"Ouch! Luka, no!"
The baby gurgled, and giggled, and turned his attention from biting at Halla's fingers to biting her shoulder. He wasn't two months old yet, but already the gummy nibbling that Halla had found so cute early on had become painful, as pearl-white fangs began to pierce their way into his mouth, as sharp as needles.
"What's he doing?" Narzum asked, coming to sit beside her. Narzum was occupying himself with the carving of arrow shafts, while Shatauz and Baiurz were in and out of the cave, smoking the remains of a deer that Shatauz had killed while trying to avoid both Bregun, and roaming bands of Orc hunters out of Osgiliath.
"Amusing himself, biting me," Halla said, frowning as she clutched Luka firmly around his fat belly and sat him on her lap. Luka squealed in protest at the restriction. "I ought not to have laughed when he began his nibbling, I'm afraid I encouraged him. How to teach him: you do not bite your mother?"
"Hard lesson, that, what with his father so fond of it," Narzum chuckled, waggling his finger before Luka's bright green eyes. The baby tracked the motion like a born killer, and Halla sighed heavily.
"Plannin' on eatin' you up," the Orcess said dryly, glancing up from across the fire, where she was working over a piece of flint, trying to make a blade.
"Pardon?" Halla asked, staring into the unnerving red eyes.
Uliima glared back. Then she rolled her eyes and sprang to her feet, only to come crouch beside Halla. Halla leaned away a bit. The Orcess didn't like her, that was plain.
"Yer sprog's teeth are hurtin' him," Uliima said, a smile suggesting itself at the corners of her lips when she looked down on Luka. "I s'pose Men are born with a mouthful of teeth?"
"No… But… Mannish babies cry when they teethe. They have fevers. Or so I think. I've not so much experience with babies."
"Orc sprogs don't cry," Uliima said. "Don't mean it don't bother him."
Halla frowned, smoothing her hand over the little cresting tuff of black fuzz on her baby's head. "How can I help him?"
Uliima stared at her, then shrugged. "I might have made a paste of grease and akrum, fire-water what dulls pain. He could also use a bone to chew on."
"My son's not chewing a bone," Halla said, too quickly.
"So not a bone," the Orcess said, rolling her eyes. She snatched a stick of wood from Narzum, snapped in half before Narzum knew it was out of his hand. She sniffed at the stick, then asked, "This fancy enough for you?"
"I didn't mean anything by it," Halla said.
"I'm not worried, bout what you say you meant," Uliima replied, holding the stick out to the baby. She waved it slowly once past Luka's chubby little hand; his eyes caught it, and followed it. Another taunting pass, and Luka clumsily snatched for the stick, then grasped it, and promptly shoved it into his mouth.
"How did you make him do that?" Halla laughed. "What a clever boy you are, Luka! He's never grabbed anything like that before."
"Huh," Uliima murmured, watching the baby work the stick over with his swollen gums, his little fangs fighting to break free. "He's not no boy, Halla, he's a breed. A balak. Orcish babies are faster still. Had to be. It don't matter if it's bone or wood, long as the wood's not some poison kind. It's the pressure, makes his pain ease."
"Poison!"
"That's ash. He'll be fine. Good choice for arrow shafts, Narzum."
Narzum inclined his head slightly to the Orcess. "I'll carve him something to chew up, Halla. Polish it nice for him, so he don't get splinters in his tongue."
"He'll gum it down too soft for splinters," Uliima said. She pursed her lips, blew a little air too softly for Halla to hear. Gnawing away in Halla's lap, Luka flicked his big green eyes up to Uliima's lips. Uliima laughed. "Aye, he's a right proper one."
"Know a lot about whelps, do you?" Baiurz asked, coming to stand over them, his arms full of meat.
"Was my business," Uliima said, standing up, holding her arms out. "Not that we raised 'em for too long, 'fore they went out to die."
Baiurz merely grunted, dropped the meat into Uliima's waiting arms, then turned sharply on his heel. He threw a glance down at Bregun, feigning sleep in Shatauz's furs, making a contemptuous little snort as he passed her by.
"Don't know if she'll give us one," Narzum murmured to Halla, " 'Fore we send her out to die."
"Hush," Halla admonished him. Surely Baiurz and Narzum held hope for Bregun. Surely they all should, Halla thought, watching Baiurz walk away. But then, Baiurz looked back, slightly, not even enough for Halla to be certain; but she decided she was sure she saw it: the Commander's eyes touched Uliima, briefly, before he went back out into the light.
And then, Maukurz returned. Halla pinched her lips together, waiting for him to cross the cave. She'd thought she'd have felt joy at Finnan's death, after what he'd done to her, but she felt hollow instead. And it was more than Edwyn's grief that emptied her of anger. She didn't want to hate Finnan; what would the point be? She was far beyond his power now; hatred would only be poison.
Before Maukurz reached her, Halla glanced up at Uliima. "Thank you," she said, hoping to bridge the gap between them.
"Was nothin'," Uliima said, shrugging. She turned about with the meat then, went to store it in their pit, giving a little nod of her head to Maukurz as he closed on them and saying, "Cap'n."
"What's my little whelp about, this mornin'?" Maukurz asked, grinning and taking Luka from Halla, swinging him up into the air. Luka made a little ahhh! of pleasure, abandoning his drool-soaked stick, and Maukurz laughed.
"He grows teeth and fangs," Halla said, holding up her bitten fingers, "So we have given him a stick to chew, sparing me from serving that purpose."
"Don't like a good nibbling, then?" Maukurz asked, grinning as he sat down beside her. He leaned close, mouth to throat, fangs a breath away from flesh.
Halla giggled, lifting her chin a bit to feel his warm mouth against her skin. Maukurz touched his lips to her, then swung Luka up again, more gently this time.
"How is he?" Halla asked.
"Gone back down to the manor house," Maukurz said, drawing Luka down, tossing him up again, the sprog gurgling and wide-eyed at the fun. "He'll live."
"Poor Edwyn. You're good to be a friend to him."
"He's not so bad, far as a horse boy goes. Can't run worth a shit, but he's got the climbing down, that's for sure. Let me ask you, though: now that Finnan's worm-food, what happens to all that land he took from you? Whut with how Men are coming over it to hunt and chase our kind, and Edwyn was pretending to be in charge, trying to stop them?"
"My land?" Halla murmured. "I'd not even thought of that!"
"Hmm," Maukurz grunted. "I s'pose it don't matter. Once you're well enough, Baiurz'll want to head north. What about her, you think? She been up today, or still hiding?"
Maukurz tilted his head towards the furry lump of Bregun.
Halla shook her head, whispering, "She pretends to sleep. I can't imagine what she wanted, what she wants with us."
"Someone had better sort that out," Maukurz said, drawing Luka into his warm chest, where Luka promptly began to snack on Maukurz's long black hair.
"Perhaps I can try," Halla said, and then she frowned, and leaned against Maukurz, wondering how they'd get ever get north, hunted and chased, and with a woman who might be an enemy in their midst.
Edwyn slept until he could sleep no more. Then he swung his legs over the lord-of-the-manor's great featherbed, rubbed his face, and called the servants to bring a washtub and water. Once dressed, he regarded himself in the mirror: not too much worse for the wear, after all. Finnan's mirror, he thought. Finnan's bedroom, Finnan's manor, Finnan's land. With nothing but idleness and mourning as the day's prospect, Edwyn decided he'd attempt to be useful instead, however irrelevant it all might be to him now. He was glad, riding out into the high, ripening fields, that he'd not gotten a steward to run things for him. Occupation was good physic for grief. He greeted the tenants, feeling Gareth's eyes upon him but refusing to acknowledge the handsome young farmer. Not with Finnan's shade so close.
Yet the sun warmed him, as any creature would be warmed. There were soft lambs and gangly foals in the meadow, crops rising to the pure blue sky; he could write a verse about it all, a hymn in praise of pastoral summer. Life, he thought, and within a few days' time, meeting with the villagers to prepare for the harvest, he let himself see Gareth, and while there was no desire in his heart, Edwyn could feel the coursing of his blood at least, he could feel his pallid flesh reinvigorated. There was a whisper in his mind that spoke of treachery, disloyalty. Ridiculous, as he'd had Gareth when he'd thought Finnan living, without any qualms. And besides: what else can I be, but what I am? And what I am, is enough for me. At least, he could honor Finnan that way: by refusing the same self-loathing, even in it's smallest part.
He was taking dinner in the hall, watching the wolfhounds gnaw the bones of an unfortunate ox, when Blythe came in, distressed again.
"My lord, forgive the interruption but… well, Lord Birchleigh's mother has come."
Edwyn set down his knife and fork. "Ah," he said. He'd filled his mind with haymaking and millstones and granary repairs, to the exclusion of all else. "More wine," he said, and the girl at his back stepped forward to serve him. Edwyn drank deeply, then nodded to Blythe.
But the woman was not waiting for a servant to show her in. She appeared, swathed in layers of black, towing a youth of some fourteen years, scrubbed raw and stuffed into demure yet fine costume, wide pale eyes sweeping the hall.
"You!" she cried, halting abruptly, drawing herself up like a puffy bird disturbed on its perch.
"Madame," Edwyn said, rising, bowing to her: low enough to show deference to her sex and her age and her grief, yet not so low as to forget that Eaglecrest was vast in domain, and Birchleigh... well, was not.
"My son is dead."
"I've heard, lady. My deepest sympathy is yours."
The former Lady Birchleigh checked for a moment, teething over his politeness as long as she could bear. "My son is dead, yet you sit in his place! Why are you here?"
"I considered it a favor to the late Lord Birchleigh to hold his lands in hand, while he served the King of Men. All is in order here."
"You…" she whispered, drawing the word out into a scalding expression of menace and disgust. "I know what you are, Edwyn of Eaglecrest. You may go! Now! Tonight!"
Edwyn arched a golden brow. He glanced at the youth, who drew himself up now as the mother had. Who was this boy? He'd certainly find out. He opened his mouth to make some demure, to explain that he had things to pack, accounts to settle and well-wishes to offer. But there was a fury churning in his belly, beyond what prudence could manage. Finnan had died alone, without friend, in some grim foreign place, and this mother who'd been no mother had stuffed herself into mourning attire, but her face was flushed and her eyes danced with desire. Come death, then, Edwyn thought. Now for wrath, now for ruin…
"Hmm," he murmured, smiling his most charming as he sat back into the great oaken chair of the lord. He lifted the gilt wine chalice, contemplated it with inflammatory appreciation, then said, "I don't think I shall."
"You...! You don't think you shall! You are not welcome! This land is my nephew's now by right, you will leave, or I'll have you tossed out, and should you protest it, I'd warn you that what you are might mean a great deal more than who you are!"
"I believe you threatened your son once, in such manner, madame. But he wasn't as rich as I am, you see, nor are you, and while you may be correct in most cases, I warn you, that how useful you are to the profit of others, will eternally mean an immeasurable amount more than what you are. Now, I think I should be useful to your daughter-in-law. Your son's widow. Have you the bridal contract? I would see it. High Meadow, at least, is hers."
"That scandalous creature? She is no concern of yours. She's no concern of anyone's now. She abandoned her marriage, there are servants who will testify to it: she abandoned my son for some lover. I do know some of what goes on here, Edwyn of Eaglecrest! Halla forfeits any claims she may have; her lands were her dowry, and will not revert to an absent, childless, rebellious wife. If you could even find her! And should you produce her to bedevil me, a poor grieving mother, you'll find I'll bury you both in solicitors. You'll find there isn't a Man in Rohan willing to risk his reputation in defense of a whore and a… a man-lover!"
Edwyn laughed aloud, then pretended to recoil a bit. "Man-lover! You chill me, madame. How dreadful."
But mockery was the refuge of a Man in a losing position. He could bring Halla down the mountain in a moment: she'd still have Uruk marks on her sweet skin. She'd ruined her own case, before ever thinking it would need to be heard.
Edwyn looked to the youth again: briefly. The youth pursed his lips in a little smirk, and Edwyn's heart constricted. He had seemed colorless, a shadow of his aunt, but there was a cruelness in his mouth, Edwyn saw that now. He'd be a cat's-paw for his aunt in the years to come, and then, when he was a full Man, he'd be a misery over the people. And Halla, and Maukurz… there would be no protection for them from this one. There must be something to be done, but what? How to fight this woman, who couldn't be bedazzled by Edwyn's station or gold, nor hacked apart by sword no matter what pleasure such brutality would give!
Edywn, throat gone dry like fire, groped his mind for any weapon that might vanquish the threat. A thought began to form… hopeless, perhaps, but a thought. He sighed. "Very well, madame. Your victory is complete. I shall go, this night. I shall send for my belongings, to prevent your further distress at my presence."
The woman waggled at the shoulders like a saucy girl, then regained control of herself and said, "Finally, some decency."
Within the hour, Edwyn was on the road, galloping back to Minas Tirith.