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Old 01-13-2004, 02:32 AM   #45
piosenniel
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Sting

Gondor

Day turned toward afternoon. The mild morning chill that heralded winter in these lands had passed, and now the hours grew warmer as the sun climbed in the sky. Derylin had come to the house, as he did every week, bringing his swords slung in a leather sheath on his back, and news from the city.

The children, their hands still sticky from stolen cakes, assailed him, dipping their little fingers into the wide pockets of his vest. There were always treasures hidden in their depths – bright shiny stones this time, purported to be from Aglarond, a few heart shaped leaves still green with summer that surely had come from Lorien, and tiny whistles cleverly carved from the hollowed bones of little birds some great lord had snared on a bright spring day.

Isilmir was the first to find a whistle, reeling it out of the pocket and into his hands like a prize fish on a rainbowed string. His sisters gathered round, their eyes wide and envious as Derylin guided the boy’s fingers over the little holes and bade him blow gently on the smooth mouthpiece. Their lips, sweet with honey, parted in delight at the pleasant notes that flew from the little pipe.

‘Oh! I need one!’ cried Cami, clapping her hands as she danced up and down on the courtyard stones. Derylin drew out a second one from his upper pocket, this one on a bright green string, and placed it over the bobbing child’s head. Her chubby little fingers mimicked her brother’s and soon she was happily finding her own, sometimes melodious, tunes to play.

‘And what about you?’ asked the man as he crouched down before Gilwen. Her grey eyes flashed with anticipation, but she raised her chin and drew herself up as if to look down on him from some great height. ‘I should think I might like one,’ she said in an even voice. The scene they played would not hold. He winked at her as he placed the silvered string about her neck, drawing peals of childish laughter. ‘My lady,’ he said, catching her up in his arms and swinging her about in a circle. A chorus of giggles attended his actions and pleas of, ‘Next! Next!’ from the other two who had come running up.

Pio shook her head in admonishment at him, as he set the last of them down and sent them all off to play by the fountain. ‘You will surely spoil them,’ she said laughing. ‘Not possible,’ he said, his face a mask of shameless innocence.

They drew away from the fountain where the children played, to a wide, smooth area in the courtyard. In her hand she held her sheathed sword and with a deft motion she wrapped the leather belt from which it hung twice about her waist. ‘What news do you bring from the city?’ she asked, fastening the plain leather vambraces on her forearms. ‘Nothing too much,’ he returned, drawing his blade. ‘Save that I hear it rumored there is to be a celebration of some sort in a few weeks or so.’

She drew her own blade, testing the familiar feel of it as she sliced the air in front of her with a few quick strokes. ‘Celebration of . . . what?’ Derylin saluted her and advanced on her, blade turned to the side. ‘I don’t know, really. Something the King wishes to do.’ She parried and drove him back. ‘There will be many from outside the city, outside Gondor, who will attend,’ he continued, driving the tip of her blade toward the ground with a downward cut. ‘Or so I have heard.’

Talk ceased between them for a space of time as the sound of metal clanging and scraping against itself filled the courtyard. They were sweating, their breath coming hard, when they called off the dance of steel with nods of mutual assent. Pio sheathed her blade and wiped the sweat from her face with the hem of her tunic.

Cook had come out with a pitcher of chilled wine and another of juice for the children. Swords put aside, Derylin and Pio sat in chairs beneath the fig tree, watching as Isilmir, egged on by his sisters, walked backwards and eyes shut round the raised rim of the fountain. ‘This could be the time he makes it,’ chuckled Derylin, his statement proved false by the splash that followed.

‘So, will you be going . . . to the celebration,’ he reminded her. ‘I hope not,’ she said, thinking of dresses and shoes that pinched, and hair coaxed into something more elaborate than the plait that hung down her back. And dueling conversations with smiles held rigidly in place. With any luck, Mithadan would not return in time, and she would have an excuse to beg off. She refilled their mugs, and clinked hers against his. ‘You will be going, of course,’ she said, saluting him with her mug. ‘You can tell me anything of interest that happens . . .’

Cami came walking up to them, carefully carrying a small plate of honey cakes sent out by Cook. She set the plate on the table, then stepped back, her hands behind her back, looking expectantly from one to the other. Pio raised her brows as Derylin offered the cakes for Cami to make first choice. ‘Just one,’ she instructed the little girl, seeing her reach with two hands toward the plate. Cami grinned impishly, as if she’d expected the restriction, and selected one from the bottom of the pile. A large, fat cake studded with plump raisins she had placed there herself. She giggled and curtsied quickly, then ran off, prize in hand.

‘Her mother’s daughter isn’t she?’ commented Derylin around a mouthful of the sticky pastry. ‘Always plans ahead.’

Last edited by piosenniel; 04-21-2004 at 02:07 AM.
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