Lossemeren arrived with the sound of shutters flying open. Morwen cracked a bleary eye open and saw Gildis standing over her bed in the pale glow of early morning light streaming in through the window.
"Oh no," Morwen groaned, throwing the blanket over her head.
"I can see you, my lady, with or without the blanket. Get up. I've come to wage war."
"Please Gildis…"
"I've locked the door. No one will come to your rescue and there's no use begging. I'm heartless."
"Oh stars."
Morwen threw the blanket off and sat up with a groan.
"If you let me attend to you more often it wouldn't be such a pain," Gildis groused as she rummaged in Morwen's wardrobe.
"So you've said." Morwen yawned. "But I can't see why it's any use during the rest of the year."
"Sit down at the table," Gildis ordered. "There's toast and tea. Hurry up, I've got other things to do this morning besides prune you into a semblance of femininity."
Morwen obeyed. After all, having breakfast in her room was the only enjoyable part of this annual ordeal.
"Have you seen Beldir yet?" she asked.
"Of course," said the housekeeper. "He was up before any of you. He's got Gundor and the lads bringing the wains up with the tables from the barn."
Morwen nodded, absentmindedly chewing on her bread.
"I should have looked in here sooner." Gildis shuffled the clothes around, loud in her disapproval of the offerings. "You've worn the same dress for years. You might have had a pretty saffron gown from that cloth you received from Arnach."
Morwen stared into the gaping wardrobe and yawned. "There's nothing wrong with my mother's dress."
"Do you know what's wrong with you, my lady?" said Gildis as she pulled out a faded blue gown. "You have no pride in personal appearance."
Morwen silently added that blemish on her character to her lack of scholarship. Ignorant and dowdy. She grinned at herself in the mirror on the table.
"Fortunately, you have some natural beauty. It only needs to be beaten back a bit."
Gildis spent the next hour waging war on Morwen's eyebrows and hair. She washed it, trimmed it, twisting Morwen's hair, then raking it out again with a fine-toothed comb that hit ever snag and snarl with painful disapproval.
"Here, clean your nails while I finish combing." Gildis handed Morwen a small brush with an ivory handle soaking in a dish of soapy water. She picked up the brush and studied it.
"Is this Adrahil's brush?" She couldn't think how something this fine would end up at Bar-en-Ferin unless her cousin left it behind.
"It was your father's."
"Oh. I didn't realize he cleaned beneath his nails."
Gildis harrumphed. "At least someone in this family did once."
Morwen scrubbed her hands, saying, "You see why I couldn't do this every day. It takes far too much time. Besides, I'd be in the orchard for about two seconds and all the dirt would be—"
Gildis plunged a cold, wet cloth in Morwen's ear while she had been looking down and away from the mirror.
"What are you doing?" Morwen cried, cringing from the soggy feeling.
"Cleaning you up before a cherry tree starts growing out your ear."
Morwen snatched the cloth away before a second attempt could be made. Water trickled down her wrist as she held the cloth out of Gildis's reach.
"My ears are perfectly clean and you know it." She tossed the cloth onto the table. "What's gotten into, Gildis? You're been victimizing me all morning."
Gildis started on Morwen's hair again, with her nose screwed up with displeasure. "You're the lady of the house now," she answered with a sniff. "I knew it in my head. But, well, it's seems real today. If you don't look like a lady worthy of Randir and Hirwen's memory, it won't be my fault. Now stand up and take off that dirty shift."
Morwen obeyed, sobered by the mention of her parents. Gildis gave her a new shift to put on before they pulled the heavy fabric of the old blue dress over her head.
Morwen thought she was going to die when Gildis began cinching her into the blue dress that used to belong to her mother. The sleeves were tight on her arms.
"Stars," she groaned as she tried to move them. The fabric constricted her that she wondered if she could raise a glass to her lips. The clothes she wore around the property were loose and woven to allow the air through. This dress would never do.
"You know, I hear from my sister in Arnach that dresses aren't tied in this way anymore. It's not a bad reason to have a new dress made up," Gildis pointed out.
"It fit comfortably last year. What happened?"
"It comes from working outside with the men," Gildis huffed. "What sort of lady are you with arms like those?"
"A functional lady - which is the only sort of lady we can afford around here," Morwen wheezed. She liked her arms. They looked useful - not like Gildis's toothpicks, for instance. Although those toothpicks had done a masterful job squeezing the breath out of Morwen just then.
"Well, turn around and survey the damage," Gildis grumbled, gesturing toward the mirror.
She studied herself, wondering if she looked as pinched as she felt. Certainly this dress had fit perfectly well a year ago when she last wore it. The change of clothes beside, she couldn't see the difference between how she looked before Gildis's torture and after, except that her hair fell loose to her waist in the sort of waves you see on a lake during a gentle breeze rather than a storm. Her face had mottled over from abuse and now her ear dripped water.
"This dress is too tight," she grumbled, tugging at the bodice where it pinched her chest, such as she had.
"Stop tugging at it before you pop a seam. I don't have the time to sew you into one of the nicer bed sheets."
Morwen took one last look in the mirror. Honestly, she couldn't tell the difference in how she looked in this dress or in any other.
"Well?" she asked Gildis.
Gildis gave her a critical look over. "It'll do," she said ominously.
Morwen glanced over her shoulder in the mirror. "Do for what?"
The housekeeper pressed her lips together in a firm line.
"Gildis."
"Never mind. You get out to the orchard before your guests arrive."
…
The kitchen radiated heat from the cook fire and from the bodies vying for places at the long center table or in the cupboards and counters. Morwen pressed through to leave her plate and mug in a pot of hot water, which already contained the plates and mugs for half the household. There were a few shouts of good morning thrown her way, but mostly everyone was too busy to notice the mistress of the house. And if truth were told, Hareth was the mistress in the kitchen and Morwen was happy to leave it to the cook. She preferred to reign under the trees.
Sneaking out a back door, Morwen ran into Ioneth, who had spilled a jar of oil onto the ground. The costly oil darkened the gravel and Morwen felt a little dizzy looking at it. Ioneth had another cradled in her arm, which was in equal danger of spilling over as she leaned down to clean up the other.
"Ioneth, what are you doing?" Morwen asked as she knelt down right the jar.
"I'm supposed to bring the oil down to the boys to be put up in the lanterns," Ioneth sniffed. She had the perpetually throbbing voice of a downtrodden girl on the cusp of womanhood. Only woman was a long time in coming for the maid, Morwen thought. "They're awfully heavy."
"Here, I'll help you carry one since we're going the same way." She wanted to take both, but the girl would get in trouble with Gildis if she returned to the house without having carried out the housekeeper's orders. She had to carry the jar awkwardly in order to keep the oil away from her dress.
Ioneth beamed. "Thank you, my lady."
When they were out of earshot of the house, Ioneth walked closer to Morwen's side and whispered, "You were gone with the prince for a terrible long time yesterday."
Morwen adjusted the awkward jar in her other hand. "I suppose so."
"Do you think he's very old?"
"No."
Ioneth looked aghast at Morwen. "Truly?"
Morwen glanced down at Ioneth. "How old are you, then?"
"Fourteen," she answered, throwing back her shoulders, which only accentuated the flatness of her chest.
"Well, naturally you think he's old," Morwen reflected dryly. "You're still a child."
Ioneth pulled a face she didn't think Morwen could see. They walked on a while under in silence until they reached the birch grove. Morwen thought she saw a hint of gold hair among the green leaves. There was bower that her father had built within the grove and it looked as though someone was retreating in that direction.
"Ioneth, have you seen any of the Prince's men today?"
"No, my lady. They scare me to death, so I keep out of their way. Well, I used to be scared of the Prince, but all he does is read those stuffy, old books." Then she asked, "Weren't you bored talking to him?"
"No," said Morwen. "He's led a very interesting life, even if he does like to read. Did you know he's fought pirates?"
"Pirates! I bet he's making up stories. He's too old to fight pirates," Ioneth mused.
"I told you, he isn't old. I'm certain he doesn't tell tales. We talked about many things and I find him very pleasant." And she had enjoyed it, despite the few snags in the conversation when she asked more than she ought to have. It seemed the more Ioneth deemed it impossible for Morwen to enjoy Prince Thengel's company, the more she knew that she had.
From the way Ioneth's nose wrinkled, it seemed that a pleasant man was a death knell. "He's not handsome like Gladhon," Ioneth mused. "I don't like his foreign coloring one bit."
"Ioneth!" Morwen warned, "You're overstepping yourself."
But Ioneth remained oblivious. "Could you find him attractive? I suppose you only think of Lord Halmir, since he sends you such nice presents. I would. I like presents."
"What?"
"Hareth says Lord Halmir wants to be your sweetheart and that's why he sends you presents."
"Listen to me, Ioneth," Morwen scolded, "Hareth says quite a bit of things she shouldn't. Repeating them makes it worse."
Ioneth blinked. "Even if she's right?"
Morwen resisted the urge to upend the jar of oil on Ioneth's head. She took a deep, calming breath. "Right or wrong, it's impertinent."
"Still, I think she's right. Boys always send presents when they like a girl."
Morwen swallowed a groan. Ioneth had dogged determination, whether it be dodging chores or creating a make believe romance for Morwen. "Halmir isn't a boy. He's grown up and sensible." She crossed her fingers in the folds of her skirt as she said the last bit.
She walked a little ahead of Ioneth to prevent any more of the kitchen gossip falling on her ears. Soon, they were greeted by the mottled dogs of uncertain breeding that had caught the festival spirit and fed off the energy of the house in preparation. They loped before her down the greenway, a lane overshadowed by ancient beeches and carpeted in flowers, that led east through the plantation toward the road that served the valley or curved northwest deeper into her orchards. Morwen followed its path to the western acres where Beldir and the men were setting up for the feast.
The sun had fully crested the eastern ridge, casting its rays deep within the foothills. Morwen sucked in a breath as the light caught on the white and pink ribbons of blossoming wild cherry trees spilling down from the hills like streams running through fields of green. She allowed herself a moment longer of quiet contemplation while Ioneth trudged on ahead, no doubt imagining all the presents she would like to receive.
When the dogs barked after a rabbit, Morwen moved on. The dogs rushed ahead of her, kicking up turf and daffodils in their haste. After a quarter of a mile, the beeches fell away before a stone fence covered in moss and vines.
Morwen stepped inside and entered a world of fragrance and light. The cherry trees were columns in an arcade that Yavanna herself in the Uttermost West wouldn't turn away from easily. Morwen blinked away the blossoms blown down in the breeze.
In the early years of their marriage, Morwen's mother and father had built a raised pavilion in the midst of the cherry orchard. The dais seated the hosts and their guests of honor while the people of the house, their neighbors and often guests from Minas Tirith would picnic under the trees while the blossoms showered around them.
As she neared the pavilion she began to see the path markers and hanging lanterns. Benches had been brought down and somewhere she thought she heard the sound of wood scraping against wood, which signified the trestle tables being unloaded from Beldir's wagon.
Several of the tables had been set up already in lines along the path while the first line of trees stood like sentinels behind them. Blossoms were already scattered over the tops and carpeted the ground. They only lacked the table dressings and there would be no other ornament but the cherry petals. Nothing else was needed.
Morwen spotted Beldir as he directed Gundor, the cook's son, and other boys of the household in arranging the tables just so.
The dogs knew better than to get in Beldir's way. They tore off after a flock of blackbirds hopping around the grass in search of worms. They rose up into the air like a dark net and flew into the trees while the dogs snapped at nothing.
Beldir saw Morwen first and strode over to her side.
"What do you think?" he asked by way of greeting.
Morwen gave them all a warm smile. "You worked quickly. Everything seems to be in order—"
One of the boys shouted a curse after a table leg came down on his toe. Gladhon, who was working among the boys, came to the unfortunate boy's aid, lifting the table away and telling off the lads for being careless. Beldir's hands clenched and Morwen decided to leave them to their work - and their scolding.
Ioneth and Morwen split the work of filling the lanterns with oil to be lit when the sun went down. The task proved difficult because of her sleeves, especially among the higher lanterns. When she finished, Morwen turned down a row of trees toward the dais. Four high-backed chairs had been set up - three less than last year. There were no chairs for her father's side. One would go to Prince Thengel, her guest. Ferneth and Hardang would not appear, nor Adrahil and Randir. One for Morwen in the center. Only two chairs were left for her mother's side of the family where there had been four. She felt a pang in her chest. Hardang had been fifteen years her senior, but he had been the closest to her in friendship. He had married a woman from Arnach, Ferneth, whom Morwen had liked but didn't know all that well. She had just given birth to a son and wouldn't be coming. Hardang was dead. That left his brothers, Halmir and Hundor.
Growing up she had thought of the three brothers as the soldier, the shadow, and the spy. Hirwen favored Hardang, who was something like a much older brother to Morwen. Halmir was ten years older than she and had spent most of his time of late in Minas Tirith studying military theory and rhetoric, meaning to advance one day into the Steward's council. Halmir had been something of a favorite with her father, though Morwen had found little use for him. Hundor was only three years older than Morwen, the doomed third brother. He wore it like a badge, she thought. Her memories of him were vague glimpses of him spying on the servants or his brothers, then running off to tell tales.
Family, she thought. Odd that the relations nearest to her in proximity felt the most distant.
Feeling suddenly depressed despite the sunshine filtering through the blossoms and fresh green leaves, she went in search of something else to do. She had just made it to the gate when the dogs returned from the other side of the orchard like black and white blurs, barking madly.
Hareth lead a train of kitchen attendants, heavily burdened with hampers of food.
…
Midhel and her husband were the first guests to approach Morwen's gate. They were famous in the valley for their dyes and for spinning yarn using anything from sheep's' fleece to dogs' fur. But before Morwen could welcome Midhel, they were all rushed by a host of children of various sizes. Morwen recognized one blur of tousled hair and dirty clothes as the small boy who aided in Guthere's surgery. Nanneth the healer followed behind the brood with the littlest one hanging from a sling around her shoulders and another two toddlers holding her by the hands.
"I hope Hareth's been busy in the kitchen. Nanneth's brought half the valley to be fed. Again." Midhel huffed as she stalked off after her husband. She had but one grown son who now lived in Minas Tirith.
Nanneth grunted in response. Morwen remembered the old lady's uncanny, good hearing. The old woman garbled a greeting to Morwen and then also passed inside. Morwen wondered why she never saw any of Nanneth's children. But then, the vast quantities of grandchildren probably explained the matter.
The cottagers nearest to Bar-en-Ferin along the river began to arrive. They carried baskets of food and blankets. She made especially sure to speak to the families of beekeepers. Then the cottagers gave way to the families who lived deeper in the valley where the trees were oldest, woodcutters for generations whose ancestors had been refugees from Ithilien. These families kept to themselves, except during the harvest when the wives and children worked for Morwen in exchange for some of the bounty.
Strolling grandly behind the train of guests, the valley's infamous artist arrived, fully clothed and temporarily free of goats, with a flat, wrapped parcel tucked under his arm. With his free hand, he reached for Morwen's and kissed it. City manners, she thought.
"Be welcome, Teitherion."
"Lady Morwen, I've brought you a gift," he said, whipping the canvas out from under his arm and hastily unwrapping it for her to view. "For allowing me to sit in your orchard with my paints."
Morwen tried to make sense of the erratic brush, oily strokes. "Oh, it's a…it's…defies description," she said.
"Exactly." He beamed.
Teitherion held up the painting proudly, making sure anyone passing by could get a full view. "It's somewhat autobiographical. I'll just leave it with Gildis, shall I?"
"Yes, thank you."
Teitherion shot off in search of Gildis. Morwen waited until he was beyond earshot to exhale heavily.
Next, the farrier who traveled a circuit across Lossarnach for work appeared, smelling of horse and leather. He was followed by the watchman who guarded the greenway from dishonest peddlers and who played the part of a pinder to catch stray animals. A trapper, the rope maker, a potter and his wife. The smith, the thatcher, the draymen. Morwen made a point of welcoming the costermonger from Arnach who always gave her the best prices.
She pretended not to notice when Ioneth smuggled in a goatherd she didn't know. The miller family of unnumbered daughters had their eyes on the billier's family of troll-sized sons and their impressive axes.
"There, Othel, don't you be using any of those axes on my trees," she said. "Or on any of my guests."
The billier winked at her. "These are only ceremonial axes, my lady. Their only use is to attract custom."
The tables were filling up nicely with large bodies, small bodies. Children wrestling under tables, while their grandparents barked for their neighbor to speak up. Someone feathered a dulcimer. She could already hear the bells the dancers would put on after the meal. Wine barrels had been carted in along with hampers of food. Gildis and Hareth stood guard over these like the Argonath. Morwen noticed Teitherion hovering near Gildis's elbow with the painting nowhere in sight. Interesting, and Morwen thought she understood the sour twist on the housekeeper's lips.
The line of neighbors thinned, leaving Morwen on her own at the gate. She leaned against the iron post, one eye on the guests and the other on the road. Families who brought their own little morsels to share around brought them to a line of tables nearby. Morwen leaned against the gate, taking in all the people enjoying the sun under a shower of cherry petals. She could've stood there in perfect contentment till her legs withered beneath her, except for the feeling that she had forgotten someone.
Beneath the festival sounds and greetings of neighbors, Morwen heard a consistent, dull tattoo. She could not place the sound, but it began to build the way a distant storm's rumbling might as the winds blew it closer toward the valley. The bark of the old dog that stayed close to the barn these days could be heard echoing down the greenway.
Two riders and a procession of men tramping beneath the banner of Lossarnach appeared around a bend in the road. Everyone stopped to watch as men filed down the column of trees toward the orchard gate.
The foremost rider's coal-black curls hung below his shoulders. He sat tall in the saddle, immaculate, without a hint of creases or dirt from the road on his saffron tunic or green cloak. Even the flies didn't dare invade the picturesque figure the man and his horse created. Halmir. Morwen recognized the fabric for the same he had sent to her.
The second figure resembled a raven. Hundor. His straight black hair was pulled back in a queue, the color of his tunic black. The brothers' choice of colors, one yellow, one black, brought a wasp to Morwen's mind.
Morwen felt the dampness beneath her arms and down the back of her too-tight dress as half the household of Arnach came to a full stop before her gate. She could see no women and no children. Only axmen. Five score at least! The same number Hardang had sent to invade Ithilien.
Thanks to Thanwen and Anna for critters. :)