Gift Exchange

“Nen eneth pain – !”

Boromir cursed as he felt Bruidal back once again beneath him, then reached down to pat the great stallion’s neck. After all, it was not his fault the trail had turned to marsh beneath their feet. Not his fault that a clear and sparkling yule had invariably succumbed to a last desperate autumnal sortie which turned the crisp white world back to decaying brown mush. Again, he patted Bruidal’s neck encouragingly, and felt the horse relax and rally.

No, not his fault at all that Boromir had insisted on rising early, leaving a comfortably warm and tousled bed with a comfortably warm and tousled woman in it to venture out into sodden Ithilien. Boromir glared up at the retreating sun, and cursed again. And now they would be late.

Sighting what looked like rising ground to the North, the Steward’s Son raised the reins. They could not be late. He had sought leave from his father days before, as was customary, and while the Steward had granted it readily enough Denethor had then kept his first born about the Citadel that morning until well past mid-day. And Boromir wanted to be there by sundown; had to be there by sundown.

He turned in the saddle to signal the change in direction to his men, and then moved off. There was no word of accordance, not here so deep into contested Ithilien, but silently the small band moved into formation behind him, each one eager as he to reach their destination, reach it safely, and on time. The Captian General could not have asked for better company.

He had chosen each man himself, personally extended the invitation to join this mission once the objective had been determined. And none had disappointed, though in the end Alagon had been unavoidably detained by delivery of a son, and even he had been at the stables to see them off, half wrestling with thoughts of saddling up. So they were six, silently wending their way through the winter woods hoping to escape notice, each man sharing a portion of their precious cargo.

Boromir shifted his thigh again over the bags draped about his saddle and patted the satchel at his hip, unnecessarily reassuring himself that the parchments inside were still secure. Bruidal had, of course, complained about serving as a pack horse, but his usual good nature had risen again once it was clear his master was taking him on a good long venture. Again, Boromir urged him on.

They were racing daylight, though it should not be long now. Boromir glanced again at the scrap of paper in his glove, now worn soft and crinkled as cloth, the coded directions to their objective barely legible there. He thought fleetingly of Faramir, on his own similar mission and no doubt already arrived. Faramir never got lost in the woods. They pressed on.

It was not until light was fading that the call of a mistle thrush broke the silence and Boromir raised his hand, signalling halt. He uncorked his waterskin to wet his lips, returned the call, and then once again. With a flash of movement a lone ranger bearing the insignia of the Ithilien 6th emerged from the crotch of an ancient linden, some sixty paces up the ridge. As gracefully he made his way to the ground and returned the countersign Boromir allowed himself a sigh of relief. They would make it now by sundown. They would make it.

† † † † † † †

As it was, it was a close thing: Boromir and his men infiltrating the hidden outpost to slip silently into place beside their comrades just as the men and officers of the Ithilien Sixth composed themselves for the Standing Silence.

Boromir bowed his head and fought to control his breathing and his anticipation in the silence, but did not even try to turn his thoughts to Numenor. The men about him looked lean, he thought, and tired, but nonetheless hale. ‘And well disciplined.’ He could hardly keep from smiling as more than one pair of eyes made shift to the newcomers, and then snapped quickly back to the western wall.

But barely had the Sixth’s Commander shifted his weight when all that discipline snapped and a great cheer erupted from the assemblage. Across the boards and across each other the Ithilien Rangers reached for Boromir’s men – brother embracing brother, fathers clasping sons and uncles nephews, for each of the men of Boromir’s company had some family member here in the Sixth. For this they had been chosen.

Surveying the scene Boromir chuckled in satisfaction of a mission well performed. Ever since achieving his rank he had looked forward to this duty, and for a moment saw himself among the men exactly as he had been twenty years before, a stripling cadet, homesick and bone wearied by cold weather and colder rations surprised by the sudden appearance of his father at the Standing Silence on Yule Night.

A deferential touch at his elbow brought him back to the present. The Sixth’s Commander, a veteran by the name of Echeneb, turned to face his most honored guest and bowed, but the Steward’s Son clasped the man’s arm heartily and drew him into an embrace.

“Galwin eden, Commander.”

“Galwin eden, my lord. We are honored to be chosen. The men have been … well … there has been much …” Echeneb faltered, relief and discipline together tangling his tongue, before formality could rescue him: he made a curt bow. “You and your men are most welcome to our frugal meal.”

Boromir bowed in return: “it is we who are honored, Commander, and I hope you will forgive our bad manners if we insist upon accepting your hospitality only to supplement it with our own.”

Catching the ready eye of Cirithon, most senior of his men, Boromir nodded sharply and in a moment the citadel company dissappeared only to reemerge from the antichamber laden with barrels, satchels, bundles and baskets. Boromir looked on approvingly as in moments all that they had brought was efficiently unpackaged and dispersed.

There was wine, beef and pork, apples, chestnuts and grapes, cakes and breads baked that morning their crusts still crisp and their insides yet soft and tender. The men would not be insulted by quantity or quality; Boromir had made sure of that, supervised the Citadel’s cooks himself to ensure that what was brought was only what could be consumed or kept, and only somewhat finer than their usual. These were soldiers he was feeding, after all, not diplomats, men unimpressed by finery and comfort. Still, there was much joyful exclaiming, which soon gave over to mumbled mouthfuls and the occassional guffaw, sounds Boromir infinitely preferred.

Once everyone else had received his plateful the Steward’s Son allowed himself to settle in, taking something from every bowl that passed his way, but never overmuch. Still, he could not have been more satisfied. This was, unquestionably, his favorite privelege of rank and station, to pick amongst the out-stationed regiments one somehow more deserving, whose members had through good fortune or ill seemed to shoulder more of the burdens of duty these past months than their fellows and bring to them some comfort at Yuletide. It had been his joy to perform it these past several years and, in the spirit of the season had shared that joy with Faramir as soon his brother’s age and rank made it appropriate to do so. For a moment, he missed Faramir acutely.

Once the meal was concluded, and more or less cleared away, the gift giving began. Without ceremony, the Ithilien Rangers and the Citadel company circulated amongst one another, exchanging gifts such as they had observed were needed or had shaped themselves: new bowstrings, arrows, tanned hides, rabbit-skin gloves, carved totems; bear grease for waterproofing, feathers for fletching – such gifts as the woodland life could afford. They were not so far from Minas Tirith, here, but neither were they far from Morder, and trips to the city were rare indeed.

Boromir moved quietly among them, greeting those he knew, meeting others, and doing his share of marveling at the gifts that were changing hands. Here, also, he produced from the satchel that had never left his side that which he had brought: for each man some word or token from a loved-one at home.

It was too soon he felt the gentle touch of Echeneb again against his elbow. “If you are ready to retire, I have had my quarters prepared for you, my lord.”

“That is most gracious, Echeneb, but I would prefer to share whatever place has been prepared for my men. Tonight I am just like you, a soldier away from home at Yule tide.”

Thus it was that the first-born son of Gondor laid his head down far from home on cold damp ground with little more than a blanket and some straw to comfort him, crowded on all sides by soldiers who snored and farted and tossed and turned long into the night.

And so he slept very well indeed.





Nen Eneth Pain – In the name of all …
Galwin Eden - Happy New Year (Galw = blessings, good fortune + in = year + eden = new, begun again)