Scarburg Meadhall

[Nerindel]

Æðel looked up from the small patch of sorrel she had been tending to see Matrim coming up the rough dirt path to the little garden, it was nothing much to look at the moment but when finished it would be quiet adequate enough to supply both her needs and that of the kitchen staff. She had just been remembering Frodides excitement when she had first suggested the idea and although she had only thought to planting herbs the cook had plans of her own, she had never seen the woman so animated as she had become at the prospect of planting a few carrots and even some sweet peas, so much so that she could not help but agree. The actual work on the garden had been slow as the more important building works took priority. In fact it had been herself and the cook who had selected the plot a little away from the main kitchen and to the rear of the main building, but it had been Matrim and Balvir who had turned the soil when a break in their main chores allowed, often early in the morning or late at night and as Matrim now came up the path she smiled aware of just how used to his company she had become.

Matrim’s breath caught as Æðelhild looked up her smile radiating her pale features in the midmorning light. The young woman’s smiles where rare but had came more often since the idea of the garden had become reality. It brought a great measure of joy to him to think that in some small way he had played part to her happiness and he found himself enjoying his visits to the garden more often. But not today, today his heart was heavy and as she waved for him to join her guilt tightened in his gut and he felt his mouth go uncharacteristically dry. For before him; smiling and happy was Miss Æðel, the shy but capable healer of Scarburg, a persona the young woman had adopted and used to protect herself from the pain and grief of her past. Matrim knew that the decree in his pocket would change that, he knew that she would need the strength and power the nobility of her birth had given her to deal with the trials ahead. Not only in Gondor when the time came but here also. As Æðel he feared Athanar would dismiss her as a simple annoyance that he had to put up with because his King ordered it so, but as Lady Æðelhild of Gondor he would have no choice but to recognise her nobility and treat her accordingly, but still Matrim hope not too much of Æðel would be lost as she pushed past both the pain and the shame to find the Lady of Gondor her father had raised her to be, a woman he had only witnessed briefly back in Edoras when they had first met.

As Matrim reached her Æðel could see the pained expression on the young man face, a worry as he was usually annoyingly apt at keeping his emotions hidden when he wanted too. However before she could ask him what was wrong she noted the yellowish blue bruise on his left cheek, “oh, not you too?” she sighed raising her hand to inspect his cheek (the previous day she had treated cut and bruised faces, bruised knuckles and even the bleeding nose of a young girl) Matrim looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled relieving a tension that Æðel had not noticed was there. “A soldier who needed a lesson in respect,” Matrim explained. “That was you!” Æðel exclaimed, her concern look now turned to a frown. Matrim sighed; shaking his head, “I know I should not have resorted to violence and I will apologise for my actions but not the lesson, it did need learning.” Matrim did not wait for her to be satisfied with his reply instead he continued, “But My Lady it is Important that we speak at once, inside if we may.”

The use of title shook Æðel as did the urgency in his voice, so nodding nervously she led the way to the quarters that had been set aside for the healer of Scarburg. “What is it? What is wrong?” she asked as soon as they were both inside. Matrim did not speak instead he reached into his jacket and took out a folded parchment which he then held out to her. Taking it from him she at once recognised the seal of the King of Gondor, her hands shook as she lifted the seal and unfolded the parchment to read. Almost at once her head spun and her legs gave way, Matrim caught her as she fell. “So it is public then!” she whispered uneasily, Matrim nodded knowing that she meant in Gondor. “So what would you have me do now?” she asked looking into his usually comforting grey eyes, but finding again that pained look as he answered, “I would have Lady Æðelhild of Gondor introduce herself to Lord Athanar at once before he thinks we have something to hide.” Æðel nodded having already surmised as much, but needing him to say it anyway to bolster her resolve. “Then I should change.” She said letting Matrim help her to her feet and looking down at her earth stained hands and clothes. “I shall just be outside.” Matrim assured her and with a nod he left her alone to go wash and change.

It took a while for her to scrub the dirt from her nails and comb out her hair, but after that she was soon dressed and ready to go. She wore the dress she wore to Edowine’s wedding, perhaps not what one would expect a lady of Gondor to wear but it was the best she had. Looking round the room she could not help but shed a tear, she had once promised Matrim and Balvir that when the time came she would be ready, but now it was before her she was not sure she was strong enough, but she had to try! With that thought Æðelhild fought back the tears, wiped her eyes and opened the door to find Matrim waiting as he had promised, he offered her his arm which she gratefully accepted, then they both went to introduce themselves to the new Eorl.

[Folwren]

Athanar’s response was not what Javan had expected at all. He looked up at lord Athanar in surprise and a little wonder. Perhaps Thornden was right, after all.

“Your pardon is granted, young man. I will not bear a grudge on you for what you said during the hearing. Actually, what you said just now, coming here with your apology, I will think more highly of you then before we started earlier this morning.”

Javan remained silent and listened, his attention wrapped with expectation as Athanar told him of Raban, and then of his own experience with chain mail making. This man, so unlike lord Eodwine in some ways, was very much like him in others.

Saeryn, standing by and watching the exchange, had much the same thought. He was a good man, after all. Hard, yes, but good.

Athanar turned to Degas. “Have you been taught to make a chainmail for yourself, Degas?”

Degas shook his head. “No, that was nothing I had the opportunity to learn. My apprenticeships bent in other directions.”

Athanar nodded and turned back to Javan, who stood waiting for dismissal. “Go out and find Raban. You may as well get started directly.”

“Yes, sir,” Javan said, and turned to go. On his way out, he passed the healer, Æðel and Matrim. He stepped aside and let them pass. Once outside, he paused. Crabannan sat just a few feet away, idly strumming his harp. Javan stood listening, wondering what he should do. Thornden told him to apologize to both Athanar and Aedre. But Athanar told him to find Raban. If he found Raban, he wouldn’t get a chance to apologize to Aedre until later, but if he went in search of Aedre now, Athanar might spot him not with Raban.

[Folwren]

Quin heaved a sigh of intense frustration. He turned from the target and clenched his hands. He had thrown a straight spear hundreds of times before. Why now, when there were dozens of people around, could he not do it right? As he passed the captain on his way to stand in rank, he shot him a furtive look. Coenred did not even glance his way. The second in command did look at him, however. Quin looked swiftly away and found his place behind the other soldiers who had already thrown their spears.

The young man did not have the presence of mind to compare himself with others. Perhaps it was wisdom not to compare, for one should not think only of how others do, but how well one does oneself, detached and alone. In such a case, however, it was discouraging. Quin only looked at himself, and he had done poorly, and that was all he knew. He did not realize that others as well were not performing up to their usual standards that day.

Their next object was to practice their abilities on horseback. Quin looked disappointed. His horse had lamed himself on the last stretch of rode the previous day. In order not to be left out completely, he offered his help to the captain and helped set up the obstacles for the horsemen. He stood by and watched as the soldiers put their horses through their paces, practiced their archery and casting the spear again. The men were finally warmed up, it seemed, for most did fairly well.

“We will do the hand-to-hand combats next,” he heard Coenred tell a man to his right. “I want to see how they do at close quarters.”

Quin swallowed nervously. His talent had never run in that direction. He did not like the idea of seeing his enemy die so close, and he had never liked the sword practices. It was different than practicing with the sword or spear. With those weapons, one had a target one threw at. If you hit the target, you did well, and no one was hurt. But while practicing with a sword, even with the blunted weapons they used, people got hurt. Not seriously, no, but the bruises could be gloriously nasty. It was not as though Quin feared pain, it was merely that he did not glory in it, like some young men, and even older men, did. He would much rather have stayed home and learned a craft, or an art, perhaps a form of instrument. But it was not to be.

The soldiers completed their rounds on horseback, and the horses trotted back towards the captain and waited for the next orders.

[Thinlómien]

"This is insufferable!" Wulfric shouted. He and his brother were on a ride again, and they had ridden for an hour without saying anything. Wulfric's face had been as dark as a storm cloud ever since the hearing, and now he had seemed to decide to let it all out. Fine, Wilheard shrugged. Let him rant if helped him. He too was annoyed at many things, but he thought his big brother was being overtly dramatic, as so often.

"Will, what have I done wrong? What have we done wrong? What have I done to deserve to be disinherited like some disgraceful vagrant?"

Wilheard could think of many witty replies, but for once he kept his mouth shut. He didn't truly understand why his father had done what he had, and he was angry for his brother too. But truth be told, it didn't really concern him. He was born the second son, and he had always known he would have to make his own life, earn his own place in the military and not inherit land or holdings. Undoubtedly, it was different from Wulfric's perspective.

"What is my crime, Will?" Wulfric's eyes were full of anguish, and Wilheard could feel his brother's pain. But there was nothing he could say to help him, he understood the situation even less than his brother did. Wulfric had always been the politician, the one who understood the twists and turns, the chances and ways of power. If he was at loss, Wilheard was even more so.

"I don't understand. I did everything they wanted me to! I worked hard to become a soldier, and I was the best in my class. No other son of an Eorlinga ever bested me in a fight.

I learned first how to take care of my horse, and as I grew older I was given the unofficial responsibility to look after you, my little brother. In my training, I was appointed to lead and tutor younger boys and show them what it is to be an Eorling soldier. I strived to be a good leader. I never failed Blackmane or Northwind, nor you, nor any of the lads.

I always did my duties. Maybe not always without grumbling, but I did them. I broke some rules too, that I know, but if somebody says I didn't suffer my punishments like a man, he is a liar and deserves to be flogged.

What is a man that doesn't make mistakes? Am I to suffer a lifetime shame because played pranks on the shepherd when I was but a boy? Am I deemed unworthy because I wooed the miller's or the innkeeper's daughter or because I drank on duty?

Or because yesterday I followed a traitor plotting against my lord and tried to make him talk?

Is this my fate? Has another man ever been so wronged in his life, or do I truly deserve all this from my father whom I always strived to obey and respect like a loyal son?"

Wulfric let out a wail and looked to the sky, as if challenging the gods to be his witness. Wilheard could see tears running down his face. It was not a usual sight, and it made Wilheard's heart burn with fury. His brother spoke true - he had always been an ideal Eorling warrior: the biggest, the brutest, the boldest and looking after his underlings with utmost care. He did not deserve this kind of humiliation or questioning his value, not to mention being substituted by a whining peasant girl and her unborn child. Their father must have gone cracked.

Indeed, the more he thought of that, the more it seemed like that. Athanar as Wilheard remembered him had been a gentle father, noble and distant, but definitely full of goodwill, unlike their mother who had had no patience for boyish whims or cheerfulness and who had often scolded them with harsh words. And Athanar had definitely been a lord to be proud of.

But who was this Athanar they had come back to from the military? He was noble, and gentle, but definitely cracked. His gentleness and turned to weakness - how often did Athanar's eyes glimmer with tears when he recalled something from the past, how meek punishments he executed on his subjects? And who in their right mind would disinherit their eldest son, especially if it was someone like Wulfric?

Wilheard thought maybe this would make Wulfric feel better, so he told his brother as much. Wulfric nodded fervently. "It must be the only explanation. It would also explain why he treated us today like he did." Wulfric's face grew dark on the thought of it, and he would have started another rant had Wilheard not been quicker. He was offended by their father's behaviour towards them too.

"First he publicly inherits us without bothering to tell us first. Apparently we are not worth that.

Then, he talks to us as if we were barely away from mother's breasts. He talks to us as if we are idiots, in front of all the people. Good that he didn't call us 'kiddies'!"

"Indeed", Wulfric growled in a low voice. "And then, on top of all that ridicule, he exerts on us a punishment that could be given to some ten-year olds! Go do a little chippadeedoo duty with uncle Lithor. And behave nicely, boys. No poking fingers in each other's noses!"

Despite everything, Wilheard had to laugh. He had always been the witty one out of the two, but Wulfric could have his way with words when he was angry.

"Although, we have to remember he gave the same punishment to Lithor, so he treats him like a baby too," Wulfric added.

"Well that's no surprise, they greybeard has proven himself to be senile. Have we given as bad an impression?" Wilheard asked.

"This is insufferable!" Wulfric replied, tearing his hair. "He must be out of his mind, there is no other logical explanation, is there? If he didn't seem so insane, I would go to him and demand to be punished like a man for whatever crimes he wishes to charge me of. I can't stand being treated like wayward child when I'm a grown-up man, fully aware of the consequences of my actions. I can understand not being so harsh on a man so old he is starting to sink back towards his childhood, but to a young man in his prime, never!"

For a while, there was silence. Wilheard was starting to feel angrier and angrier, and Wulfric was clearly thinking of something.

"Do you know what this means, Wilheard?" Wulfric asked in a shaky voice after a while.

Wilheard shook his head.

"If our esteemed father is truly somehow out of his mind, we must be extra vigilant. No one else should know about this. We should see to that everything seems as normal as possible. We shall act as if this kind of dishonourable treatment towards one's sons is normal. If we don't raise a question about it, maybe it will go unnoticed.

And we need to take the responsibility as his sons. If he flips totally, we need to get help for him. A healer or a... witch, as you would call them, I suppose. But we are the grown-up men of this family now. We need to take control, and take care."

Wulfric paused. It was sort of contradictory. He seemed as appalled at the idea of their father having some strange illness on his mind as Wilheard was, yet there was a spark in his eyes, something very familiar to Wilheard - it was the spark of determination and enthusiasm in face of a difficult challenge, Wulfric's spark of life.

Wilheard could feel the same. He had never been into politics or responsibilities, his dream had been being his brother Eorl Wulfric's right hand man and a war hero, tamer of the greatest of mearas and the swiftest of hawks, but this desolate place and the queer challenges it brought were something he recognised as an adventure. He spoke at length:

"And if his madness is of the terminal kind, it might be you inherit this place after all, at least for a while."

"Do not speak of that," said Wulfric, but the spark flashed in his eyes. "We shall go back now, and act according to the plan."

"But one more thing before we go," said Wilheard. He lowered his voice. "I think this place is cursed."

[Legate of Amon Lanc]

That was a start of the day! After the somewhat sleepy hour of trials, this has been something of a fresh awakening. Soldiers, barely a few dozens of them, riding through the plain, steam rising from their horses' backs. The men and animals getting to know each other, learning. Hilderinc paid close attention to those around him. Fighting alongside troops alien to you, you had to learn fast. If this had happened in the war, good coordination might have been difference between life and death. Even though these were peaceful times, Hilderinc still acted as if the enemy could cross Scar in every moment. Well, after all, they always could. And anyway, for Hilderinc, there have never been times when he would think that there was not a possibility of a new war. No peace was for certain and the world could always change.

The soldiers of Scarburg did not seem very well trained to him, but then, he had not expected much. Sufficient for a border-guard, much worse perhaps for an armed conflict. There were good soldiers among them, ones who seemed that they could become excellent if they got some proper training. Some of them were even worse than a few of the untalented - as Hilderinc knew them well - but properly trained warriors of Athanar's household. Well, perhaps now, with Coenred as their leader, there was an opportunity for them to improve their skills.

Coenred's next order was to dismount and fight on foot. Hilderinc smiled at noticing some of the younger soldiers' expressions. He knew what they were thinking: he could almost read their thoughts, they were all the same. "We are Eorlingas, why do we have to fight on foot? We have our horses." Have your mount slain in the middle of battlefield, Hilderinc thought to himself, and then we may talk about what is important. Also, these youngsters apparently have not been listening properly to the stories of the old about the Battle of Hornburg. It had been lucky for its defenders that even of the boys fighting there many had enough reason to have at least basic practice in hand-to-hand combat. What would all the wonderful riders do, driven into the stone fortress like rats, with no mount by their side? Oh, what a minor difference, and perhaps Helm's Deep would have had fallen on that terrible night, and there will be no dawn to come! But no, that did not happen, because there were men who knew how to fight on foot. And their current King and the King of Mundburg have shown their best there, too, didn't these youngsters ever hear?

Hilderinc has actually always been giving more importance to fight on foot than many of his companions. And as he dismounted, he decided that whomever he was to face now, he would give him the toughest lecturing.

[Nerindel]

Iomhair

Many times since Lord Edowine fell ill did Iomhair consider packing up and moving on? With no Eorl the stories soon grew stale and Iomhair became restless, even more so as she came to realise that more was being spent on the building of the hall than was being brought back in to it. She had no intention of working for free, even if she was only recording those building works. It was curiosity that finally kept her in place, with no news of Lord Edowine’s recovery she knew it wouldn’t be long before the King of Rohan was forced to appoint another in his stead and appoint another he did! Not only was the man of a recognised noble line but he was completely different in character to that of his predecessor.

Iomhair’s interest was again piqued and the new Lord did not disappoint in her expectations, Asserting and exacting his authority from that first day. Her jaw had almost hit the floor as one of the halls soldiers answered back to a Lord of the Mark, but even this shock could not break the excited exhilaration she felt at the thought of witnessing unfolding events.

Already this morning she had scrolled the trials of both Lithor, the soldier from the night before and Javan, a young lad who had seemingly assaulted the new Lords youngest daughter. She had been careful to scribe word for word all that was said with no embellishments of her own, as her appointment by the previous Lord did not assure her appointment by this new lord. It had not been that difficult as the trials had held intently the attention of all those present, especially when Lord Athanar’s sons accused Thorden of playing part in listening to a plot of treason, then again as Lord Athanar announced his intentions of adopting the Lady Saeryn. This had made her look up and study the man intently, it was something definitely not expected and it had brought new thoughts to Iomhair’s mind. Looking at Athanar’s Eldest son, she had wondered how he had taken the news, if it upset him though he had been smart enough not to show it in public.

The trials were soon over and the hall dismissed, still not sure to whom she should defer she followed the crowds out, returning briefly to her room to lay the scrolls out and let the ink dry. Recalling that the Soldiers were going to drill she grabbed some charcoal and some fresh parchment then set out to capture spirit of those set with the task of protecting this meadhall.

She soon found a spot far enough that she would not be in the way but close enough that she could still make out the beads of sweat on each mans brow. Her hands moved quickly across the page as the men where put through their paces by the new commander.

[Nogrod]

"That was soo groce!" Cnebba exclaimed and pulled a face.

But there was no immediate reaction from Garmund - and Leodthern stood quiet looking at the two boys.

They were outside the Hall after the hearings. Garmund had been looking downwards but now finally raised his head.

"I'm not sure Cnabba..." He eyed at her sister as well. "I'd like to learn to make a chainmail myself... Think how cool it would be!"

Cnebba was fully astounded. He had only thought of the limping figure of that cripple called Raban and Javan needing to spent hours in closed quarters with him, but now he recognised the coolness of what Garmund said... and he blushed (a thing he hated when it happened in front of Leodthern).

"But..." he started.

"I know what you mean Cneb, but he's a war hero, as lord Athanar said. And he's a master-craftsman! My dad always says you should learn from those who know their business and I'd bet a lot that this odd Raban knows things... even if he's a weirdo" With the last remark Garmund offered Cnebba a soothing smile and Cnebba took it laughing in releavment.

The doors opened and Javan got out. He would have looked a bit disoriented to any adult eye, as not quite knowing where to go, but the three kids surrounded him immediately.

"How was it?", "Was it cool?", "Were you afraid?", "What do you think of Raban?", "What do you think of lord Athanar?", "What is that Raban like?", "Will you make a chainmail?", "Is it cool?".