Written as part of the unfolding plot of Northern Charter
PLEASE NOTE: An image created by AI is appended to this story which some may find suggestive of violence. It does not show 'intense violence or gore' or a bloody scene or the likes, and is therefore, in my view, entirely PG-13 and in keeping with the site rules. However, it is only right and proper to forewarn accordingly.
Author’s Note: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It provided assistance on things like the structuring, some names, shortening some verbose language/ideas as I'd written, and gave me the odd turn of phrase here and there. The heart and shape of the story are my own, but I realise it is important to be transparent about my use of AI support in producing it ultimately.
“Tender Hands Freeze Twice as Fast”
Naridalis sat beside the fire long after her tea had gone cold. The light of the flames danced in Ivy’s still teary eyes, in the glint of Vaedhral’s watchful gaze, and in the mirth that still clung to Cara’s cheeky grin as she whispered scandal and sipped mead.
How strange it was, she thought, that grief could become the soil in which companionship took root.
In another place, in another time, with other people, she might have kept to silence, watched from the edge of company, and drifted on before warmth could find her. But here, among this strange gathering, all scarred by different losses, something had changed.
They had shared more than laughter that night. They had laid bare wounds, both old and fresh. Too complex for easy words: a lost child, a slain husband, or two… the weight of sorrow for those lost along the way. And yet, no one recoiled. No one turned away.
It was not the fire alone that warmed them in that moment, nor the food, nor the drink. It was the simple truth that they were no longer strangers.
They were becoming friends.
A true fellowship, perhaps, not by oath to find some missing caravan in the northern wastes, but by the slow stitching of shared nights and hard truths, of bread passed between hands and silence held without judgement, of shared burdens and troubles, of having had each other’s back in a fight… or two… or three…
There was even levity before the night grew deep. Cara had leaned close with a scandalised whisper, “Though while we're here, we really ought to do something about that Bill Tipper that woman can't shut up about!”
Nari had followed her hobbit companion with a bemused smirk, playing along with mock solemnity. “Come then, Mistress Bucklebriar. If we’re to unravel the mystery of Bill Tipper and the woman’s romantic misdeeds, we’d best start at the source.”
The source, it turned out, was Maudlin: the candlemaker of Ost Forod, with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. And the tale she told left them blinking.
Nari had quipped softly on their return to the camp, “Well. I’ve hunted wargs, crept through spider dens, and faced down shades in barrows… but I wouldn’t cross her on a clear day with a drawn blade!”
Later, Maudlin’s dog Daisey came trotting in from the dark… alone. Perhaps she had recognised them from earlier. Her collar carried a severed hand, and clutched within its curled fingers, there was a note. It seemed there was more to Bill Tipper afterall. They’d need to share what they discovered with Maudlin in the morning.
Now, back by the fire, Nari sat still. Quiet again.
She decided to turn in for the night. Amidst the growing bonds being made between her companions, she felt something else as well …. beneath the ‘self’ that she was showing all of them… behind the calm that she hoped she offered them…. Something was pulling on her. It was a curious feeling of…. elation around others’ grief. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t her… or wasn’t only her.
And though she knew the road ahead would test them all further, she let herself feel it, just for a breath:
That she did not walk it alone.
-----
Maudlin Henwicke, Candlemaker of Ost Forod
[A Tale in Her Own Words (More or Less)]
They don’t listen, not really. Not when a woman like me speaks. They nod, they smile, they sip their ale and pat my hand as if I’m some dotty aunt come to complain about soup gone cold. But I see things. I know things. And I remember.
Bill Tipper.
A name that ought to sour the wine in your cup.
It starts simple, always does. He came through like many do, with promises and polished boots. Claimed he was a trader… exotic wares, rare spices, linens from Dol Amroth, he said. Said he’d worked under the Lord of Lebennin himself. Hah. He couldn’t tell a spice from stable muck, and his linens were half-mildewed scraps tucked into his pack to make him look more well to do than he really was.
But oh, he talked. Smooth as warmed honey, that one. Knew how to flatter a woman into forgetting herself. Even a sharp one like me. Said I had the wit of a scribe and the eyes of a coastal queen. Bah. I should’ve known better.
He came and went for a time… always with stories, always with excuses. Owed coin to Dofri at the bar, never tipped properly (Dofri still complains, and rightly so), and broke three mugs in one week like his hands were made of grease and nerves. And when he vanished one night with two of my best jars of preserved strawberries, not to mention my fresh stock of candles, well. That’s when I knew I’d been truly had. So I began warning folk.
“He’s trouble,” I said. “Bill Tipper’s the sort to charm your socks off and then sell them back to you at double price.” But did they listen? No. They think I’m just sour because I liked the look of him.
Well, maybe I did. For a moment. Before I knew better.
Now I sit, and I tell my tale again and again. Folks pass through town, and I warn them, I do. That hobbit laughed, and the tall elf rolled her eyes like I was some gossip-starved crone. But I saw the way they whispered after. And I heard them. Plotting to find out if Bill’s real, or if I made him up.
Let them search. Let them dig. They’ll find the truth, same as I did. And when they do, I’ll be waiting right here, cup in hand, ready to say:
“I told you so.”
----
Image Created by AI
[A note brought to the fellowship by a dog named Daisey...]
My dear Maudlin,
You’re the only person I’ve ever met who saw straight through me and didn’t flinch.
They all think I’m a scoundrel. They’re not wrong. I’ve lied. I’ve run. I’ve stolen more mugs than I’ve ever paid for. But you… stars above, you…. you looked me in the eye and still saved me a chair. Still laughed at my worst jokes. Still fed me strawberries.
You were supposed to be the turning point. I’d started to change, Maudlin. Honest, I had. No more fancy lies about spices and noble clients. I had a plan, go straight. Honest. I’d started trading real goods, proper goods, not the bent trinkets I acquired from that peddlin’ dwarf in Bree. I even found a spot at the edge of the market where we could set up a stall. Was going to put your name on it. “Maudlin’s Light”, candles and comforts, all proper. A home. Not just a room in someone else’s attic, but a house in town. For us.
But trouble found me again.
One of the Gondorian soldiers, he knew me. Not by name, but close enough. Knew what I did down south. Knew what I ran from. Said I owed. Claimed it was coin, but that wasn’t the truth. He wanted fear. Wanted to see it in my eyes.
He came by quiet, while you were out tending the back step. Cut the head clean off your friend’s old white hen, Sam, poor old thing, then tossed it at my feet.
“Next time,” he said, “it’ll be yours. Or hers.”
He didn’t need to say your name. I knew who he meant.
And I couldn’t let that happen.
You know me… I’ve never cared much for dogs. You know Daisey’s no fan of mine either. I’ve got the scars to prove it. But she’s yours, and that’s all I need to care for her too.
So I decided to leave. To lead them away from you both.
I packed. Quiet. Was ready to slip out before dusk. But they came back.
Two of them this time. One with a knife and another one, larger, with a club. Said they’d decided to collect early. Not coin. Something else.
They meant to kill me.
Cornered me in the gully near the back wall. Blade drawn. Laughing.
And that’s when she came.
Daisey.
Out of the brush like fury given form. Didn’t bark. Didn’t growl. Just launched. Took the bastard’s arm off at the elbow, stars above, I didn’t even see her coming.
He screamed. The other one ran.
She stood over me after, blood in her teeth, tail still. Like she was waiting to see if I’d give her a reason not to finish the job.
She saved my life, Maudlin. Daisey saved me.
But, I’m leaving. Now. Tonight. Before they can blame you for what she did. Before they come looking for who, what and why. Because they’ll say it was me. You know they will, and that’ll save you.
I’ll make sure the right people see me leave. Their Captain won’t chase me, not with all the things they’ve got going on here in Ost Forod. But they’ll whisper. They’ll say I did it.
And maybe I did. Maybe I should’ve.
I’ll go north. Into Forochel. It’s no place for soft folk, and even less for a woman as gentle as you. The wind there bites straight through the bones, and tender hands freeze twice as fast.
I’ll trade in hides, in fish, in whatever the Lossoth tribes will take. I’ll make gold. Enough to clear this debt for good. These soldiers won’t be the last otherwise.
And then I’ll come back.
If I don’t… well, then at least know this:
I love you, Maudlin.
You were the first to see me. Not the voice, not the grin, not the tricks. Just me. And you didn’t turn away.
That’s the truth I never had the courage to carry, until now.
Don’t think too ill of me, Maudlin. Not now. Not after all this.
Daisey’s bringing this to you. I’ve tied the soldier’s hand to her collar, with this note inside his hand. You might think it grim, and it is… but it’s also proof. She did what I couldn’t.
Keep her safe. She’s braver than both of us.
I’ll return. Wait for me, if you can.
All my heart,
—Bill
p.s. And tell Dofri I’ll pay for the mugs. Every last one.
Image created by AI
Written as part of the unfolding plot of Northern Charter
