Tatton Wiltswoe: Tales Of A Leather Salesman

“Wiltswoe Leathers! Best in Breetown or we’ll kiss yer cow!” ~ T. Wiltswoe

[talesoftattonwiltswoe]

The Bree Sketches:

FAMILY ARC:

✅Lady Bel

✅Aunt Bessa

🔅Uncle Har

Datura

Ferna

🔅The Wiltswoe Tannery: The Willow

🔆Their Last Fight (Tatton’s Parents)

SLANDER ARC:

☀️Marion - Pt. 1

Marion - Pt. 2

🔅Iris - Pt. 1

(Two Winters Ago - Intersects here)

🔅Iris - Pt. 2

BARROW ARC:

✅Three Summers Ago

🔆Two Winters Ago

Last Spring

Miscellaneous:

✅Tate and The Magic Book (Intro to Elves/Sindarin)

Tate and The Butcher Lads

☀️The Burning Manor - NEXT

Rhymes & Ruins

Datura & Ferna (Backstory)

The Doll of the White Tree

Snippits:

🔆Toast

☀️Gondorian Eyeliner

☀️Datura vs Ferna - Fear

[talesoftattonwiltswoe]

The roses were gathered. They never felt like enough. Tatton always picked too many and still… they were never enough. Not one was the right shade of crimson, the rest always too dull to capture what they were meant to.

What were these roses meant to convey? Something deep. Something profound. What was this intense emotion? A deep desire for cinnamon rolls, mayhaps. Very serious. Very profound.

Tatton waits by the cracked plaster of the Bree Town jail. A wistful breeze picks strands of his immaculate and sparkling flaxen hair from his immaculate and sparkling face. The baker was imprisoned for a-salting and beating eggs. No, actually it was for embezzlement. But no one made cinnamon rolls like he. The rose petals fell, carried away by this sad wind like all of Tatton’s hopes. He’d hold onto them. And wait. Waiting, always waiting.

Tatton would wait. Eternity would be a small price to pay. He’d pay it gladly, just like the bribe he’d pay the jailer. Roses made great bribes. Tatton’s plans lay sleeping under the most charming smiles. He would wait, aye. Cinnamon would be his.

[talesoftattonwiltswoe]

[talesoftattonwiltswoe]

Datura Vs. Ferna: Fear

If Tatton’s mind was an arena and his fears each the monsters within it, Datura and Ferna were both his champions, his defenders in their own unique way.

Datura would fight Tatton’s fears for him. Outspoken and fearless, she’d relentlessly challenge each his thoughts, raise a flag against his beliefs and wage war against them with her own grounded reason. She’d spear holes in his logic where it faltered and give him a contrasting view that often shook him out of the maze of himself. He oft needed her viewpoints and knew she’d love him regardless of what he feared. Still, a deep inner shame often trailed behind each their interactions, a fear of appearing foolish or being dismissed that made Tatton wear a braver face around her, masking his deeper struggles.

Ferna, on the other hand, never tried to change his mind. She treated Tatton’s fears seriously, as if they were just as real to her as they were to him. But she wouldn’t fight them. Instead, she’d sit with Tatton in his shadows, walk the mazes of his fears with him hand-in-hand, kneel right beside him in each his challenges and quietly but persistently remind him that he had everything he needed within himself to overcome them. She’d inspire courage within him so that he could rise and challenge his fears himself; hope that he could find his own light in shadow. She helped him light his own torch, find his own path, be his own champion.

This was why Datura was the one he leaned on when the world overwhelmed him, but Ferna was the one he turned to when he drowned in himself. If Datura was the one who shattered his labrynths, Ferna was the one who helped him believe he could find the exit. Ferna’s approach was infinitely favored by Tatton. Because he only felt a hero when he found his own path and walked it.

[talesoftattonwiltswoe]

Tatton & Marion: Part I.

(Aka Tate + LURV💘 Valentine’s Day Special)

Tatton was 4 when he heard his first love story. It was a story of a knight who braved an ocean of terrors to return home to his true love. Gap toothed and blushing, little Tate soaked it all up, thinking it the most heroic, noble tale he’d ever heard. From then on, romance swirled through his mind, enchanting him like some sparkling treasure he knew he’d find one day. He swore that whoever he loved, he’d value them above everyone else and gift them the Sun in a basket woven from the stars and only the fairest winds.

When Tatton was 15, he fell in with another group his age. Kinder than the last, he once again became hopeful of belonging so he fashioned himself to fit in with their company. They were wild without being rowdy but above all, they were gossipers, eager to tease and make fun of the townsfolk. Young and raging with change, romance eventually began to take the spotlight of their conversations. Tatton, ever eager to join their tale-telling, remained silent and confused when that particular topic arose. Not that he didn’t have anything to add: Ever the dreamer, the boy had numerous crushes and fancies growing up, all of which he thought were the ‘one’ love he’d been waiting for. Most of these stories had numerous embarrassments attached to them when he realized this was not the case.

He might have shared these experiences and found some solidarity with any who understood the pain of rejection. But strung behind his sensitivity was a deep fear of hurt and isolation, a fear woven into him by his previous bullies. Desperate to please and fit in, Tatton learned when to tuck his heart into his sleeve, becoming extremely selective of what he showed of himself to others. Shallow things, passing emotions, enthusiasms and charm… these were safe to express. But deeper hopes and beliefs were dangerous to share and stayed hidden. And because he took his search for love so solemn and seriously, he never had much to add to their conversations. Idealism still gripped his heart and instead of envying the numerous exploits this group spoke of, he held out his hope and his search for his ‘one’, the one he’d cross the seas to save, the one who’d truly see who he was and love him anyways, till death them parted.

Still, peer pressure weighed upon him. In passing, Tatton mentioned his belief in his ‘one’ and recoiled as the group teased him. Their jests were good-natured and wholesome, but their words still stung the sensitive, people-pleasing Tatton. His fears solidified further. Eventually, he figured out the right words to say, the right lies to brag about, so they’d lose interest and leave him out of the topic.

Then she arrived.

Marion was a girl of 16 from Archet, a hunter’s daughter. Tatton hadn’t known then just how much she’d change him by the time the year had passed: Marion with her eyes of river blue, her boyish gait, her black curls clipped to her ears in defiance of Breeland’s trends. Marion was outspoken, fearless, and wickedly intelligent. Tatton first saw her lounging on the rim of the Boar Fountain, munching on dried boar jerky. When Tatton joked it wasn’t polite to eat that there, she ended up splashing him with the fountain water until the constables eyed the two and shooed the giggling miscreants away. Afterwards, they became thick as thieves, looking for excuses to speak about every topic under the Sun and Moon. Tatton eventually dragged her into his group of friends and sincerely enjoyed Marion’s company, thinking she was engaging and interesting to be around. She spoke the things he believed but was too hesitant to admit and even when she harshly judged a belief, Tatton never felt like she judged -him-. She was one of the few people he felt safe enough to be honest with and she admitted to him that she found a kindred mind in him, just as he did with her. But, embarrassed by his past experiences with romance, he thought nothing beyond that, never considering she might have liked him or that they were old enough to even think of courting.

One overcast day, his group of friends gossiped in the shadow of the Four Farrow’s Crafting Hall awning. As they spoke, Marion shifted her head and her eyes slid over Tatton’s friend, Oliver, then darted to him, a strange secret kind of glance. Tatton would never be able to explain why that moment sparked what it did. But something changed from then. It started with awareness. Tatton suddenly became extremely aware of Marion when she was around him. Even in a busy tavern or square, he would always notice -her- above everyone else, like she was some instrument playing louder than the rest. Then he started noticing small details about her, details like the way she’d flick her wrist before ruffling her hair, the scent her clothes carried from the bakery she loved to visit, or the kind of jokes that’d make her snort in laughter.

Next, she began to invade his thoughts and it was then that Tatton first noticed the inexplicable pull he felt towards her. No matter what, his most unrelated thoughts somehow always related back to her and visions of her would arrest him at the strangest times. He began to treasure every small thing he learned of her, filing the gaps in his knowledge with the words she didn’t say and what he could decipher from them. Lastly, most impactfully, she began to invade his emotions. When he was around her, he could somehow sense her. Even in silence, her emotions, her very presence, somehow imposed on him, mingling with his and becoming his own. Her anger felt as the heat of a fire right next to him; her judgment, a block of ice too close to his skin. And her laughter… aye, that was the sound of sunlight. He felt the greatest delight in being around her, in making her happy, in making her laugh.

Ferna was the first to notice. Keen and perceptive, she had noticed every change in Tatton, every clue hidden within his words and reactions from the beginning. It felt like a slap when she confronted him while they were foraging:

“You’re in love with someone, Tate.”

Tatton deeply valued Ferna’s opinions but laughed anyway, denying and dismissing her words. It was ridiculous; to feel so strongly, so strangely, so suddenly. Youthful passions, perhaps. A passing fancy like all the rest before. A mirage dangerous to rest hope upon. Still… the unique feelings Tatton felt for Marion never went away and eventually began to sicken and overwhelm him.

It took him months to admit it, but Tatton finally realized that perhaps, just perhaps, he loved Marion. Perhaps, she was his ‘one’ and he was hers. It was the only way he could explain this strange way he felt and the curious way she invaded him. She handed him a basket once and accidentally brushed his hand. That simple, meaningless touch felt like lightning and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. And the glances she gave him… Marion’s eyes held a secret Tatton felt but couldn’t read, like the magic books he’d sensed as a child. Something hidden, something secret lay in each glance she gave him, glances that kept drawing to him more and more oft.

He felt like invisible strings began to attach himself to her each time they met, strings that never broke, never frayed. If stretched too far, by distance or silence, they pained him with an aching desire to be beside her once again, near her, basking in her light, her presence. Tatton -both steadily and suddenly- became attuned to Marion, filled with an insatiable desire to know her thoughts, to know -her-, everything about her, her likes, her dislikes, her insecurities if she had any. She always seemed so self-assured and yet if there was anything she didn’t love of herself, Tatton vowed to himself without hesitation: He would. He would love everything he saw and didn’t see of her: her youthful derision, her flammable temper, her loud mind and louder voice; aye, everything.

These feelings thrilled and confused him, but in truth… they frightened him more than anything. Did she… know? Tatton emotions always seemed plastered on his face; he’d never been able to hide them well. Marion must have noticed. If she did… -A deep terror gnawed in his heart- …did she feel the same? Somehow each smile she gave him, each word she said to him belied dangerous hope. Tatton was so absorbed in hiding what he felt that he never considered -she- might be doing the same. What -did- she feel? Tatton desperately needed to know so his thoughts began looping excessively, replaying each conversation, each interaction, every small observation he deduced looking for signs, looking for clues that maybe, just maybe…

But if she did like him, what then? Gallantry, Breetown custom, and courtesies filtered through his mind. Tatton was determined to be the utmost gentleman. He’d have to ask her father if he could court her…no, first he’d ask Har. His family… Would they think he was foolish for liking someone so much? He knew they’d love him regardless, but still, what would they think of Marion? Would Bessa like her? Marion might intimidate Ferna, but would probably fight with Datura. How would Marion feel around his family? What of the friends they shared? Would they become the next Breetown gossip? Marion hated gossip. Would she choose to bear it for Tatton’s sake? Would she have too?

Against his reason, Tatton’s feelings rooted deeper with every encounter, embedding into his already sensitive heart. He couldn’t entertain his care for Marion without the dread of consequence lingering closer behind. Worse yet, the terror of rejection bled into him. He was so afraid of what she’d think of him, afraid of how she might feel if she knew, afraid of hurting or embarrassing her, that his fear steadily replaced his confidence. Her thoughts and opinions gained a greater power and influence than even his own and he began to shape himself even more than he had with his friends, to please her, to avoid offending her, to keep whatever opinion she had of him high. If she cared for him, did she truly care for -him- or just the face he showed? Fear infected his mind, motivating him to steadily erase himself to fit the image of him she seemed to care for, if she did.

All these confusing, strange emotions swarmed in his chest, yet the question haunted him: What now? He couldn’t escape her, Bree was too close knit, yet what would he do with the affection inside him, begging for attention, for release? What could he do with it? This risk gave Tatton, the youth who breathed risk, pause. Until Marion gave him some sign, some proof that he couldn’t hurt her with his honesty, some confidence that he could reveal something so deep within himself and not make a complete fool of himself, he made a painful yet decisive choice: He’d become a contradiction. He wanted to be near Marion, so he’d avoid her as much as he discreetly could. He wanted to know everything about her, so he’d ask her nothing. Any news of her was like music to him, yet when her name arose in conversation he’d pretend he didn’t care and change the topic to some recent tavern tale. Whatever he felt, he’d do the precise opposite, regardless of how it pained him. Still, his blazing affection for Marion needed some outlet. So, he made another safe choice: He’d leave her gifts, small things he knew she loved on the sill of her window: Her favorite flowers he’d plucked; a basket of black apples, also her favorite. Tatton refused to attach his name but he’d hide behind the bushes in view of her house and he’d notice, secretly, her reactions; the way she’d tiptoe on her porch and search for the giver then hold the gifts to her heart as if no one could see her. Her delight fed Tatton’s hopes and so the moment he was out of sight, he’d sigh and grin like a fool, entertaining the idea that Marion might actually care for him.

Eventually, she began to appear in a dream he always had… now he’d look up and see her sitting in the boat opposite him, her eyes lit with the blue glow of the fallen star she held. But that is where she stayed. In dreams. Tatton deeply yearned to be honest with her, to reveal how he truly felt and in the best of dreams she revealed she too believed in her ‘one’… and that he was hers. They were pleasant dreams, but like the rest, they would stay distant ones. For her sake, or perhaps his own, Tatton chose not to risk more than that.

One day, Ferna caught Tate arranging a basket of daisies and spring strawberries for Marion, a gift he’d worked hours on. She had been the first to notice his feelings, and things might have been different if she had been the last. She lingered in Tatton’s doorway, breaking the silence gently,

“Careful, Tate. Your heart’s too soft and that girl’s too wild to hold it.”

[talesoftattonwiltswoe]

Tate and Aunt Bessa

“An’ that’s why Mister Hengstacer says horses don’ eat their toes!”

“Well, I wouldn’ ‘ave known tha’. ‘Ere i though’ ta myself horses ‘ad no toes.”

“‘Orses ‘ave one toe! But four feets, so four toes!” A six-year old Tate chirped, swinging Bessa’s arm back and forth violently while matching her purposeful stride with his own. Tatton’s aunt towered next to him in a giant burgundy dress that seemed to swallow the whole street. But with her, Tatton never felt small. He felt just as tall as she was. She always listened to him with an attentiveness that made him feel bigger than the world sometimes.

“Baby goats ‘ave two tiny toes!”

She grinned, “Now, ain’t tha’ a marvel.”

Tatton held Bessa’s two fingers with a death grip. If it hurt she didn’t appear to be bothered. While they strolled through the crooked streets of Bree, Tatton skipped from cobblestone to cobblestone, avoiding cracks and the dirt and weeds jutting between them. The cream plaster of the buildings were stained with dirt and activity, but the streets themselves were swept and tidy. Bree, with all its cluttered cottages jammed together, carried the contradiction of feeling both heavily worn and yet always clean, giving it a kind of warmth and coziness unique to it. Today was a market day, which meant Tate and his aunt were on the way outside the Combe Gate to set up a small tent with wares.

Tatton was eager to set up, excitedly impaling the sticks in the dirt and stretching the canvas over them. He sat on the stool with his water skin hanging from his back, clicking his heels while Bessa peddled to passerby. The summer heat pelted her though her dress, yet despite the sweat collecting on her brow, her grin and cheer were tireless. Tate tilted his head and watched her.

Salespeople in Bree intimidated Tatton. Many were pushy, others had a bad air he didn’t trust. But his Aunt Bessa was, without bias, the best salesperson he could ever imagine. She knew everyone in Bree by name. If she didn’t know your name, she would soon enough. But it wasn’t intimidating because when you spoke with her, her care radiated off her like the warmth of the Sun. She never sold an item someone didn’t need and she never sold to anyone who didn’t want. The Wiltswoe Tannery was Bessa’s business and she took the greatest pride in the goods she sold. Because she sold to people, -for- people. Her business code was always: People over profit. Everything she did, she did to make sure others were happy, and she’d grind herself to the bone to do it.

Aunt Bessa reminded Tatton of a bear. She was aggressively warm and brash, outspoken and charming, but never excessively so. She never took slack or excuses from anyone, especially not herself. Eventually, her work ethic would engrave itself in Tatton and he would become more like her than any of his other family. Tatton could feel how big her heart was, how much she loved Bree and all its folk, how much she loved him. Tate, in turn, loved her back and felt safe around her.

After an hour, the Sun began to heat even the shade of the tent. Apart from Bessa’s, “Buy yer Wiltswoe leathers, ‘ere! Best in Breeland or I’ll kiss yer cow!” it was painfully quiet at the tent today. Boredom bored a hole in Tate’s skull while he pressed holes in the dirt with the heels of his small boots. After a few moments, Bessa felt an insistent tug on her dress.

“Yer sweatin’, Bessa. 'Ere's water.”

She took the water skin he held out with a grin, “Thank ye, Tate. Aye, it’s hot today.”

He watched her intently as she drank some water, only a small sip he noticed, and then carefully slung it around his back again. After a moment of his eyes boring into her back, she chuckled knowingly without needing to turn around

“Spit it out, Tate. What d’ye wan’?”

“This tunic’s itchy and hot. Can I take it off?”

“No, Tate, ye need to look nice.”

“Why? We’re not sellin’ itchy tunics.”

“Because ye need to be presentable when yer sellin’.”

“All the folks knows I’m naked under it, why can’t I jus’ run aroun’ naked?” His bottom lips stuck out in a pout, “It’s hot.”

“Tate… no.” She laughed and looked at him over her shoulder, still waving at passing folk,. “Listen ta me, boy. The way ye dress is how ye paint yer soul.”

“My soul isn’t sweaty.”

She paused, reflecting. “It’s less about ye than 'bout ‘ow folk see ye.”

That caught Tate’s attention. His head cocked to the side in confusion. “Whaddya mean?”

“Think o’ it like this: I could be the nicest lass ye ever met, but if I ran up ta ye looking like a spiky bear covered in mud, wha’ would ye think? Would ye be scared?”

“I’d ask ye why ye look like a spiky bear covered in mud.”

Bessa repressed a laugh, trying to look serious, “Aye, -ye- would. But mos’ people would judge me, even if it be unfair. If I look scary, they’d see me as a scary person.”

Tatton frowned, “But yer not scary, Bessa.”

“Strangers don’ know tha’. Dressin’ nice stops people from gettin’ a wrong idea ‘bout ye. It’s the first way ye greet a person without sayin’ a word.”

Tatton pouted, reflecting as best he could while clicking his heels on the stool. This interaction satisfied Tatton for about… an hour. Then, as she expected, Bessa felt another tug on her dress.

“What’dya need, Tate?”

“I’m bored, Bessa.”

The sweating woman grinned at a passerby then turned to Tate, “Ye want more papers to practice those swirlies Turner teaches ye?”

Tatton shook his head. “Why can’t I stay 'ome and play wit' Tura?"

“I wanna teach ye, boy. Every trip ye take, yer learnin’.”

“Only Timry bought somethin’. Mayhaps we could go earlies? No folk is showin’ today.”

“The townsfolk know I’m ‘ere till 2, so I keep my promise and we stay till 2. T'en we leave.”

“But I’m boredddddd…”

Bessa turned from the front of the tent and crouched in front of him, her dress billowing around her in the dirt. Her face was round and exhausted and wrinkled with laugh lines, her eyes the dark grey of a lake in early morning. “Listen, boy. This town, is a gian’ ol’ family. We all ‘ave our par’ to play. Us sellin’ leathers is ‘ow we help Bree.”

Tatton tucked his hands in his knees and frowned, only focused on how itchy his tunic felt. Bessa narrowed her eyes at him, “Now listen ‘ere, Tate: Timry jus’ bought a pair o’ boots fer his lit’tle girl. Ye know why?”

Tate’s hair fluttered on his head as he shook it.

“She’s been wan’in’ to ride ‘orses sin’ she was a wee babe. Us bein’ ‘ere jus’ made tha’ lit’tle girl’s dream come true. Yer makin’ dreams come tru’, boy, by sellin’ the leathers we do.”

“Tha’s… what a hador does.” Bessa frowned but gave him a nod as he continued, his eyes starting to sparkle, “Heroes make folk ‘appy. T'en folk love ‘em. It’s wha’ ye do for folk ye love, ye make ‘‘em ‘appy.”

“An’ the way we make folk ‘appy?”

“Sellin’ leathers!” He beamed, the lesson finally sinking in his brain.

‘Bree’s jus’ like our family. Ye each have somethin’ differen’ we do. All ‘gether, we make a magic place.”

“An’ me? Wha’ I do? Wha’s my job? I don’…” he fiddled his thumbs, “I don’t sell leathers like ye. Ferna’s good at pickin’ plants. 'Tura hunts and makes the leathers. Har makes the salts and ye sell what we make. Whadda I do good?“

Tate looked up at her as she took his small hands in her own calloused ones, grinning at him with a warmth that made his heart flutter,

“Ye make the w’ole world smile, Tate. Jus’ by bein’ ye. Ye don’ need to do anymore than tha’.”

Tatton might not have remembered all of Bessa’s words but the way they made him feel was like gold in his heart. They were words he’d treasure, words that made his love for her unbreakable. And yet… an hour later, she felt another insistent tug on her dress. The woman wiped the sweat from her brow with her arm and sighed dramatically,

“Aye, it‘a ‘otter than the Sun’s arse! We’ll be needin’ some goodies fer our labors.”

Tatton’s eyes glittered. “Ginger Brie Tarts?”

“Ye hate those, Tate!”

“Aye, but ye love ‘em.” He grinned with gap-teeth.

“‘Ow bouts fritters?” She hoisted him on her shoulders, and he giggled, hugging her face.

“Cherry fritters look like hearts. We can eat ‘em and pretend we’re wolves, rawrgh!” He growled with a giggle, pretending to claw the mass of auburn curls coiled on her head.

Her laugh was boisterous and heart-filled. “Aye! But don’ be givin’ them to ‘Tura!”

“I don’t thin’ I ever wanna see Tura holdin’ a ‘eart ever ‘gain..” Tate’s eyes grew wide and zoned out dramatically.

“Yea… it was the fac’ she was laughin’ that scared me. All covered in blood, runnin’ round the ‘ouse like some wight. Scared me too. Told ‘er no more scarin’ ye with deer ‘earts.”

“I weren’t scared! I means, I was ‘prised at firs’! T’en I though’ she was funny. Tura’s funny.”

“No’t scared? Ye jus’ looked like ye’d just remembered meetin’ a ghost.”

“I was bein’ funny, with my face! Did I make ye laugh?"

------

Eventually 2pm arrived, blissfully, and after packing up Tatton clung to Bessa’s hand as they once again moarced through Bree's crooked, cobbled streets, this time towards the bakery.

“I think…” Tatton chirped, “Bree’s like… a big ‘eart!”

“‘Ow’s tha’, boy?”

“Well, Bree’s a ‘eart. An’ the streets are… w’as it called? Vines?”

“Veins, my boy.”

“Aye, vines! The ones ye pull from the musckles. And the folk, they’re li’e, blood drops! Tha’ keep the ‘eart ‘appy!”

Bessa nodded in thoughtful approval when they rounded the corner. There, in the alley stood Timry, the candlemaker, and his daughter standing in his shadow peddling candles to passerby. Pushy salespeople. This was the same girl that told Tatton he smelled like rotten ferns after Har finished showing him how to treat leather with that awful smelling brining solution. Tate frowned and shyly walked over to Bessa’s other side, clinging to her dress. She patted his head, “Don’t ye worry, Tate. I’ll talk to Timry, I know ye don’ like peddlers. But I’ll teach ye: Even if ye don' like folk, ye can always find a way ta be kind to 'em. People are people, jus' like ye. 'Ow would ye wish to be treated?"

"Wha' if I wanna say somethin's mean?"

Bessa actually laughed, a boistrous laugh that made Tate’s eyes grow wide, “Boy! Ye couldn’t be mean if ye wanted! ‘Member tha’ time ye looked at tha’ baby bird and ye started bawlin’ yer little eyes out, thinkin’ ye offended it.”

Tatton frowned, sticking out his bottom lip in a pout. He could be tough. “Yea, I ‘member.” He mumbled begrudingly.

"Well, d'ye wish to be mean?"

"Nah. Tough, like ‘Tura an’ ye! But nah, not means."

"Then ye don' say mean thin's. 'Owever, my boy, If ye have somethin’ to say, don't ye swallow yer words. Yer words ar' there to be said. Jus' always be kind to folk an' make sure yer motives stay kind.” Tatton hid in Bessa's dress’ enormous shadow while she greeted Timry cheerily. While they spoke, heavily engaged in conversation, Tatton eyed the girl. The girl, with her dark green eyes and wheat hair eyed him back, frowning.

"I 'ope yer sist'r likes them 'orses." He mumbled, trying to break the ice and let his desire to be nice overshadow her insult that still rung fresh in his mind. The girl simply stared him,

"Thank ye, fern boy."

That did it. "Well, yer hair smells of tallow!” He blurted out, his heart stinging again.

When the girls eyes flared in rage, Tatton flinched, thinking she’d hurl a candle at his head. But then, her rage just as quickly shifted to amusement. She laughed, a squeaking but funny laugh that made Tatton giggle. Tatton blushed to think he made her laugh and when the sting vanished, his shyness returned. “Yer funny, Tatton! Ye want a buttered muffin?”

“Nah, I’m gettin’ fritters! Did ye know ‘orses 'ave four toes?

“WHA, tha’ can’ be true!”

Thus began Tatton’s first brushes with friendship and his integration into the complicated, and oft very defining, social web of Breetown.

[talesoftattonwiltswoe]

Tate and Lady Bell

Lady Bell was part of Tatton’s life since he could remember. She was always present, always on the fringe of his furthest memories. As a child he’d memorized her: the rebellion that lingered in her steps; her shoulders straight and strong, archer’s shoulders; her hazel eyes ever alight with challenge. She had the fairest hair that fell to her waist, a pale shade of wheat that toddler Tate was quietly jealous of. He knew her, but never knew much about her, other than the fact she’d been a friend of the Wiltswoe’s for a long time. Bessa didn’t like her much, but Har was kind to her, saying she was a person that deserved to be treated like any other person. But to Tate: She was a Queen. A Feyrie Queen. Lady Bell was wild and beautiful, fierce and kind and strong and he loved and admired her more than he’d admired anyone outside of his family. After he'd turned six, he became determined to know more about her and all the great kingdoms she ruled.

“Lady Bell? Why’d’you never go to town wi’ me?” A six-year old Tate asked her one day after they’d practiced archery. They were crouching under the shade of a tree pretending to be frogs. The grass caught the sun, rippling in the crisp winds.

“I do not like town very much.” She said simply, and although her accent was distinctly Breelander, Tate thought she even talked like a Queen! “It is far more fun to explore the forests and ruins, and to be here with you.”

“D’you like Pree?” He chirped, question after question in typical childlike manner.

“Not so much.”

“T’en why’re you here?”

She paused, and Tate thought he could see a forest in the hazel of her eyes, a light brown spattered with the green and gold of shaken leaves. “I owe much to your family. I assist them and in turn, they provide me much. I get to see you, as well. Makes it worth it.” She smiled down at him and her smile was like the sun, bright and warm and impossible to look at. Tate suddenly got very shy and looked down, drawing swirls in the dirt with his finger.

“Do’ya ‘ave a house like me?

“No. Homes are good, but I don’t need one. I make homes in the places I go. Whenever I sleep, that place is my home.”

“T’en you’re a… a randir.” Tatton mumbled.

Her eyes flitted to him, laughing. Clearly, she misheard, “A what?”

“A randir!” His eyes sparkled, his teeth gaped in his grin, “A wander person.”

Lady Bell’s amusement left her, but still she kept her smile wide, “Where did you hear that word?”

“Misser Turner! I gave him boots and now ‘e teaches me! He shows me books! Only ‘appy books, t’ough. One book with magic words with lo’s o’ swirlies.” He scrambled for a stick and started etching symbols in the dirt, pointing to them in pride, “Like this!”

While he wrote, Lady Bell looked past him towards the tannery about 50 meters away. Bessa’s silhouette took up the window of the house, no doubt purposefully, and Lady Bell could feel her eyes upon her. She ignored her and turned to Tate’s scriggly drawings with pride and veiled concern.

“Do you know what that is, Tatton?”

“Magic words!” He beamed with gap-teeth.

“Yes…” After a pause, she spoke, a smile in her eyes, “That magic language is called Sindarin. It is the language of the fair folk, the elves.”

“Elfs…” His eyes widened, “You mean feyries, like you?”

She laughed, a light bubbling laugh that made Tate extremely happy; the boy bounced a bit and mirrored her smile, “No, Tate, I am human, not a feyrie. Look.” She drew back her hair and pointed, “Do you see my ear? Is it pointy?” The boy shook his head. “Then I am not an elf.”

“My ears are kinda pointy! Maybe I’m one?”

Lady Bell laughed when he started stretching his already big ears out and shook her head, “No, dear, you are not. But elves are real and you can learn a lot from them.”

“Folk don’t think they’re real.”

Lady Bell frowned and readjusted her bow on her back, “Townsfolk don’t believe a lot of things that they should, and believe in many things they shouldn’t. You should make up your own mind about things.”

“ ‘Ave you seen elfs?”

“Aye, I have. I’ve even worked with them. They protect us, even when we don’t see it. You should always respect and believe in them.”

“If I knows Sinsarin, I can talk wif’ elfs?”

“Maybe, if you can meet one.”

“I wants to know, teach me Sinsarin.” He pleaded with an eagerness that tugged at the woman’s heart. But her heart felt heavy and debate flickered in her eyes, as if weighing consequences. Finally, she set her lips into a thin smile, a defiant one, and looked at him carefully, seriously, “A few words. But you can’t talk about them, hear?”

“Aye! Tell me the words for things I love! I love red-berry muffins! And sunny kites wit’ cwouds! And Har’s biiiiig willow tree. Teach me tha’!”

“I don’t know that word.” She replied without hesitation and a smile. Tatton stared at her, there was something strange about the way her eyes shifted, how her normally unshakable confidence trembled for a moment. Without being aware of it, he knew she just lied to him. It was not the first lie he’d catch her in. But this was the first he’d remember, the first he’d choose to believe.

“I’ll give you a word I know instead.” She lowered her voice like she was telling the grandest secret in the world and her eyes glittered, “Hador.”

Tate was transfixed with wonder, and his mouth fell open, “W’as tha’?”

“It means a hero. Like you.”

A lop-sided grin took over his face. Lady Bell thought he was a hero? Happiness bubbled inside of his and he clapped, bouncing on his heels excitedly. She thought he was a hero! If she thought he was a bird, he would have believed her and jumped off a tree just to prove he could fly. He trusted her so completely and her opinion of him made all others invalid.

“Weally???”

“Yes, really!” Tate’s joy reflected in her eyes and she grinned that sun-like grin again, only this time Tate couldn’t help but stare at her, “Are a brave boy who likes adventure?” Tatton nodded aggressively. “Do you like to help other people? Then you are a hero, Tate! And, do think you can race me to… that tree?”

Before he had a chance to nod, Lady Bell was already running, laughing with her fair hair flapping wildly behind her and he was chasing her. He remembers laughing, his tears skidding over his cheeks as he ran and eventually beat her to the tree. He remembered being so happy in that moment, that at every opportunity after he would tell everyone he was a hero because Lady Bell told him so. Har, Datura and Ferna all laughed and would tease him with the title hereafter. But he did remember Bessa was quiet that day, and said nothing as she slipped into the next room. Maybe she didn’t like heroes.

[talesoftattonwiltswoe]

Tate and The Magic Book

The door to the bookbindery slammed open. A sheet of dust jumped on the nearest shelves before slowly resettling on the rows of aged books. Loud footsteps stormed in, but the shopkeeper remained unalarmed. He raised his crinkled eyes from the tome that nearly swallowed him and gave a knowing, perhaps amused, look at the waist-high pile of leather with legs that scurried over to the counter.

“ ‘Liveries! ‘Liveries for Tern! Sorry, Misser Tern, sir.” The pounds of leather sheets plopped on the counter. Turner Hemsgrove cast a critical eye on the leathers and then peered over them, seeing exactly what he expected: a gap-toothed boy no older than 6, with a mop of flaxen hair ruffled by wind and plump cheeks red from running, balancing on his feet into his best curtsey.

“It’s Mister Hemsgrove. And tell Har I send my regards.” The man quipped, eloquence in every syllable, his frizzed hair meticulously combed into a relentless bun. He gave the boy a tight-lipped grin and settled back in his seat, tipping his chin back as he resumed reading. “Tell him to deliver these himself next time. You’ve no business running around in this heat, Tate.”

The boys chubby fingers wrapped around the edge of the counter, pulling himself as tall as he could. He mimicked the shopkeeper by tilting his chin back, his big black eyes peering around to take in the sights.

“N’cle Har’s got a bum leg!” The boy chipped with a small hop, like it was the most exciting news in the world. Turner frowned.

“He has a bad leg. And that’s still no excuse.”

“ E’cuse.” He murmured under his breath with furrowed brows, “E’cuse.” The boy frowned at Tern in earnest. “Wa’s tha’ mean?”

“An excuse is something someone says to avoid doing something.”

“Like bringin’ leathers???”

“Precisely.”

“But I like me bringin’ leathers! You got- you got me muffins, red berry muffins!”

“I gave you muffins, once, but you’ve no business eating sweets with your cheeks all red.” He shut the book with a sigh and rose, his worn boots shuffling over the floor, “Aye, let me get you some water.”

“Aye, misser, sir!” Tate chirped, and when the man rose and shuffled into the next room, the boy slipped behind the counter and ambled onto the wooden stool. The book on the table felt as big as he was. He examined the cover with dark eyes, wide with wonder. The mahogany leather wove together so exquisitely around the cream pressed paper. Was that what Mister Turner did with the leathers he delivered? Mister Turner was a king, then, no, one of the wizards he heard about! He was so great.

Tate tucked his hands into his knees and swung his legs, looking around the store. The dark wood made the already small shop feel cramped, but the windows flooded the shelves with light in golden slits. The tiny boots that reach his scraped knees clicked each time they hit the stool. Tate hummed, but stopped suddenly. The closed book was really fascinating all of a sudden. Tatton’s manners and personal set of morals reprimanded him. It wasn’t his book to touch. But… He threw his head to the side in thought and his mop of hair fell over his face. One peek couldn’t hurt. Maybe it had pictures. He liked pictures.

He slid his fingers under the cover and carefully cracked it open. He let out a ‘waaaaaa,’ as he examined the cream paper etched with the most beautiful script he’d ever seen. Tate didn’t know how to read, so all he saw were strange symbols. But… these were very strange symbols. Dragons of ink spiraled on the page in mesmerizing patterns and when his eyes traced the lines he felt something fluttering in his chest, something soaring, something triumphant. He was a kite flying in the wind, left to soar on the highest winds to far, far distant lands. He had never felt so strangely, inexplicably… free. His heart sped up in excitement and he almost ripped the page when he turned it. But when he looked at these lines, he felt really sad all of a sudden. An aching, hollow sadness knawed in his chest, a grief he had never felt and was too young to comprehend. The kite was suddenly cut and had fallen, farther, farther down, slowly sinking in deep and filthy waters. Something dark and twisted lurked beneath it, reaching towards it….

Tears started pricking his eyes and next thing Tatton knew, he was bawling and Turner was towering over him with a scowl of confusion. The man slammed the book closed and slid it away from Tate, “You don’t touch things without askin,’ ya hear?“ The man bellowed, his eloquence lost in his anger. But his anger was replaced with pity when he saw the boy whimpering, his dark eyes glassy and red.

“Thas’ a… thas’ a sad book!” Tate wailed, balling his fists, “A real, real sad b-b-book!”

Turner’s alarm morphed into confusion, “How do you know that?”

Poor Tate however, was inconsolable and would give no answers. Well, at least until Turner gave him a couple of his wife’s famed red-berry muffins. When the boy was finally quiet, the shopkeeper took a seat across from him, watching him carefully,

“What made you cry, boy?”

Tate, finally quiet, looked down and swung his legs on the stool, “Tha’ book.” He mumbled, “It maked me sad. I’m sorries for peekin’.”

“You shouldn’t have looked at it, but never mind that. How? How did you know it was sad?“

“I jus’ saw it and fel’ sad.”

“But how? Could you read that script? Did you understa-“

“I wanna see i’ ‘gain.” Tate interrupted, and when he looked up at the man his eyes flamed with determination.

Turner’s confusion multiplied, but now he gave an amused laugh. “I thought it was a sad book? It made you cry, why would you want to see it again? You want more muffins from me, is that it?”

“Ye, muffins… No,” Tate shook his head fiercely, “Tha’ book. S’not all sad. Is really… ‘appy too. More ‘appy than eatin’ red berry muffins! Like flyin’, like whoosh! and shoo! Like birbs o’er trees!!!” He threw his arms in the air and grinned, red jam all over his cheeks, his eyes sparkling. “Wha’ book’s it?”

Turner stayed stoic, quiet and contemplative. He scratched his beard and frowned, “It’s a magic book. A very, very magic book.” Tate’s dark eyes glittered, but the shopkeeper raised his hand as if to shut down the boy’s hopes, “It’s a dangerous and serious book, at least, from what I’ve deciphered from it.” Turner cracked the book open once more and eyed the script within with furrowed brows, “Even I don’t understand it all. It’s not for children. It’s not for most people, really.”

“Why nah’?”

“Most townsfolk here in Bree don’t believe what it says. They say it’s folly. Just myths and legends. What a person can’t appreciate, they can’t understand. Such knowledge is wasted on them, understand?”

Tate pouted and shook his head, his flaxen hair bouncing on his shoulders.

The shopkeeper sighed, realizing indeed, Tate was just a boy. He pulled the book closer to himself, though Tate's eyes were glued to the pages, “Even if I’d let you read it, you’d need to learn the script, then learn the words, and only after that, then you’d realize just how incredibly depressing the whole story is and give up reading it. No, it’s not for you.”

“Tha’s a- a e’cuse!” Tate's brows furrowed angrily, and the man couldn’t help but laugh, which only made Tate more annoyed. “I can wead, look, t’is par’s sad. T’is par’s ‘appy.” Tate refuted, nearly tipping over his stool as he reached and pointed at different sections of the script, “An’ t’is par’ maked me mad.”

Turner examined the sections stoically and sure enough, Tate was attaching the correct emotions to the correct sections, without knowing their meaning. Perhaps it was part of the magic of Sindarin, this ability to transfer emotion without filtering it through analysis or thought. Maybe it’s effects were more pronounced on children, who had more sensitivity to magic, or perhaps just stronger imagination. Still, it was a mystery that would slowly burn in Turner until he understood it. He scrutinized the boy, who in turn, stared at him with an intensity that could have burned holes in his eyes.

“I wanna see tha’ book, Misser- no, Mister, sir. I brings you…” Tatton blurred out, undaunted, “Boots! Shiny boots! An a…” He furrowed his brows, concentrating hard on the word, “Doscoun’, no… discount. The wor’s discount.” He overemphasized the ‘t’ and his teeth looked more gapped when he did.

Turner glanced at his own boots, horribly frayed and worn through the soles. The offer was clearly tempting. He scratched his beard in thought, but after a moment he shook his head. “It’s too much for you, Tate. Maybe when you’re older. Now get back home to Har and Bessa before it gets dark.” The man took the book and tucked it under his arm before disappearing through the curtain to the back, his voice vanishing with him. “Stories can be dangerous, you know?”

But when Tate trotted back home, wiping the jam off his cheeks with his sleeve, all he remembered Mister Turner saying was, “Maybe.” Tatton lifted his chin and stomped down the dirt road with stone-serious determination. He’d see that book again. He had too. It was too magical to ignore and something about it felt extremely important to him, like a quest weighed on his shoulders until he read it. Perhaps the hope of ‘maybe’ was even more dangerous than that book was.

[talesoftattonwiltswoe]

Tatton Wiltswoe: The Breelander

Tatton Wiltswoe, known as Tate around the Prancing Pony and the taverns, is a Breelander. This is what he tells himself with pride as he walks through the cobbled streets, his leather cloak draped over his meticulously pressed and finest burgundy tunic. The sun bakes his shoulders under his cloak, but he seems not to care about the discomfort of his overdressing. He greets every familiar face with a cheery wave, repeating their names to himself because he wants to remember them, he wants to *know* them. His cheer and care have never been false. His flaxen hair and (also leather) boots gleam almost as bright as his grin. The scent of rosemary clings to him everywhere he goes.

Tatton is a Breelander in the sense he has lived in Bree for all of his young life. Since he was a babe he knew what it meant to live on the outskirts of both town and society, laboring in the noxious fumes and grime of his family’s cabin. He lives with his uncle, Har, his aunt, Bessa, and two older cousins, Datura and Ferna. Together, they run the Wiltswoe Tannery. Tatton labors relentlessly as a tanner, but his favorite task is being a salesman. He is suited well for it simply because he bears his family name and his trade with the deepest pride and deeply enjoys meeting others and conversing with them.

Being a salesman is his favorite task… and his most dreaded. When he makes deliveries to the outskirts of the Bree Fields he watches travelers and their horses disappear beyond the horizon. He imagines the winds carry them safely to their journeys, all the while wishing he knew what their adventures were so he could live through their words. His heart aches and he knows well the reason why, but his burning love for his family keeps him always turning his steps back to his town, to familiar streets and stones he honestly wouldn’t mind never seeing again.

Too much keeps him bound. He *lets* too much keep him bound.

Tatton Wiltswoe is a Breelander in history, but his spirit has never been. Always his spirit speaks to him in dreams and his dreams bid him to run, father than his feet would carry him. He has dreams of ancients gates on the edge of both light and shadow. He dreams he can read the scroll of elegant and unknown script he has memorized in waking life, and that it leads him to legends and peoples and beings he has only heard in silenced whispers and child’s tales. He dreams of a solemn, wisped, terribly ancient voice that speaks of peace through violence, of healing by rending first every wound and anointing them with darkness. He dreams of iced forests and emerald caverns, of feathered ships that sail into the Sun. He dreams of darker things, of twisted things that make the taste of copper and rust linger on his tongue upon awakening.

He would banish all his dreams, save one, his deepest desire and most dearest to him: His dream of touching every corner of the world and still keeping his family and tannery and everything he loves right beside him. But that cannot be. He must always choose between the two and his choice is always the same. So his dreams stay dreams. He will do anything for his family. He has done many things for them he will not speak of.

Tatton, truly, is not a Breelander. But he will be one, he tells himself as he returns home, weary from a day of fruitless sales that he knows will be nothing compared to tomorrow’s success. He will be a Breelander that bears the Wiltswoe name with pride, even if he has to fight himself and beat his desires deeper within him where they have no chance to surface. But as passionately as he seeks challenge and as skilled of a fighter he can be, one fact threatens his resolve: Tatton has never actually liked fighting. And he has *never* been good at keeping any hidden thing buried for too long.