"That'll do, my prince. It won't help to drown the fellow. "

The calm of Cenhelm's voice dispersed some of the red fog clouding Thengel's brain. He had one hand on the lip of a rain barrel and the other squeezing the back of Lord Halmir's neck, half of which he's submerged into the rainwater. A net of black hair floated at the top of the water, disturbed by a storm of bubbles.

Thengel pulled Halmir up by the man's scruff and received a shower of water for his trouble, though his sleeves were already drenched. He was made to let of go of Halmir by Cenhelm. The lordling coughed and sputtered and dripped all over the grass, seemingly unaware of anyone else until he could catch his breath.

"There," said Cenhelm to Lord Halmir, helping to steady him. "No hard feelings. Only you weren't too sober and it was getting out of hand."

"Let go of me," Halmir sniped as he wiped rivulets of water from his face. He stumbled backward away from Thengel's guard who had assembled around the barrel to keep the rest of the guests at a safe distance, complaining loudly of cutthroat barbarians.

Thengel turned to follow Halmir, but Cenhelm stayed him. The lordling disappeared around the front of the dais into the crowd.

"Give Lord Halmir a proper head start before you tackle him again," Cenhelm said. "Or put your own head in the barrel for a cooling if you aren't wet enough already."

Thengel glanced down at his dripping sleeves and tunic. Halmir had thrashed around like a hooked shark. "There's nothing wrong with my head."

"Only you don't use it at times. My lord, it isn't your place to thrash the young people. Save that for the Steward's enemies."

Thengel pretended to ignore this, listening to what was said among his men.

"Barbarians," Thurston drawled. "Hhn."

"Do you think he means us?" Guthere asked.

Gladhon, on whose arm Guthere was leaning, eyed the grizzled head wound and scabbed over scratches.

"He wasn't referring to himself, that's certain," he said.

Thengel accepted a cloth from Thurstan who had gone to fetch it from the dais table. He scrubbed the water from his face and neck.

"Where is Lady Morwen?" he asked.

"She went back to the house with her serving woman," Thurstan answered. "Just about the time you introduced Lord Halmir to the barrel."

At least there was that, Thengel thought. "Good. She doesn't need to see her cousin just now."

"Lord Halmir also scarpered off that direction." Thurstan thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of the house. "I'm not sure what good you did beyond clearing his muddled head for another round of marriage talk. Though that smirking grub, his brother, is still around if you'd like a go at him too."

Gladhon frowned as he craned his head toward the orchard gate. "Now we won't hear Lady Morwen's answer," he complained.

"That's the point," Thengel muttered.

"You aren't curious?"

"No," Thengel snapped. It was the resounding word in his head when Halmir announced his intentions. Halmir in his blinding tunic and curled hair would never value the woman with the dirt of her beloved orchard under her nails.

Gladhon shrugged. "You don't seem keen on him asking her."

Thengel nearly drilled Gladhon into the ground with the look he gave. "Asking? He told her to marry him," he muttered. "That isn't how it's done."

"How would you know, my lord?" Cenhelm said dryly. "You've never tried."

Thengel tossed the cloth back to Cenhelm. "For good reason." Which he wasn't about to explain to them.

"I also fail to see how this turn of events between our hostess and her cousin are any business of yours," Cenhelm droned on. "After all, you aren't her protector."

"No, I'm not." What did that have to do with anything? Thengel gritted his teeth. For a man to come to a lady's home with a small army, devour the eatables, drink himself into a stupor, then put her on the spot in front of her guests. Well, it flew in the face of decency. Self-centered, overbearing, egomaniac…it was exactly the sort of thing Thengel's father would have done — if Lady Morwen had been a side of beef.

And now Thengel's own men were questioning whether he ought to have come to Lady Morwen's defense? Fengel King has certainly sent his son the most annoying riders he could come by.

Thengel swore under his breath. He needed to get free of Hardang's brothers and his own guard to retrieve his native tranquility. Turning abruptly, he took off down the nearest path beneath the trees. Nothing like exercise for venting steam.

"Where are you going?"

"Farther up and farther in." He waved them off when they tried to follow. "No, I want to go alone."

…

Thengel walked alone under the apple trees high on the orchard slope beyond the range of other guests until his sleeves were nearly dry after the soaking and his anger cooled to a few smoldering embers. He barely felt the little pebbles and grass tussocks beneath his feet as he walked, but the uniform lines of flowering trees had a mollifying effect on him. Thengel observed, dryly, that if he had encountered more fruit trees in his life things might have gone otherwise for him. And he clung stubbornly to that thought, because just behind it came the recollection of what had just happened. His mind darted around it the way a fly rises and falls around a pile of horse shit. He was the fly that didn't want to land.

He had begun to breathe normally by the time he reached the last of the apples. The west wall loomed over the curve of the slope and the lines of trees ended in the green sward. Just a few strides ate up the distance and Thengel stood before the door leading beyond Morwen's — or whoever's — property into the woods. He gripped the handle, then remembered the lock required a key that lay in her possession.

"The door is locked."

Thengel recoiled from the door, swiveling around to find the cracked artist sitting with his easel just within the shadow line cast by the trees. The old man held a brush in one hand that dripped paint onto his blessedly clothed knee.

"You need a key," Teitherion croaked.

Years must have passed since a mere civilian had caught him unawares since he developed the instincts of a trained ranger. He thanked Bema that Ecthelion wasn't hard by to witness the slip.

"I know," Thengel managed to say around his confusion.

"Lady Morwen keeps it, I believe," that artist added helpfully.

"Does Lady Morwen know you're sitting up here?" Thengel asked.

The artist shrugged. "Of course. We have an agreement. She allows me to paint in peace as long as I remain garmented."

Bless the woman, Thengel thought.

Teitherion's eyes puckered up as he took in Thengel's appearance. "You're the exiled prince, aren't you?"

Thengel's eyes slid sideways in case anyone else happened to be nearby. The conversation had a familiar ring to it. Thengel already thought the artist's mind had proved less than balanced. He could add forgetful to the list.

"Yes," he answered hesitantly.

Teitherion sniffed. "I painted your portrait."

"You said so when I stayed at your hut."

Teitherion blinked rapidly. Then he shrugged and continued painting. "Did I? Oh well. What was the name of your steed? He has wonderful lines. Very proud bearing. A pleasure to paint."

The question stabbed Thengel in the chest. "Fyrwylm. He had wonderful lines."

"Dead?" the artist weedled.

"I sent him back to Rohan before he was too old to enjoy the plains again, but…yes. You painted him, as well?"

A cunning look spread across his face. "If you ever want it I'd be happy to sell."

Thengel frowned and said, "I thought you donated it to the Archives."

The artist shrugged. "I could withdraw it."

Thengel took a step backward. He felt half tempted, but knew the old scammer simply knew how to exploit his loyalty to his first mount. "I'm not interested."

"No? That's unusual," the artist said thoughtfully. "It's a cunning painting, if I do say so myself. A memento for you. Besides, most important people are fond of looking at their likenesses."

"I prefer not to look at myself," Thengel groused.

Teitherion gave him a knowing glance. "If you don't know how you look, how can you fix your appearance?"

Thengel groaned inwardly. That's what he didn't like - saying something completely innocuous only to have a sage twist those very words into something erudite and irritating.

"If you want to reconsider, try looking it up in the Archives when next you return to Minas Tirith." Teitherion rooted around in his stained bag then handed Thengel a pulpy square of homemade paper. He painted a name across it in an shaky hand. "That's the archivist who curates the art collection. Ask for him."

"Right." Thengel shoved the card into his sleeve - forgetting about the paint until it was too late. He swore under his breath. Blue-black paint streaked down his wrist and the paper stuck to his skin. An angry color. It struck him as odd. He looked up. The sky which had been blue in the afternoon had begun to cloud over with gray. This was not the color of the sky.

"What are you painting, Teitherion?"

The artist gestured for Thengel to step around the easel and see for himself. Wave upon wave heaped up over one another. In the background of the painting a silver-white spike struggled to keep its head above the water.

The image confused Thengel. "I thought you'd paint the trees."

Teitherion snorted. "I've painted thousands of trees in my time and sent them all to market with Lady Morwen's folk in the summer for people with no taste and little pocket money to purchase. Why on earth would I want to paint more?"

Thengel looked around them. They were surrounded by trees. "But you're in an orchard."

"An artist doesn't have to paint what's directly in front of him," Teitherion said sourly.

"Then where do these waves and that spike come from?"

Teitherion squeezed his eyes shut. "Dreams." He shuddered. "Nightmares. The people of this country have always been haunted by rising waves…and the land under waves."

He hadn't meant to, but Thengel found himself backing away. The artist opened his eyes.

"You won't get out that way," Teitherion continued.

Thengel stared. "What?"

The artist prodded the air in Thengel's direction with his paintbrush. "The garden door behind you. You can't get out that way. You'll have to go back down through the orchard."

"I don't wish to get out," Thengel muttered to himself. Just away.

…

AN: Apologies for the delay (and any typos I've missed in my rush to get this out). RL does get out of hand and very busy. Thank you for reading!