain are deferred to with nothing more than a soft smile. Gwaithmir, however, approaches the fire, warming his hands upon it. "I will return to Dol Amroth tomorrow morning. Do we...do we hold Eruiglas' services in the city, or in Edhellond?"
There is a long moment of silence. At last, "I do not know," Caronnen says heavily. "Have you any thoughts upon the matter? Or you, my dear?" He looks at his wife. "Perhaps the time here weighs heavy on your hands and you would find comfort with other ladies about you?"
"In sooth, I think Dol Amroth would be his preference. He spent much of his life there, after all, and I hear tell that services will be held there for all those that died at Caldur." Gwaithmir's hands have become ridiculously hot, but he doesn't move them; it's easier than facing his parents at the moment.
His father bows his head in assent. "I will not say I will find it - comfortable," he says in a low voice. "Yet, you are surely right. Then we will come home and raise his memorial here, where he was born."
Gwaithmir closes his eyes, head bowed, and though he smiles it is a pathetic smile indeed. "I...yes. That is what he would wish."
Nelbrethil stands, quietly, and puts her arms around her son, holding him silently for a long minute. Then she holds her hand out to her husband, who takes it, and together they walk out of the room. Caronnen looking back to say, "I will see you before you leave."
Gwaithmir holds himself perfectly still when he is embraced, only stirring when his parents depart. He says nothing to them, though he turns to watch them go. Once their retreating forms are lost to sight, Gwaithmir too quits the room, not towards his room, but out to the garden.