(121-05-22) Not Fashionable
Not Fashionable
Summary: Eomer checks in on his new "protegé".
Date: May 22, 2014
Related: Opportunity Knocks

Room One - Quill and Tankard — Hightower And Citadel

This is a small timber-walled room with a sloping wooden roof and a floor of wide worn wooden planks. A window at the far wall lets one look out over the city. There is a bed that looks as if it's seen its share of work, but it's got clean bedclothes and a feather mattress.

A sturdy wooden table and a heavy chair sit against one wall. The room is plain, but everything is clean and well made, and all the woodwork is smooth and oiled.

Delwyn has taken full advantage of this unexpected fortune. Which is to say he ate the food they'd give him, drank the drink they'd give him, and he had a bath. Oh, did he ever have a bath. At first he stared at the oils having no clue what to do with them. Then he set them aside because, seriously, why are they even there? Still, a good scrubbing, washing out his clothes and hanging them around various pieces of furniture to dry, and he went to sleep nekkid. The sheets were actually clean enough it was safe to do that! Luxury. Of course, in the morning, he's not really sure what to do with himself, so he lays in bed. For a long time. It is the most comfortable place he's ever been. At least it makes him easy to locate.

It does, though the news that Delwyn hasn't yet surfaced from his room by eleven o'clock in the morning does give Eomer pause and the fleeting concern that maybe Delwyn choked on a chicken bone or something. He raps lightly on the door, hoping that someone within is yet alive and will allow entry.

Delwyn's voice comes from inside, and he seems awake enough. "Come in," he says. The man really does need to develop a greater sense of paranoia. He doesn't even ask who it is. The door is unlocked. His clothes are draped over chairs by the window where the sun is coming in, and he's sitting up in bed, supported by pillows, bare-chested with blankets to his waist. There's a pot of tea on the nightstand, and he's cupping a mug of it in his hands. Someone has been up to take a pulse, at least. Cleaned up, he's a handsome enough youth. The bedhead involves a lot of curls splayed in all directions, but overall, he's healthy, well-built, good teeth. If this were a horse market he'd be a good value.

Eomer steps inside, nudging the door shut. "Well, you look well scrubbed," he offers cheerfully. "How did you sleep?" He glances around the room but, finding the only available libation to be tea, he sighs softly and pours himself a cup.

"I kept waking up because I was so comfortable I didn't know where I was," Delwyn says with warm enthusiasm. "Then I got to curl up in bed and fall asleep all over again. It was wonderful." He doesn't seem to mind sharing his tea at all. It's Eomer's tea after all. "I would've gotten out of bed sooner but my clothes are still drying. Then I thought I didn't have anywhere to actually be, and this is the first time I've ever just laid around." He lowers his voice and adds, "It's madness."

"It's very fine, isn't it?" Eomer replies approvingly, blowing on his tea before taking a sip. "If these are the only clothes you have, then I suppose today we'll have to get you more. And a haircut." Sip. "And I was thinking… staying in an inn like this, well, it's never perfectly secure. Perhaps it'd be best if you let me stow away your letters for safe keeping."

Delwyn nibbles a bit at his lower lip as he regards Eomer without guile. "I'm already not sure I can pay you back, Lord Eomer, unless you let me work for you, or if my father gives me a good position when he recognizes me. If he does." He nods slowly. "Yes, I'll keep track of everything you do for me, and I'll pay you back, I swear it." He grins. "Then I place myself in your capable hands." Though he then has to think about the letters. His face is an open book. He doesn't want to part with them, but… "They're too important to lose," he decides. "You'll let me see them when I ask? I just want to make sure they're there. I'd like to keep the pin, though. It's all I've got left of my mother, and I never even knew she had it."

"Yes, of course," Eomer agrees, "Whenever you ask. I just don't want to risk someone scurrying off with them or dropping them in a bucket of water or something. They're the only proof that you have. If they're gone, you'll never be accepted into the fold." He offers a small smile. "In my hands? Good, then. And don't worry. I have a great many friends about town. Nothing's costing quite so much as you might think."

Delwyn looks around the room again. "Are you sure? This room is more than half the size of my house, and they give you so much food. And it's so good! If you don't mind me saying so, my lord, I was brought up to believe that nobles were terrible people who'd crush you as soon as look at you, and that in these big cities no one cared about anyone. They couldn't have been more wrong."

"Well, you do have to be careful," Eomer allows, "Not everyone is so kind. And nobility does tend to prefers its own company, which is why we have to teach you how to be one. But on the whole I wouldn't say we're any better or worse than any other slice of humanity."

"Yes, but you've got so little to gain by helping me," Delwyn says. He lowers his gaze to his teacup, and he says, "I'm not a fool. I know that no one acts out of blind altruism. I want you to know that I will work to repay you if it takes the rest of my life, my lord, because you have little enough to gain for your trouble, and I cannot imagine what I could possibly give you."

"You'll be powerful one day, believe it or not," Eomer replies, finishing his own tea and setting down the cup, "and few people get the chance to help powerful people in need. I have it, and I'm taking it. Besides, I do love a good story, and this has the makings of a ballad."

Delwyn opens his mouth, closes it, and then hits Eomer with the full blunt force of that grin. "Will I really? What did it say in those letters?" A question asked without suspicion, but rather meekness. He finishes his tea, then somewhat awkwardly leans over to the chair to pat at his clothing. Dry enough? Dry enough. He sits up, dangles his legs over the edge of the bed, and pulls the clothing to him while he remains more or less still covered.

"They said that your father was a nobleman of House Tarth… also called the Evenstar, by the by, hence that pin you carry. He loved your mother very much, but they were forced to part ways when family members became angry at their union. She fled their wrath with you in her belly and tried to make a new, quiet life for herself away from the Stormlands." Eomer's shoulders lift and fall. "Aaaand, that's it, really." Well, it's not a lie exactly. It's just… heavily omitted truth. Kinda.

Delwyn's eyes widen, and he has to take a moment to let that sink in. Just that much seems to overwhelm him. He sits there, clothes held limply on his lap, and he stares out the window without really looking at anything. "He loved her," he says quietly. He purses his lips, bites back any untoward emotion, but he swallows, bows his head, and his voice is thick with it when he says, "We meant something to him." He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then nods, hair flipping, and he gives Eomer a fleeting smile. "Thank you, my lord. From the bottom of my heart, you have my gratitude." He quickly dresses, then. "And so I won't waste any more of your time. I am at your disposal."

"Yes, he did," Eomer agrees, tucking his hands in his pockets and clearing in throat at the show of repressed emotions. "Ah, good. Have you had breakfast? Are you hungry? We can get something to eat at the marketplace, but it won't be so fine a fare."

Delwyn says with a quiet laugh, his composure returning, "I couldn't eat another bite. They brought me something to eat when they brought the tea." He smooths his rather simple clothes down, trying to get the wrinkles out with moderate success. They're the clothing of the smallfolk, and a poor one at that, but they've been well made, well-repaired with a keen hand. He tugs on his ratty old boots, then rakes his fingers through his hair. He grimaces in the mirror, then shrugs. Nothing to be done about it. "I think I'm ready. Wait!" He fishes his rucksack out from between the mattress and headboard. He takes the pin out, gazes at it a moment, then pockets it. The rucksack is offered over. "Here you are, my lord."

Somberly, Eomer accepts the rucksack, shrugging it over one shoulder. "Thank you, I'll guard them well. And, as we're going to be at this a while, you might as well just call me 'Eomer'." He steps over to the door and tugs it open. "Shall we?"


Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License