#faedlimid

Frumgar’s hall was a cavernous longhouse framed in timber and roofed with green sod. Painted pillars stood in rows like sentries guarding the throne and dais at the far end. A huge central fire burned brightly in the great hearth, belching out plumes of smoke up toward the ceiling. In that haze, thralls scurried like ants, laying out long trestle tables for that evening’s feast. Fram and Etheldred walked side-by-side through the fray, past the common space, and through a thick woven curtain into the corridor beyond.

It felt strange and mostly empty — almost ghostly — in comparison to the bustling main room. There were only a few people mulling about between the private rooms. Fram let out a breath, then glanced over at Etheldred to find him moping. 

-

 Fram honestly hadn’t even been paying enough attention to notice her. She was standing in the corridor, a cleaning pail at her feet, and with her was one of his father’s bannerman who was looming in the doorway of one of the private rooms, blocking entry. 

-

She was well-behaved. Never stepped out of line. Very good at keeping out of sight. Fram couldn’t think of the last time she’d ever managed to upset a member of the house, not even his mother, so he was left racking his brain about what she could have possibly done to warrant the ire on the bannerman’s face. 

-

“Funny way of looking for you, trying to get into my room,” the thane snapped,  and it was more directed at the mouse, who ducked away from him, darting closer to Fram. Her left ear was bright red, likely from a cuff, and that made Fram flash hot. He had no right to go around touching his father’s thralls. 

Fram took a step forward, effectively hedging the mouse behind him, and let his gaze drift back to thane. Next to him, Etheldred folded his arms. 

-

“Keep your thralls out of my room.” 

-

Right. That was it. Thane Dickwad, from the Narrows. He had traveled quite a long way to be here, and if Fram remembered rightly, had lost many men in that battle with the orcs that spring when the king had ridden upon Rivendell to retrieve Fram from Lord Elrond. Fram collected himself and stood up a little straighter.  

-

"That’s a mouse. It’s meant to go in your room to keep it tidy. It’s only doing as it’s been told, like all the rest of them. I’ll have my mother inform the household to keep out of your room for the rest of your stay. I apologize,”  and that was said with a thin smile that made it clear Fram was not at all sorry, “We are only trying to be good hosts.” He craned his neck, glancing past Dickwad’s shoulder into the chamber, and noted the way he sidestepped to block his line of sight. “Hiding something in there?” 

“Of course not,” Dickwad snapped.

“Then you have no reason to get so angry, do you?” Fram replied. Then, he kept his tone cool as he addressed the mouse: “Apologize to Thane Dickwad and let’s go. You’ve wasted plenty of my time already.” 

The mouse bowed very low, muttering a panicked I’m sorry. Thane Dickwad just scoffed in disbelief and shoved past them, storming down the corridor and out into the main hall. 

Fram let out a sigh of relief. The mouse was still shaking at his side, no doubt waiting to be dismissed. He gestured, indicating that she was free to go, and she was quick to snatch up her cleaning bucket and hurry off, shoulders drawn up to her ears, the bucket clenched in a white-knuckled fist. 

-

 “No thanks,” Fram said, tone sour. “Lost my appetite. I’m going to my room.” When Etheldred’s good-natured expression pulled at the edges, Fram took a second to file the sharpness off of his voice before he offered: “See you tonight?” 

“Sure,” Etheldred agreed as he started for the door. “Should be fun.” 

-

Fram was in a black mood for the rest of the afternoon. In hindsight, antagonizing his father’s bannermen wasn’t exactly the best way to spend his time. There had probably been a better way to handle that situation with Dickwad and he ought to have been harder on the mouse, he just couldn’t bring himself to. It (she, she) had just been doing her job. He couldn’t fault her for that.

Beyond that, though, it was Thane Dickwad’s reaction to the mouse entering his room that bothered him, and the way he had tried (seemingly without being conscious of it) to block Fram’s view inside. Fram felt sure that if the mouse had interrupted something important, then the thane surely would have said so. But no, he had said she was snooping. 

Well, Fram had known her a long time. She kept to herself. She never got into any trouble. There was no way she could have been snooping. 

So why was Thane Dickwad so worried about it? 

It was likely wounded pride, and nothing else. Most of his father’s bannermen were quick to anger, especially when it came to thralls. Fram could count on one hand the number of men who were not. 

He resolved to put it out of his mind and get ready for the feast, lest he spend too long sulking and wind up late for the feast. 

-

As Frumgar got up from the table, the mouse hurried in again to collect his plate. Fram’s mother struck out with her table knife and pinned the mouse’s hand to the table with a sickening crunch of bone. 

Fram sat there, stunned, watching as blood bubbled up all over the scrubbed oak board. The thrall’s body had gone rigid, her jaw working, liking she was biting her tongue to keep from crying out. 

“It’s polite to go slowly, and to wait and see if anyone has need of you, rather than darting in and out from the table. It’s annoying. We should rename you to gadfly. It seems more apt,” his mother said, in a voice still and cold as a frozen lake. “Do you understand?”

Frantically, the mouse nodded. 

Next to her, Faedlimid looked as green as her dress as she sat there, staring at her lap. 

“Mother, let her go,” Fram tried. 

Instead, she quietly said: “Refill my cup.” 

The music from the dance seemed both too loud and somehow fuzzy. Fram couldn’t feel his tongue as he sat there, white knuckled, watching the mouse shakily reach for the jug of mead on the table, lift it, and carefully, carefully pour it into his mother’s glass.

Only when she was finished, and had set the jug aside, did his mother yank the knife out of her hand with another horrible crunch. As soon as she was free, the blonde mouse fled the table, choking on her tears and cradling her hand, and three more of them rushed in with rags to sop up the blood. 

Fram watched in disbelief as his mother simply sat back in the chair and drowned herself in her cup, watching his father make his rounds through the room. He looked down at his plate and found the slice of pork he’d been so interested in earlier was flecked with blood. Fram pushed the plate away, sick, and stood from his chair. 

“Where are you going?” Faedlimid asked, looking betrayed.