Bragollach Estate - The Manor
The exterior walls of the Dol Amroth manor are covered by ancient, creeping vines, but the interior of the estate is regal and impeccably kept, for even a lesser abode of the Bragollach it is a place to be admired. The floors are of shining white marble laid over with crimson rugs, matched by the paler shades of drapes that flank tall and gilded casements, while the furniture is of varying lighter hues. There are many rooms upon its three floors and within its three lesser towers - dining rooms, parlours, private chambers, kitchens, quarters for the servants, an elegant bathhouse, an aviary and greenhouse, a proud great hall, a library of considerable size, and even a sparring hall decorated with ancient armour, blades, and coats of arms - and without exception, a marble likeness of a noble Bragollach stands on vigil in each.
Candles are lit, and curtains are drawn against the night.
The Lord Bragollach sits at a high-backed chair draped in crimson, at the head of the dining table. He has a hunting knife in his hands, which he uses to pick at his nails.
"Squire Lominzil of Girithlin to see you," says a man's voice from the door.
Imrakhor looks to Gweneth for a long moment and then nods to the attendant.
The older Bragollach smirks as she rolls the last bits of brandy around the bottom of her glass. "I travel from Tirith Cobas only to be called on by Squires. The quality of your company falters, Lord Bragollach. Who is this Lominzil that you would accept him without a reason for his calling?"
And Lominzil is brought in, impeccable in blue tabard and black. He steps quietly through the door, his lean form stiff with reverence and burden; without words, he bows at the waist.
Gweneth eyes the squire as he enters, "I suppose I shall learn first hand," she adds dryly.
The Lord Bragollach fixes his eyes to Gweneth; there is laughter in them. "Perhaps you should not travel so often, on such tired and aged legs." There is no grandiosity or magnamity in Imrakhor's greeting of the Squire. "Lady Gweneth, may I present my Squire, Lominzil Girithlin," he says perfunctorily. "And Lominzil, the Lady Chancellor Gweneth Bragollach."
Lominzil raises his eyes until they hover at Gweneth's feet, then back down to the fine flagstones. "Lady Steward," he greets, quiet voice suddenly dry with apprehension. "Lord Bragollach. I ask forgiveness to have intruded upon your manor. I come on behalf of my father, Caronnen Girithlin." The squire's fingers hold the edge of a sealed letter.
"Your squire?" Gweneth repeats, her brow furrowing, "And a Girithlin." She finishes her glass, all the while eyeing the letter.
Imrakhor's eyes too are drawn to the letter. "I suppose this is for us." He looks to Lominzil.
"My father would desire a leave of absence for me to return to Edhellond," says the squire, stepping forward to offer the Swan-Knight his letter. "His children were once four; now one remains. Sir Eruiglas my brother was buried in the South, Gwaithmir is summoned North, and my sister Farielle," the youth swallows, looking down, "the Haradrim claim to hold captive. He would have my assistance in the business of her ransom." The letter says as much, with Caronnen's regards and seal.
"Belfalas mourns your family's losses," says the Lord Bragollach. "You wish to renege on your oath to Prince Imrahil, yes? That is the issue at hand?"
A thin trickle of red appears at the edge of Lominzil's mouth; he has bitten his lip. "Not so, Lord Bragollach," the youth replies calmly, his blue-grey eyes wide and detached of emotion. "I abjure nothing. Can not a man serve the Prince through dedication to his family, who also has sworn under Imrahil?"
Imrakhor takes the letter at last and places it on the table in front of him. "The Haradrim have contacted you to say that she is held?"
"They brought word shortly after we returned from Caldur," replies Lominzil, grief flickering in his gaze. "They have not offered a ransom, but I would believe that she lives still in their hands. No word has been sent since, and one cannot simply sail into Umbar," the squire goes on. "Yet Girithlin, having lost sons, would seek to regain a daughter."
Imrakhor uses the hunting knife to point at Lominzil. "And what purpose will you serve to your father that requires time from your duties?"
"I would find a route to the South, and speak his offer. His obligation is with the council and his house; my mother ails with grief and stays in an empty house." Lominzil stares unblinking at his Knight. "If I betray my Oath thus, treat me as an oathbreaker."
"What family of Belfalas has not lost sons?" Gweneth asks. "Sorrow is the coal that burns in the heart of Gondor. It is not such a fond way as the Girithlin would like to see things, but certainly it is the way things are. A trip to the south will find you but one thing, a grave site beside your brother's. Better to seek solace with your Knight in studies and training so that when the time comes anew, it is not you who finds a grave." She rises, graceful and proud, from her chair and noiselessly glides across the floor to the small bar, "For ransoms, there is no use in going to Umbar. They will come when they wish it and offer a price. Or they will not. If it was such a thing to initiate and bargain for they would lose what they crave most from it: the fear."
It is a strange thing, the Lord Bragollach growing quiet and slouching back into his chair. The knife, again, returns its attention to his nails.
Lominzil's eyes, cool and neutral, follow the Lady Chancellor. "Gondor's sons give blood freely for her name, yet Farielle is no son, but a daughter, who knows naught of war or great deeds and yet went to Caldur for love of her kin. It is not meet that she should be held alone in a foreign land, kept at a foreigner's whim."
Imrakhor kicks his feet up onto the table.
"Was it meet for a child of the Telpekhor taken by the self same Haradrim? Kept to those same whims?" Her glass is filled, four fingers worth, and then the decanter stoppered, "Nor the dozens taken from Linhir and along the coasts?" Gweneth turns and her eyes find the Squire's, "It is not out of cruelty or scorn I say these words, only that they are said because they are so. You have no power or ability in this. It is what it is. And your sister, grieved as I am for her loss, it is no less than for your brother or any other who has died serving the Prince." Her eyes trail away towards the floor, a slight smile of memory hinting on her lips, and then they are back on Lominzil. "You may harbor hope, for certainly what is life without it, but even I know the realities of that land and what gifts it has for those that there unawares."
The hunting knife moves oh so close to the Lord Bragollach's neck, perilously close. He knocks off a few hairs and then withdraws the blade. "You are young. Your temper boils. But listen, Lominzil."
"The child was ransomed," says the squire, eyes burning eerily as he looks up to the Knight. "I would have hope. Will you not tell me what you know of the land, its gifts?"
"If you wish to honor the life of your sister and brothers by giving it to the Haradrim and serving them either in death or slavery, then you can be released from the duties that life has given you. That is the gift that can be found in Harad; a release from the difficulties of life - eternally." Gweneth looks to Imrakhor, "Do your squires drink, my Lord?"
Imrakhor answers, "Yes," and his face does not betray his uncertainty. The scant facial hair, the glow of youth, they are still found in this Lord. "He will now. For his decision in this matter will be grave and determining," says Imrakhor. "I echo the Chancellor's warning. Chase your death if you will, but do not be surprised when you find it."
A simple nod and another glass is poured by Gweneth and offered to the Squire.
"I know its face," replies Lominzil, wrapping his fingers about the stem of the glass. "It will wait for me when it will." He drinks deep. "But surely it is not only death and slaves that pass through the Bay? All are enemies, yet are all hostile? Whence come the oranges in Dol Amroth, the spices, the offers of ransom? That is where I hope to begin."
"Have we not given enough already, Lominzil?" asks the Knight matter-of-factly. "Have we not released you from your oath as you requested? There are those that ply in that grey trade, but certainly remember that your words, 'all are enemies' are true."
"If memory serves, the only Tower of Umbar that has entered into trade with Belfalas was Farside and," Gweneth glances wryly at the Lord Bragollach, "I do not think they would be so open to discuss such matters. But as I said, even if you had the ability to make contact, to what end? It is cold, again I apologize, but imagine that I have a chest of gold in my room that is yours. You approach me and ask for your chest of gold, I deny it is there. You can do naught. All you can do is hope one day I approach you and offer you your chest once more and that it has not be given or spent." She slips back onto her chair, relaxedly smelling at her own glass, "Should you not simply make him do drills until he has the wisdom to understand? I do not think words have the sort of impact they should have. Or perhaps, he is simply unwilling to hear them." she asks of the Knight.
"Farielle is not an object," insists Lominzil calmly, setting the glass down on the table. "You have my gratitude, Lady Chancellor, Lord Bragollach."
"See? See how he ignored my words with semantics?" Gweneth notes. She sips from her glass, eyeing the squire over the lip. "If Farielle is to return, what greater happiness would she find in her brother Lominzil waiting for her, or that he is dead, trying to save her? Regardless, my condolences for your House."
"You may go, Lominzil," says the Lord Bragollach.
The squire bows and leaves the hall with a grim smile.
"Which tower was she lost to?" the Chancellor asks offhandedly when the Squire is out of earshot.
"Seaward I am told," answers the Lord. "If the past is any indication, they shall come for ransom at some point. Or they will keep her as a slave. But I do not believe her dead."
A shrug from the lady. "She is dead. Until she is not."
"I find myself uncomfortable in these quarters," says Imrakhor to Gweneth. He drives his knife into the table. "I believe I shall go for a walk. You will see to the estate, yes?"
"Calathil sees to the estate but I shall see to our family, as ever I have and do." A pause, lengthly and uncomfortable follows her words. "Enjoy your walk, Lord Bragollach."
Impetuous as a child, Imrakhor does not bother to acknowledge Gweneth's correction. "I may be gone for a few hours, or perhaps a while. Do not ask after me." And, he is gone.
Alone now, Gweneth does not stir, only sips at her drink. Some time later, she answers Imrakhor. "No one will."
"Not anymore."