Disclaimer: The only thing I own in this story is the plot. You'll recognize any original characters.

So, this was a random idea I got because I was tres bored. Review if you like it. Review if you don't. I'm not going to be picky, but I do ask that if you are going to be negative, tell my why politely. Flames have very little use to me (except for laughs) because they give me nothing to work with. I enjoy reading praise and constructive criticism, hahahaha. This is just a trial, beginning chapter, by the way. I want to know what people think before I continue.


"How is she?"


"And the baby?"

"A boy. Nasty little runt, but I expect he'll be taken care of."

"Good, good. Everything is in order, I see. Have the body disposed of. Name the child."

"Yes, sir."

A heavy, oaken door at the end of the hall opened slowly, the curly, black head and boot-clad feet of man protruding from the birthing room. Small feet slapped against the heavy stone floor as a scrawny boy of about ten rose hastily to his feet, brown curls bouncing. The boy—Fenwick—took his post opening the door, a rather large yawn practically splitting his jaw in two.

"Out of the way, boy!"

The man, an unnamed benefactor of the workhouse in Minas Tirith, stormed down the hall, kicking at Fenwick's shins as he passed. The Benefactor was not pleased tonight. Not at all. Yet another slut had come stumbling through the stone walls that he paid for so dearly, dragging her filthy sinner's feet through his hallways, laying her disgusting arse down on a bed he paid for. And what did she do, the nasty thing? She up and died. Just kicked it right there, lying on the semi-clean sheets of the bed he had contributed toward. Good, hard-inherited money, that was. The least the woman could have done was leave a name, an address, something. Anything to give them a clue where the bill should be sent to. But she left absolutely nothing. Not a thing, except for a runty bastard child that would now have to be fed with food he paid for, clothed in rags...well, he didn't really pay for those. Those were donated. But the point for him was, the poor were horribly ungrateful anymore. All they did was beg, beg, beg. Never a thanks. Never a bit of gold for the trouble. Not a single damn thing, and he was tired of it.

"Filthy whore," he muttered, and exited the building.

"What shall we call you, hmm? What shall Old Braella call the unwanted child of a prostitute?" The baby cooed. Braella continued. "That's what you are, you know, you dirty little devil. You're a bastard and a beggar and all that is unholy in this world, but we're giving you a place to sleep, you little pig. Food to eat, a blanket. And when you get older, you'll be working for us. Got to repay those that have helped, you know."

The baby continued to smile, seemingly pleased by the old krone's grudging affection. She rocked him, more gently than would have been expected, pausing every now-and-then to straighten the bit of sackcloth that had been tied around the child to hide his nakedness.

"Baeillian," she decided. "Baeillian the Bold. Hasn't no orphan like yourself ever smiled at me like that before. You're plenty bold and plenty stupid, my dear bastard-boy. Plenty bold. The Master was to break your neck, but Braella told him no. I saved your life, I did, whore-child. Saved your life. Plenty bold..." The old woman went on mumbling nonsensical things, still rocking the boy in her wrinkled arms, crooked back bent even farther than usual by the strain of holding the tiny baby. "Oh, yes, plenty bold..."