Lamedon Square Market

[Anguirel]

The thieflings receded to the soft melody of the young man's laughter.

An object would rear over their heads in a neat arc. In this bright morning, its whiteness was not especially conspicuous, though the twins had, of course, much-practiced sight. With barely the mildest of thuds it came to rest, a yard or so ahead of them.

If the pair were to look back, they would find their new acquaintance's exit complete - but he had had the basic kindness to them, if not to Mistress Nimloth, to leave his white toffee apple behind him.

[Formendacil]

Having taken the early morning shift, watching the Market from the pinkish hours of dawn, Captain Formendur was technically off-duty once the bells rang from the Tower at noon, but he rarely left the Marketplace while it was still daylight--and sometimes not at night. He had given his early adult life to the Tower Guard and had never found a wife. Now that he had grown older--and larger--he had bestowed his pent-up paternal concern on the marketplace that formed the centre of his military ward.

As usual, once the bells rang, Captain Formy made a final, lazy loop of the marketplace, and then settled into one of his favourite pubs. The Bastion and the Badger Inn was one of the few inns that opened directly onto Lamedon Square, rather than one of the side-streets, and Captain Formy had established it as his base of operations in the afternoons largely because of its easy access to the street. The fact that they had one of the best tavern cooks in Minas Anor didn't hurt either.

IT IS NOW APPROXIMATELY 1:00 IN THE AFTERNOON

[blantyr]

Bragel wasn't entirely sure of mixing mountains and horses. On the good green earth, everything was much of a level. Everything was where it should be, and where you can put it.

But when you put a horse in a city and the city on a mountain, you had to move stuff. The people with money to ride wanted to live up high, while the room for pastures and barns was outside the walls. What went into the front of the horse had to constantly be moved higher, while what came out of the back would go lower. This was here, and that had to be there.

Furthermore, there was supposed to be some fair queen way up somewhere who enjoyed singing to a tree. Somehow, Bragel, with his shovel and his cart, was responsible to make sure the tree smelled good. Well, at least the part of the tree nearest to the Bastion and Badge. He'd do what he could, but it would take a lot of boys with a whole lot of shovels if the entire tree was supposed to smell good enough for this queen.

Bragel. Shoveler to the queen. Would the Queen of the Riddermark need so many shovelers?

But it wasn't all shoveling. They did really need people who knew horses. Even the city folk knew how to handle a shovel. They didn't know horses, not to speak of. Tree or no tree, queen or no queen, Bragel figured to keep busy. Keep busy, and one could have a full stomach and maybe even a roof to sleep under.

Meanwhile, he'd stand watch. In his pocket, a carrot. By his side, a shovel. And he wasn't watching just the horses. Those with two legs could make a mess too.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fea looked about her. It was the quietest first day of open Market that she could remember. No whispers of thieves, no haggling over prices. Not even any good gossip, and after the hubbub of the morning with those silly young actor fellows, even Erchan was nowhere to be seen. But with the constant thump and thud of kneaded bread, she knew the boy was pounding dough for her, beating his small fists into the giant wooden bowls. She mixed the dough just after lunch, combining ingredients with her strong arms, and as it rose in the afternoon heat, blooming up like a fat pig's belly, the boy punched it back down.

Of course she could do it faster than him and still have time for the shoppers, but it gave him a project, and meant one less thing for Fea to do herself.

When the sound was off, a bit too wet and sticky, she yelled through the door, "More flour, boy!"

She leaned her round hip against the edge of her table and hurrumphed. It was a boring day.

But maybe now that the general shopping for necessities had gone by, and the household servants had brought wares back to their masters, the folk with more money and more time might start wandering with loose wallets and loose lips.

[Galadriel55]

The donkey walked along the wide street. He would have slowed down and looked around more if it wasn’t for Ghalakrìd’s mood and the cumbersome cart. He has never seen anything as big as this city before. It was grand; the white walls shone in the sun. It was such a warm and pleasant day. Why did his mistress want to hurry? And why was she in such a bad mood when the weather was so lovely?

Ghalakrìd scowled at her donkey, who showed every sign of turning around again to study some other traveler. “Move on, Mule!” she muttered with a smack on the donkey’s back.

Now what have I done to deserve being called ‘Mule’? the donkey thought indignantly, but trotted along obediently nonetheless, his feet making a regular clip-clop rhythm on the cobblestones. They soon came to a wide square where many colourful stands were set up, their owners advertising their goods in every way imaginable.

Ghalakrìd scowled again. This was why she tried to make haste: all the good visible spots near the center and along the streets were already taken by other merchants. There was space for her wagon in the farther corners, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sell half as many things there. People of Gondor did not buy that much from her as it was; they preferred to trade with their own kind. They trusted their own kind. They did not trust Ghalakrìd’s. Yet there was still smaller money when she was shunned off to the corners. If it only wasn’t for these wretched, rude, disrespectful children, these… – Ghalakrìd searched for a fitting description, and finding none, gritted her teeth. Nothing could be done to change anything now.

It begun with one lad. He had dark brown eyes that were unlike any other Gondorian’s. They were deep, but they were not grey; they had a true brown in them, with specks of gold. Grey for the treacherous waters, brown for the sure earth we stand upon… Ghalakrìd knew not why that simple village boy who didn’t even reach up to her waist made her heart feel warm. She almost smiled when she saw him. But then he said it, and her smile was cut short before it reached her lips. Rhûnwen. At first his voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. Then he called louder. And again. He giggled. Other lads and lasses, big and small, came running out from every house, every door. They came in front of her, not letting her pass through. And all were laughing and shouting one word. Rhûnwen. Ghalakrìd looked at the boy whom she was fond of a minute ago, whom she trusted – he was laughing with the rest, jumping around her cart. In this land, even the earth is treacherous. Then came the sticks. At least they weren’t stones, though this did not give much solace. And then… Ghalakrìd did not quite know what happened. Apples rolled on the dusty road. The children stepped on them, giving them no heed. These were her apples. She picked them from the wild trees.

Rhûnwen. It was becoming unbearable. ’Tis the noise they are making, Ghalakrìd made herself think, though she knew that it was not the noise, but the name. It seemed like the whole world was filled with arms flailing and sticks flying and din; Ghalakrìd alone stood motionless, looking with bitterness and a speck of hatred on the crazed children. She thought she would not have gotten away from that village if an old man didn’t come out to see what was happening. He called the brood away, and they reluctantly obeyed. The man did not help her pick up the fruit, not dirty and bruised. He looked mistrustfully in her direction and turned away. Ghalakrìd heard him say to the children as they walked away, “As if they haven’t killed enough of our men during the War! Now ‘tis peace, but they are unhappy still! Accursed Rhûnhoth!” And yet he stopped the youngsters. Hounds, not human children!

Only the donkey seemed to have taken real pleasure in the outing. He did not understand what all the fuss was about, but he was happy to eat one of the apples that rolled around him. He would have eaten another one, but Ghalakrìd, noticing in time, smacked him on the muzzle. She collected all the apples and washed them in a small stream before hurrying on to the city. She arranged them carefully in the basket, so that the bruises didn’t show too much. She did what she could. But the time she lost she could not regain.

Ghalakrìd lead the donkey through the market by a rope that she used as reins. It used to be white once. Now it had the same indefinite hue as Ghalakrìd’s dress. They went past a stand with loaves of fresh bread loaded on the shelf. They smelled delicious and looked so rich and crisp! But there wasn’t the money. Ghalakrìd would have to wait.

The donkey was of different mind. While Ghalakrìd was concentrating on looking around for the right place where they would park the wagon, he took a step towards the bakery and grabbed one of the loaves that lay closest.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fea faced the doorway of her shop, lecturing the street children that had tried to slip past her notice, when she heard teeth snap together entirely too close to her backside.

She spun and grabbed a loaf, the long and crusty kind meant to dip in soup to soften it before one eats it, and hoisted it like a club until she saw the horrified expression on the stranger's face, and the well pleased chomping of the donkey. Her anger melted into a chuckle as the donkey flicked his tail at a fly, absently chawing away at one of the best buttery loafs.

"Ah, well, that one had a fly land on it earlier anyhow."

Ghalakrìd's face pinkened. "I... I will pay-"

Fea eyed the woman's shabby cart and its bruised apples. This late in market day, most folks had already bought all they needed, and all that was left to buy were the things the folks had the temerity and the coin to want. They'd not be wanting second-rate apples, to be sure. If the woman got any attention, it would be from the street rats Fea had just chased away from her own wares. It would never do.

The baker met the apple seller's eyes. "Well, of course it will need to be paid for, but I've an idea. I wanted to make some apple bread for tomorrow, but when I sent my boy off to find some fruit, he came back with good eatin' apples that I couldn't bear to cut and cook. Of course the rotten scoundrel knew that all along, so it meant he got a big sweet apple with his noon time meal, and it means I haven't got an apple to my name, and a long list of customers planning to stop by my stall on the morrow, hoping to buy a big spiced loaf loaded with fruit. Mayhap we could arrange an understanding between us?"

[Galadriel55]

Ghalakrìd turned sharply, feeing that something was not right, only to see the bread disappear in the donkey's mouth. Too late.

Did she hope the Gondorian won't notice? Did she hope that what the ignorant Mule did would pass quietly, unheeded? The beast meant no harm, she knew. But, intended or not, the harm was done. And Ghalakrìd was the one who had to fix it.

Whatever hopes she had, she would not run away or hide from anyone's anger. She faced the stand firmly as the woman inside held up a different loaf ready to smite the thief with it. Ghalakrìd was not surprised; there was very little these Western strangers - and strangers they were, although she was in their midst for over two decades - could do to surprise her by now. Neither was she dismayed when the woman lowered the bread and laughed lightly.

"Ah, well, that one had a fly land on it earlier anyhow."

"I..." Ghalakrìd began to explain, apologise, say all the truth, but she stopped herself in time. Her eyes became remote, sealed, as though they were two windows suddenly slammed shut. She will not go down so low as to beg that Gondorian woman, whatever the cause be. Her clothes may be torn. She may be hungry. But she will not beg. "I will pay."

The woman eyed her sharply but kindly, like a stern disapproving mother looks at a naughty child that scraped her knee while going on another adventure. This was not to Ghalakrìd's liking.

"Well, of course it will need to be paid for, but I've an idea. I wanted to make some apple bread for tomorrow, but when I sent my boy off to find some fruit, he came back with good eatin' apples that I couldn't bear to cut and cook. Of course the rotten scoundrel knew that all along, so it meant he got a big sweet apple with his noon time meal, and it means I haven't got an apple to my name, and a long list of customers planning to stop by my stall on the morrow, hoping to buy a big spiced loaf loaded with fruit. Mayhap we could arrange an understanding between us?"

An understanding? There could be an understanding between them, between Gondor and Rhûn. Just as much as there can be an understanding between the land and the sea, the Sun and the Moon, the day and the night. Those who have victory, and the enemy. Yet there is harmony between the day and the night, one replacing the other, both comming and going in an endless circle. And there is harmony between the land and the sea, one beginning where the other ends. Shall it always be so with Men? The Men of the East and all their deeds and hopes beginning only where the Men of the West are no more?

"An understanding? Yes, if by that you mean an exchange. You need the fruit, you say. Take what it costs to pay for the bread, and if you need more, I am not the one to take more coin than my things are worth," Ghalakrìd finally replied. Her tone was not kindly. She did not seek to befriend any Gondorian, much less a plump baker who was giving her an all-knowing look mixed with a form of pity. She did not need the pity others gave her. All she wanted...

...Did she know what exactly she wanted? She came to Gondor more than twenty years ago to find food and a means of living. There was famine in her homeland after the War. The King's army did not level the country to the ground, but with all the men gone - dead, or lost - there was very little hope for many families. Many mouths to feed and much work to do. Heavy work. And not nearly enough money. That is why she left. She couldn't stand living there a year longer. Just like now, she couldn't bear returning there. She did not know how her little town was faring. She did not want to know. Even if the famine was past years and years ago, she couldn't return.

So this is what I want. A place. A home.