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Title: Through Daeron's Eyes (#2783)
Author: Edlyn
Chapters: 6
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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: Boromir and the rest of the Steward's family as seen through the eyes of Daeron, the son of one of his captains. Pre-Ring War. Non-slash (of course). Rating changed to PG due to events in chapter 2. Chapter 3 poted 8/5/06
Published: 25 Jun 2006
Updated: 31 May 2007
Warnings: physical injury, nightmare imagery
Type: General
Characters: OCs; Boromir; Faramir; Denethor


Chapter 1 - First Meeting

Disclaimer: The names, places, characters that are familiar belong to J.RR. Tolkien, Tolkien Enterprises and the various other companies that hold the appropriate licenses. Any persons or events that are unfamiliar belong to me.

Many thanks to my sister rownrhys (who I am trying to get to join this site and post her stories) for beta-ing (any remaining errors are my own and I apologize profusely). Also thanks to vilwarin for providing the names for Daeron and Halmir when I asked for suggestiions for Gondorian names on the forum. You two rock!

Through Daeron's Eyes: First Meeting by Edlyn

 I’ve always wanted to be one of the Tower Guard, like my father. He was tall, and in the sable and silver livery of the Guard, looked to me like one of the statues of the Men that stood along the walls of the Citadel come to life. I longed to be old enough to join the boys who spent the afternoons in the training yards, learning to wield sword and shield, bow and mace. I lived for stories of battles and valor. Many times I’d sneak down from my room at night and sit in the corridor outside my father’s study and listen to him and his fellow officers talk of the exploits of the Guard over their wine. I remember the feel of the chill of the stone wall against my 5-year old back the first time I dared this. It hadn’t taken long before any discomforts were forgotten as my imagination painted glorious pictures from the words I heard.

As soon as I was old enough and clever enough to escape my tutor, I’d sneak off to the practice yards and watch the Guard companies training. In my free time I made a wooden sword and tried to imitate what I’d seen. I must have looked a fool to anyone who might have seen me flailing away at imaginary foes in my mother’s garden. But it hadn’t mattered then and I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. I’m certain I wasn’t the only boy in the City enamored of the idea of wearing the winged helm.

After I’d been listening to my father and his companions for some time, I realised that I overheard a particular name over and over again: Lord Boromir, the eldest son of the Steward. The stories mentioning him made even the actions of my brave father seem tame. A wish grew in my heart to one day meet this epitome of a soldier... and to be like him.

The first time I saw him he was riding at the head of his men as they returned from what I now know was a successful sortie against the orcs in Ithilien. At the time I didn’t notice the bloodstains, sweat and dirt--much less the bandages--on many of the returning men. Nor did I notice the horses with empty saddles. I could be forgiven this, I suppose; seven year old boys only notice the things they want to. Besides, my eyes were fixed on the Steward’s son. Tall, and looking every inch the hero of my daydreams, he rode a dark grey warhorse, and seemed a figure out of legends. If I’d had any doubts about what I wanted my future to be, the sight of Lord Boromir turned them to dust.

I’d like to say that the first time I met him I impressed him with my skill and strength. But it didn’t happen that way.

My best friend Halmir had managed to get hold of two long knives that belonged to his elder brother. He had the idea that instead of practicing with our wooden swords we could use the knives, which were more than long enough for us to use as swords. Had I any sense I wouldn’t have agreed to the idea, but how many arms-struck 8-year olds have any sense? My tutor was asleep in the coolness of his room and the leaves of the fruit trees my mother loved so much shielded us from the view of anyone in the house.

All went well until Halmir slipped during a lunge and the point of his knife scraped across my lowered makeshift shield and went into my unprotected shoulder.

I don’t remember now if I screamed. I don’t remember falling to the ground. I do remember that I was surprised how much it hurt.

Halmir gasped, scrambled to his feet and ran yelling towards the house and after that things got noisy and confusing. I remember my mother wailing and someone, I think it might have been my tutor, cursing fluently. Someone else was arguing about whether to pull the knife out or not. Halmir was standing nearby, staring at me and crying. Messengers were sent off…

Hasty footsteps echoed off the walls of the courtyard and the healer arrived accompanied by my father and two other men. I’d never seen my father look the way he did that day. His face was pale and stricken when he knelt by my side and that frightened me more than the pain and blood when the healer removed the knife from my shoulder.

It wasn’t until they lifted me to a stretcher to be carried inside that I realized one of the men who had arrived with my father and helped hold me still while the healer stitched up my shoulder was Lord Boromir.

If I could have turned invisible and run away I would have. I was completely mortified and the burgeoning worry about what my father would have to say about the events of that afternoon was as nothing compared to my embarrassment. There’s nothing that could be worse to an 8-year old boy than being seen crying his eyes out by his hero.

A little over a week later I was on my feet again with my arm in a sling. Halmir was avoiding me as though I had the plague, and someone had cleaned up the courtyard. The only sign of the event in question was a large darkened patch on the flagstones. I sat on the low wall that separated the western side of the court from the garden, purportedly to do my assigned history reading in the sunshine, and found I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The healer hadn’t been silent about how close I came to bleeding to death though he may not have realized I was still awake when he said it.

I didn’t look up when I heard the footsteps approaching since I thought it was probably one of the people my mother had set to keep watch on me once I was allowed out of bed. So I was startled when an unfamiliar hand squeezed my good shoulder gently.

“I can tell you from experience that it doesn’t do to dwell on it.”

I tried to stand but he waved me back to my seat. “Lord Boromir…”

Some minutes later when he rose and strode down the path that led to the door to the house, and presumably continued out to the street, my eyes and mind weren’t on the bloodstained flagstones or on the book that remained unopened on my lap.

He’d told me I’d been brave.


Chapter 2 - War Games

Author’s Note: I had intended on writing these stories in chronological order to show the development of Daeron’s relationship with Boromir. Unfortunately, my characters have demanded that I write the following, in spite of the fact it takes place when Daeron is fifteen. Lord Boromir does eventually make an appearance, I promise.

Dedicated with love to Evendim, who is a true inspiration.

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and the Lord of the Rings are copyright to J.R.R. Tolkien and this piece of fan fiction is not meant to infringe on that copyright. Daeron, Halmir, Laedren. Grethen and Val are my own creation and are copyrighted to myself as are any other characters who are not familiar.

Through Daeron’s Eyes: War 

By Edlyn

Daeron groaned and hauled himself out of his bedroll when the Master at Arms roused the cadets before dawn. He ached in muscles he hadn’t known he had and he didn’t need to look at his shoulder to know that there was a livid bruise there from getting hit with a falling rock while sliding down the escarpment the day before to rescue his squad mate and best friend, Halmir. The other cadet had lost his footing on the wet stone and fallen from the ledge path. 

Halmir had suffered a broken ankle and it had been hellish getting him (and his gear) back up to the path after Daeron had splinted the leg. From a personal survival aspect, it probably would have been common sense for Daeron to have left Halmir bundled up in his bedroll on the path while Daeron returned to the camp to get assistance but he was reluctant to leave his injured friend at the mercy of the elements. The entire time they’d been in the field the weather had been gods awful; cold, wet, and the wind never seemed to stop blowing in your face regardless of the direction you turned. It was nearly dusk by the time they’d made it to the camp. He’d ended up carrying Halmir over his shoulder the last two hours of the trek.

He’d deposited his squad mate with the surgeons and went to the command pavilion to give his reconnaissance report. 

“Cadet Daeron reporting, sir,” he said after his salute had been returned. The commandant’s adjutant had set his desk in front of the pavilion to take advantage of the fading light. This told Daeron that once again it would be a cold and dark camp.

“Go ahead, cadet.”

Daeron made his report, including how Halmir had gotten injured and what he’d had done in response.

“Why didn’t you leave him, cadet? He slowed you down. The reconnaissance information is vital and needed to be brought in as soon as possible,” The adjutant inquired, taking the papers and pen from the sergeant who had recorded the report.

“There were other scouts out in the area, sir, who could bring the information in. I chose not to leave my comrade to a possible enemy. Had an enemy found him…” Daeron swallowed hard at the thought. “…He could have given them intelligence of our strength and battle plans.” Daeron closed his mouth and kept his eyes on the canvas behind the adjutant and waited to see if he had overstepped himself. Besides he’s my best friend and I’m not going to leave him behind!

The adjutant studied the fifteen year old for a moment before signing off on the report. “You are dismissed, Cadet. Pick up your ration from the mess sergeant and get some sleep.”

Daeron saluted and made his weary way over to the canvas fly that was intended to protect the provisions from the vile weather. He collected his ration, cold oatcake and a couple strips of dried meat, and found a place to drop his bedroll and himself. He needed to get water and see if he could get his first aid supplies replenished and then fill the empty hole that was his stomach, but first he needed to  stop and see Halmir. 

The surgeon had refused to let Daeron speak to his friend, telling him to take himself off to where he belonged. Sighing, he went to fill his waterskin. The water in the stream was cold enough to numb his fingers. He trudged back to his bedroll and ate. It would be a very cold camp tonight since Halmir was in the surgeon’s care and not present to share warmth and there were no fires that might dry wet clothing. Cold and miserable pretty much summed up the entire field exercise for Daeron and the rest of his academy class so far.

He made a shelter of sorts from his oiled canvas cape and took refuge under it as the sun set. The thing would at least keep the rain off his head. He closed his eyes, thinking about the adjutant’s words. What should he have done other than trying to bring Halmir in? Finally, exhaustion won out over thought and the misery of being cold and wet and he’d fallen asleep.

He shivered in the predawn as he secured his bedroll and gear preparatory to the unit marching out. He and his compatriots were training to become officers but the current philosophy of the military academy was that no man could be a good officer without knowing what their men went through. Hence the cadets’ horses had been left comfortable in their snug stables, and the officers in training were learning the misery of the infantryman’s life.

Fireless camps, cold, little food, rain, mud, and more rain seemed to be the lot of the infantry. As Daeron picked up his day’s rations he thanked the gods that it wasn’t yet winter and that once this training deployment was over they’d be returning to the cadet’s barracks and hot food. He wasn’t going to complain about the narrow bunks and barracks food ever again.

He fell into column when the order to march came and made his now customary prayer to the gods that he wouldn’t screw things up today and his feet would hold out.

* - * - * - *- *

When the cadets were finally permitted to fall out from the column for the evening meal and the usual accompanying briefing on their location and potential problems from an enemy in the uneven terrain, Daeron didn’t quite collapse in his tracks. He managed to find a spot in the lee of a rise where he could see and hear while staying out of the wind. At least it had finally stopped raining. He was soaked to the skin and the other cadets were in a like situation. Even oiled wool and canvas didn’t do much to keep one dry if one has been practically swimming through water for the past week. Maybe they’d be lucky and they’d be permitted fires tonight. If so, modesty be damned, he was stripping and going to try to dry out at least some of his clothing. 

During the march he had been thinking about yesterday’s reconnaissance and rescue of Halmir. If the enemy would have been on their tail, if he hadn’t been able to get his friend out of the ravine, if Halmir had been more severely injured or was too heavy for Daeron to carry, if… Suddenly he retched as the thing he’d avoided considering all day thrust itself to the front of his mind. 

Oh, gods, he would have had to kill his best friend!

He retched again, until there was nothing left to come up and knelt on his hands and knees shuddering, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to deny the horrible fact.

“Daeron?” Grethen, the cadet who had the bunk across from him in the barracks, had approached when he realized there was a problem. “Come with me, you need to see the surgeon.”

“No. I’ll be all right. My stomach just turned is all,” Daeron got up and dragged his gear away from the mess.

Grethen snorted. “Given the rations, I can’t blame it. Come on, no surgeon then, but you’re bivouacking with me and Val tonight. We can use the extra body heat!”

Daeron managed to laugh. Grethen was one of the largest of the cadets and Val constantly joked that the only reason he partnered with him in the field was because Grethen put out more heat than a camp stove! The truth of the matter was that Val—Envalion—had been best friends with Grethen since they were toddlers. The two were as inseparable as Daeron and Halmir were, and tonight Daeron was thankful for their generosity.

They’d finally been permitted fires and the cadets gratefully took advantage of the warmth to dry out their gear and warm themselves. Daeron ignored the snickers of some of the nearby cadets, stripped to the skin, and wrapped himself in his blanket. He arranged his wet clothing on a makeshift framework of branches and then cleaned and sharpened his sword and knife while his clothing dried out. Keeping busy and joining in Grethen and Val’s banter and bad jokes, he managed to push aside the grimmer aspects of military life to the back of his mind.

A side benefit of the fires was the ability to brew tea. Between the hot, if bitter, liquid and dry clothing, Daeron was finally feeling warm for the first time since leaving Minas Tirith when he crawled into his bedroll to sleep. He missed the familiar sound of Halmir breathing at his back but Grethen and Val’s presence in the bivouac definitely made it warmer than sleeping alone. Let the commons make snide remarks and smirk about “military relationships.” When you were out in the middle of nowhere, sharing bed space with another man was about surviving hypothermia, not romance. Saying a silent prayer Daeron closed his eyes and gave in to exhaustion.

He’d been dreaming something concerning Halmir’s accident when he was awakened by strong hands dragging him from the shelter. He was gagged and blindfolded and bound before he could identify his attackers or make a sound. When he continued to struggle, a hard fist against his jaw knocked him out.

His captors revived him by the expedient of throwing an icy bucket of water over him. The gag had been removed but he remained blindfolded and was still bound. He was hauled to his knees and froze as he felt the unmistakable coldness of a knife blade at his throat.
 
A voice in heavily accented Westron asked him if he wanted to live.

* - * - * - * - *

Coughing and choking, Daeron lay where he’d been flung after being half-drowned by having his head submerged in a bucket of cold water, for what he thought was the tenth time. His hands and feet were numb and still bound, he was still blindfolded, and he couldn’t tell how long he’d been in the hands of his captors. They’d questioned him repeatedly, and when he refused to speak had shoved him face first into the water, hauling him out just before he could drown. 

They left him alone for a while, soaked and shivering, then his interrogators began the process again. 

Where were the rest of the troops camped? How many men made up this unit? Where were they going? What was their mission? Who was their commander? The questions went on and on as the “encouragements” grew more varied and painful.

Daeron was all too aware that this wasn’t a nightmare that he could wake up from. The questions never stopped. Nor did the pain and, worse, the fear. Finally, trapped between drowning in icy water and the heat of a red hot iron ready to fall on his back, Daeron broke.

Afterwards, he was rewarded with a blanket and a swallow of some liquor that, while harsh going down his throat, warmed his belly. Finally left to himself, he threw the blanket from himself and wept in despair and self-hate, his face against his updrawn knees. 

He must have fallen asleep despite the pain he was in because he was startled awake by the noise of swords clashing and familiar voices. 

“Here he is! Daeron, it’s Val. Let me get this thing off you.” The blindfold was removed and he blinked in the painful glare of lantern and firelight. It was indeed Val. “Gods, what happened to you?” 

A knife cut the bonds around his wrists and ankles then Grethen came round to his line of sight. “No time for questions, Val. Let’s get him out of here and back to camp. This time he needs the surgeon.”

Val snatched up the blanket and started to wrap it around Daeron’s shoulders but the cadet pulled away.

“No!”

Val started to insist, but Grethen took one look at Daeron’s expression, took off his cloak, and draped that about him instead. This garment was accepted and he stumbled out of the tent between the two. Just past the boundary of the enemy camp they were intercepted by a lieutenant—Lieutenant Bedreth, he thought—who sent Val and Grethen back to finish the “clean up” and turned Daeron over to the surgeon’s corpsmen.

Shortly thereafter, Daeron found himself on a cot in a pavilion shared with four other cadets each of whom looked as miserable as he felt.  The surgeon went from one to the other, checking them over and administering the appropriate aid. 

One of the corpsmen set up a screen between Daeron’s cot and the others at a quiet-voiced order from the surgeon while the other stripped the filthy remains of Daeron’s uniform from him and cleaned him up.

Daeron let the surgeon and the corpsman do their work without complaint as the burn on his shoulder and the welts on his back and arms were tended. He bit his lip against the pain of stitching one particularly bad cut on his left shoulder, and the dressing the cuts and abrasions on his knees and feet.  After swallowing a loathsome-tasting dose down his throat to guard against pneumonia he obeyed the surgeon’s order to lie down on the cot but he didn’t sleep. 

He couldn’t sleep. How was he going to tell his father about his ignominy? How could he face any of his fellows much less his superiors with this failure? How was he going to tell Halmir?

* - * - * - * - *

The following morning found Daeron feeling hungover from the sleeping draught the surgeon had finally administered after finding the cadet still awake when he made his midnight rounds. The news that all the cadets would be facing a debriefing panel after breakfast didn’t improve things. Nor did the word that Daeron was to be the last cadet summoned. The only good thing in his opinion about the morning was the arrival of Grethen and Val with a new uniform and his own boots. Val volunteered the information that they’d been found in the enemy camp and that he’d spent the evening polishing them. 

“Well, we’ll be sure to give you a good recommendation as a valet if you ever want to make a career change,” Grethen offered as he combed Daeron’s hair.

“Look who’s talking!” Val retorted, grinning as he noted a small smile on Daeron’s face. “Since I’m sure you don’t want to arrive at your debriefing lying down, Greth and I have magnanimously offer to escort you. I promise—but I can’t make any promises about that big oaf—that I won’t drop you.”

Daeron actually laughed as the comb bounced off Val’s head.

* - * - * - * - *

Daeron was escorted into the command pavilion by Grethen and Val, who supported his limping progress until he was before the panel. He drew himself to attention as best he could and reported, his eyes on the canvas above the commandant’s head.

Captain Laedren had hidden his disquiet behind a mask of professionalism as the fourth cadet P.O.W. left the commandant’s pavilion after being debriefed; having only discovered that his son had been one of the randomly selected cadets to be captured in the exercise when the adjutant briefed the panel on the identity and physical condition of each rescued prisoner before the first cadet was summoned to report. Now as he watched his son stand and salute the commandant he was caught between pride and pity for his son, pride that the boy—no, man—had held out so long and well, and pity for the need to learn some of the hardest lessons a soldier was required to learn. His Captain-General, who was seated next to him, placed a hand on his shoulder in silent commiseration. Under other circumstances the young man who was the subject of the panel’s attention might even have been Lord Boromir’s son. 

“Be seated, Cadet.” The Commandant’s Adjutant indicated a folding camp stool. “Cadets Grethen and Envalion, you are dismissed.”

Daeron sat as instructed and kept his eyes forward as his escort left the pavilion. The breakfast the healer had pushed on him sat heavily in his stomach and the headache that had been with him since he wakened was getting worse. He was vaguely aware of others present but all his attention was on the academy commandant, his adjutant and two lieutenants who were seated behind the table. One was Lt. Bedreth but the other was completely unknown to him. He couldn’t help glancing to his left as one of the observers moved, causing his scabbard to rattle against his chair, but the lighting in the pavilion was set so that other than picking out the hints of silver braid indicating the presence of high ranking officers he couldn’t make a determination of their identities. He forced his eyes back to the front and waited for the axe to fall.

Upon questioning, he described his capture in the middle of the night from the camp, his awakening in the enemy camp, what they’d wanted to know, and what pressures had been brought to bear against him.

“How many of the enemy did you come in contact with?” “What could you tell about the enemy’s morale?” “Did there seem to be any schism among those you came into contact ?”

Daeron had been blindfolded the entire time but his ears had still worked despite being filled with water. 

“I think I heard five different voices, sir.” He frowned and concentrated. “When they talked among themselves, well, it sounded like three of them were from different countries. They only spoke Westron to each other and the accents were all different.”

“What about the other two?” The adjutant asked.

“I think they were speaking Haradrim, sir. When they weren’t questioning me they seemed to be arguing with each other. Finally, one of the ones that spoke Westron interrupted them, and well, read them the riot act.” 

“What else did you overhear?”

Closing his eyes, Daeron concentrated on recalling and describing all he’d heard and sensed during the times he was conscious and left alone. Still in this mindset he was blindsided by the commandant suddenly interjecting, “Did you give any information to your captors, Cadet?”

“Yes, sir.” Daeron’s eyes flew open, the two words emerged without his volition, and Daeron swallowed hard as his breakfast threatened to make a reappearance. It didn’t matter how much he had overheard from his captors, he’d been captured and had given the enemy  information in violation of the Code of Conduct. 

At that point they stopped questioning him and the commandant asked for the surgeon’s report on Daeron’s injuries. Lieutenant Bedreth read out the surgeon’s report, during which time the Commandant looked increasingly grim. His next words were aimed at the other lieutenant.

“Lieutenant Kergil, I am disturbed by the severity of this Cadet’s interrogation in comparison to those of the other prisoners. This is a training exercise, if you recall.”

The other Lieutenant, who was in charge of the “enemy” troops, stiffened at the implied criticism. “The Captain’s pardon, but my instructions were to interrogate the selected cadets until such time as they gave up information but before any permanent damage was done. Cadet Daeron withstood significantly more than the other four cadets before breaking. At that, he provided little useful information. He never did divulge the identity of his commander or any of the passwords.”

It doesn’t matter what I didn’t tell them. It was that I told them anything at all! Daeron thought. I should have been stronger willed. I shouldn’t have given in. The silent litany of blame was interrupted by the Commandant’s voice.

“I believe that concludes this briefing, unless, you have anything to add, General?”

General? The Captain-General of Gondor, Lord Boromir? Oh, gods! I should have let them drown me!

“Not at this time, Captain.” The tone of the Heir to the Steward’s voice was unexceptional, but Daeron could feel the man’s eyes on him. “Our discussion regarding the latest training exercise can wait until later.” 

“Cadet Daeron, you are dismissed. Master at Arms, summon the cadet’s escort so he may return to the surgeon’s purview.”

Grethen and Val arrived instantly and supported Daeron as he limped from the tent. They had gotten about ten paces from the entrance when his stomach rebelled entirely. Grethen waited until it appeared he was done, hefted him into his arms and carried him to the surgeon’s tent despite Daeron’s attempts to refuse assistance. Val ran ahead and so the surgeon was waiting when Grethen set Daron on the cot. 

“Drink this all at once. Good.” The surgeon set aside the dosing cup and nodded as Daeron’s color improved. The honey-ginger tincture was already settling Daeron’s stomach if not his mind. There was a commotion at the entry of the tent and the surgeon left to see to the problem, leaving Daeron to the attention of his squadmates.

“Come on, lets get those boots off you. “ Val said, suiting action to his words. “Greth, see if you can find some food. Real food, not that slop we got last night.”

“Should I raid the commandant’s saddlebags? No, that would be cannibalism.” Grethen squeezed Daeron’s shoulder gently, and smiled when he snorted at the notion that the academy commandant ate cadets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

* - * - * - * - *

Grethen had found food; rabbit stew thick with potatoes and carrots, and reasonably fresh bread. Val provided tea, and in spite of Daeron’s protests, the other cadet broke the remainder of his ration of sugarloaf into the pot.

“Shut it!” Val told him rudely as he poured hot water into the pot. “If we don’t make sure you’re taken care of, Halmir’s going to have our guts for bowstrings. I can live without sweet tea until we get home.”

Daeron gave up the argument and settled back onto his pillow, said pillow being his folded cloak. While he was being debriefed, someone had returned the pieces of his uniform the “enemy” had stripped from him after his capture. Grethen had located the rest of his scattered gear, including his weapons, and had secured it under Daeron’s cot. 

After the stew  had been consumed and the surgeon had checked over Daeron’s injuries and dosed him with yet another medicine, the three friends finished the last of the tea and talked. The other four cadets had been released back to duty so Daeron was at present the only patient in the tent. The surgeon had been closed mouthed about when Daeron would be released back to duty, and given the way he was feeling Daeron didn’t argue with him.

“What I want to know is why neither of you woke up when they grabbed me,” Daeron said into a lull in the conversation. 

Both Grethen and Val looked embarrassed. “Well,” the latter finally said, “we weren’t in the shelter. We were, um, inspecting the trees…”

Daeron covered his eyes with his arm and groaned. “I am going to tell Halmir he can have your guts for bowstrings. So I got captured because you two were out communing with nature. I suppose it’s too much to ask if you even realized the camp had been invaded.”

The silence was telling and Daeron chuckled. The chuckle turned to laughter, albeit somewhat hysterical laughter. Suddenly he clasped his arms around his chest, gasped, and the laughter turned to racking sobs. “Oh, gods!”

Grethen  bolted for the doorway of the tent calling for the surgeon, and Val knelt by the cot, stunned and clueless as to what to do.

“Go outside, lad.” Strong hands lifted Val to his feet and turned him towards the doorway then the owner of them sat on the edge of the cot and gathered the Daeron against his chest repeating, “Daeron. It will be all right. You will get through this. I’m proud of you.” The familiar hands and voice eventually got through the hysteria and the cadet quieted.

“Father?” 

“Yes.” Laedren sat still and kneaded the back of his son’s neck, feeling the recurring shudders that racked the fifteen year old.

“Forgive me—please…”

“There’s nothing to forgive, son. You did as well as any veteran I know.” Laedren spoke with assurance. “No soldier knows where his breaking point is. None of us are unassailable. We are each and every one of us human, which is not a dishonourable estate. If you fail, think once on what you failed to do, learn from it, and then move on with what you’ve learned.”

“But the debriefing…” Daeron began.

Laedren laughed softly. “Son, debriefings were created to knock out any ego that a soldier may have had the gall to develop. Even when you do everything right, you leave a debriefing feeling like you’ve made every mistake in the book.”

“That’s my speech, Laedren,” said the Captain-General. “I ought to charge you royalties for stealing it.” Boromir carried a horn cup in his hand, which he held out to Daeron. “From the surgeon. I assumed that you’d prefer not to be interrupted by the sawbones.”

Daeron sat up and pushed his hair out of his face before accepting the cup. “Thank you, my lord.” He eyed the dark brew askance but swallowed it down. As he expected, it was bitter.  “Do you think they make painkillers taste so awful as to give us incentive us not to get hurt?” Gods, did I just say that out loud?

Lord Boromir guffawed and sat on the nearest empty cot while Laedren grinned and took the cup from his son. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Now before that knocks you out, Cadet, we need you to answer some questions that the debriefing didn’t touch.”

Daeron noted that he’d been addressed as Cadet and realized that he wasn’t speaking to his father anymore but to a Captain of Gondor. “Yes, sir.”

“I understand that prior to your capture, you went on a reconnaissance patrol with Cadet Halmir, who was injured towards the end of your sweep. We’ve been informed of what you did but not why you made the decisions you did. Explain your actions.”

“Halmir is my friend as well as my squad mate. The weather was wretched and if I’d left him there and gone to get help, he might have died from exposure. If the enemy came across him while I was returning to camp for assistance he would have been unable to move or hide. Once his leg was splinted I was able to haul him back up to the path and help him along. He’s lighter weight than me and I carried him when necessary, staying hidden as much as possible.” He paused, trying to find the words to express what he wanted to say. “If he’d been injured more severely or I couldn’t move him, then I think I’d have made a different decision. I would have given him first aid and done my best to hide him from sight and protect him from the cold and then go to get help from the camp.”

“What if the enemy was approaching and you weren’t able to get your companion away?” This question came from Lord Boromir.

“If he was immobile I’d have to make it so he couldn’t give the enemy sensitive information, and get myself back to camp to give warning along with my report. I’d have to kill him. If I was the one who was injured he’d have to kill me.” The effects of the drug made the hard words easier to contemplate this time. “If he could move on his own, I’d try to lead the enemy away so he could take the information back. One or the other of us has to fulfill the mission without endangering the unit.”

“Why didn’t you give in to your captors earlier than you did?” This time the question came from his father. “You had little information of military value to them.” 

“I didn’t know what they already knew, sir. One word could give them a missing piece that could lead to a successful attack against us.”  Daeron answered after a few more minutes of consideration. “I failed my duty by telling them anything, sir.” 

The bleakness of the last was echoed in his eyes. It didn’t matter if a thousand others had given in under inquisition, he’d given the enemy information just to save his own life. It didn’t matter that the whole thing turned out to have been an elaborate war game. The fact was that he had broken, and how could any commander trust that it wouldn’t happen again?

“No one knows if it will happen the next time.” Boromir said in the ensuing silence. “No, I’m not reading your mind. You have the same fears and worries that I had when I went through this. What is the Fifth Article of the Code of Conduct?”

Daeron automatically recited the article in question. The Code of Conduct was the first thing every soldier in service to Gondor learned when they began their training. It was the basis of unit cohesion and morale throughout the army. “When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give only my name and rank. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to Gondor, its King, should he return, the ruling Steward, or its allies or harmful to their cause.”

“Note that you are required to resist only to the utmost of your ability. You lasted nearly three days after you were captured before you broke. I only lasted one. Your father lasted for two, if I recall.” Boromir said.

“Close enough,” grunted Laedren. “Daeron, when you did reach your limit, you didn’t tell them all you knew. Once you give them everything, they have no reason to keep you alive—unless you happen to be related to the most powerful man in the country, and they think they can wring concessions out of the government by offering his release in exchange.”

“If anyone thinks they can wring concessions out of the Steward, they don’t know my father. The security of Gondor is more important than any man.” Boromir retorted. He turned his attention back to Daeron who was beginning to succumb to the full effects of the draught. “To quote someone I knew long ago, ‘All a man may do is his best. So long as he does so, he retains his honour’. At ease, Cadet. Get some sleep.”

Daeron didn’t object when his father pushed him back against his folded cloak and turned down the lamp. His last conscious thought was that his strength might have failed in the end but he’d done his best.

* - * - * - * - *

The next day Daeron’s father and Lord Boromir left to go inspect another unit.  Halmir hobbled in on crutches early that evening announcing that he was going to be carted back to Minas Tirith with the rest of the cadets who’d weren’t capable of making the march home.  The two were still visiting when a rather bedraggled looking Grethen and Val stuck their heads in the doorway, inquiring if Daeron wanted more visitors.

Halmir snickered and waved them in. “What were you doing today, inspecting waterfalls?”

The two groaned and glared at Daeron who smirked and told them that they were crazy if they thought he’d ever let them live down abandoning him to be captured. The results of which comment brought the wrath of the on-duty surgeon down on them all and the acid comment that if Daeron felt well enough to roughhouse he was well enough to rejoin his unit in the morning.

After Grethen and Val took Halmir off to their bivouac Daeron settled back to sleep. The final words of Lord Boromir had been in his mind since the Captain-General had stopped by the medical tent that morning in the company of Daeron’s father.

After Laedren had made his farewells, Boromir grasped Daeron’s right arm in a warrior’s clasp. “You did well, Cadet. Gondor’s army is lucky to have such a man of strength and honour.”

Before sleep claimed him, Daeron promised his absent General that he’d do his utmost to remain strong and honourable.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Author’s Note:The Code of Conduct article that Daeron recites is based on article V of the Code of Conduct of the United States Armed Forces. The Code is the legal guide for the behaviour of U.S. military members who are captured by hostile forces. The actual wording of Article V of the Code of Conduct is: “Should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies.” 

For more information on the Code of Conduct, do a web search on the terms “U.S. Military Code of Conduct”.

Regarding the war game training scenario of this story, I based many aspects upon my own experiences during mobility/survival training with the 3rd Combat Communications Group of the U.S. Air Force at Tinker Air Force Base, Oklahoma in November of 1992. I am eternally grateful to the sergeants and officers who put me through the toughest and most rewarding month of my life. I wouldn’t be the person I am today if not for those experiences.



Chapter 3 - Through Daerons Eyes: Yule Gifts

Author’s Note: This story takes place when Daeron and Halmir are 12 years old, the year before they are to enter the military Academy. Laedren ( Daeron’s father), and Boromir make several appearances in this fic.

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, Tolkien owns it. If you don’t recognise it, I own it. No copyright infringement is intended. 

Dedicated to Rhyselle with much affection and thanks.

Yule Gifts

By Edlyn

T.A. 3010 – Near Midwinter (Yule)

Intent on what he was doing, Daeron was surprised when the door slammed open and Halmir burst into the room. As his best friend greeted him he stared in dismay at the gouge that now marred the once smooth leather.

“What--? Oh, Daeron, I’m sorry!” Halmir skidded to a halt by the table and bit his lip when he saw the damage to the all but completed bracer.

“Go away, Halmir.” Daeron wouldn’t look at his friend because he was afraid that he’d lose his temper completely. It was only a week until Yule, and the gift he was making for his father was ruined. ”Don’t say anything. Just… go away!”

Daeron waited until Halmir had left, this time closing the door quietly behind him, before throwing the knife aside and burying his face in his hands. His idea to make his father a new set of bracers had seemed a good one last summer but the entire project had been fraught with frustration.

From the poor quality leather the merchant had initially foisted on him to the second hand tools that were all he could afford, to finding the time to work on the bracers without anyone seeing what he was doing, he had been almost ready to give up. Only his wish to give his father a special gift kept him going.

He picked up the bracer and carried it to the window so he could examine the damage in the bright winter sunlight. The gouge wasn’t excessively deep but if he smoothed and leveled out the surface the bracer would be too thin to offer any real protection. Sighing, he returned to the table and began to put his tools away.

An hour later he tentatively knocked on Halmir’s door. Halmir opened it and they interrupted each other’s apology. 

“Daeron, I’m really sorry…”

“Halmir, I shouldn’t have…”

Halmir dragged Daeron into his room and closed the door. “How bad is it?”

Daeron said nothing but handed Halmir the bag that held the bracers, before collapsing into the chair next to the fireplace. Halmir’s dog, Alba—actually one of his father’s retired hunting hounds—who was sprawled on the hearth rug, roused long enough to check if Daeron had brought him a treat and to swipe his chin with a lick before subsiding to his former position. Daeron apologised for not bringing Alba anything and scratched him behind the ears while Halmir inspected the bracers.

“I don’t know how you could fix it so it’s as smooth as the other one,” he admitted finally. “But maybe Jorell might know what you can do.”

“Who’s Jorell?” Daeron asked, not really believing that anything could be done to remedy the problem.

“You haven’t met him? He takes care of all the repairs on the tack and harness for the Citadel guard. If there’s a way to fix this he’ll know it.” Halmir put the bracers back in the cloth bag and handed it to Daeron. “Come on, I’ll take you to meet him. Let’s go, Alba. You’re coming, too.”

The hound rolled his eyes at his master as if to say Are you crazy? Leave my nice warm fire for all that white wet stuff and cold paws? but at Daeron’s urging got to his feet and followed Halmir out of the room.

It wasn’t really that far a walk to the saddlery that was tucked behind the stables, but both boys were glad to duck inside and get out of the frigid wind that was growing colder by the minute. As it was, Alba practically knocked them down in his attempt to escape the outside as soon as possible.

“Who have we here?” inquired a mellow voice from the other side of a screen that apparently blocked the wind from outside, as Alba paused to shake the snow from his back.

“Hi, Jorell!” Halmir called as he pulled Daeron after him. “Down, Alba! This is my friend Daeron.”

Jorell was a stocky, dark haired, browned eyed man who was currently in the middle of replacing the flaps on a cavalry saddle from the looks of the workbench next to him.

“Well, it’s good to meet any friend of Halmir’s. What’s brought you out in this weather?” He offered a callused and brown-stained hand to Daeron. 

Daeron shook the proffered hand and decided he liked this man. “Halmir said that you might be able to give me some advice.”

Jorell grinned and shot a sideways glance at Halmir who had made himself comfortable on an entirely disreputable looking sofa next to the stove and was currently arguing with Alba who got the most comfortable spot. “Advice? Well, it depends on what kind of advice you’re seeking. Tell me your tale and I’ll see what can be done.”

Daeron pulled the bracers out of their cloth bag and offered them to Jorell. “They’re for my father for Yule…”

Jorell reached to turn up the lamps over the workbench, cleared a space, and laid the bracers out flat. The gouge was even more apparent under the brighter light. “Hmmm. You made these?”

Daeron replied in the affirmative and explained that he’d found a pair of very old bracers in one of the trunks in the attic and copied the pattern. “Is there any way to fix it? Yule’s only a week away.”

Jorell didn’t answer immediately. Instead he carefully examined each bracer; looking closely at the stitching, the smoothness of the edges, and the setting of the rivets that attached the straps. “No, lad. There’s nothing that can fix that gouge—“ he held up a hand, forestalling Daeron’s expression of dismay. “But, there are ways to salvage the situation.”

“But, how?” 

A bit of scrap leather sailed across the room to hit Halmir on the head. “Halmir, make yourself useful. Get that box off the second shelf of that cabinet and bring it here.”

Sighing dramatically and muttering that he never got any respect, Halmir retrieved the box and brought it over to the workbench. “I don’t know why I come here. You always find a way to abuse me.”

Jorell snorted. “Just be glad I’m not a bricklayer or you’d have been knocked out cold. You may as well learn to do this, too.”

The finely finished box held a collection of dies and knives along with a set of sharpening stones. Jorell pulled out the largest of the dies and displayed it to the boys. “You ever wonder why all the uniform tack decorations are identical?”

Daeron glanced up at Jorell for permission and took the die in his hands. It was a depiction of the White Tree. “It transfers the pattern, doesn’t it? Then you can carve it and it will always look the same.”

“Exactly.” Jorell took the die back and reached past Daeron to pull a slab of granite closer to the edge of the table. “Grab a piece of cowhide from that basket and lay it on the granite. Halmir, hand me that wood block and hammer.”

Fascinated, the boys watched as Jorell set the die on the hide, covered it with the wood block and carefully brought the hammer down on top of it. When the block and die were moved away, a fine-lined image of the White Tree had been impressed into the leather.

Jorell then used one of the knives to carve along the edge of the trunk of the stamped tree, cutting a beveled gouge that accentuated the image. Within a few minutes the left side of the tree was completed. 

Handing the knife to Daeron, he instructed him to practice cutting a few beveled lines, giving advice as to angle and depth. Daeron was astonished at how the slightest change in the angle of his hand or an increase of pressure could change the character of the line. Once it appeared that he had the idea, Jorell told him to complete the tree.

Then he turned to Halmir and got him started doing the same on another piece of leather.

The boys now being occupied and Alba snoring on the sofa, Jorell went back to his work on the saddle, periodically stopping to check on their progress.

Daeron seemed to have an innate talent for the task. He was bent over the workbench, an intent expression on his face as the final branches of the tree developed under the knife. Halmir was obviously enjoying himself but it was equally obvious that his talents lay in a different direction.

Daeron finished the last cut and straightened up, putting the knife down and shaking out his hand. He’d have to practice a lot to get the same degree of finish as Jorell had but he was pleased with what he’d accomplished.

“Very good. I think that if you practice doing this for the next two days, you’ll be able to carve the White Tree on the bracers and hide the damage,” Jorell told him. “Come back tomorrow after lunch.”

“what about me?” Halmir interjected. Jorell laughed and tousled the boy’s hair. “You can come, too. Just leave your dog at home. I can do without the dog hair on my furniture.”

“As if it makes any difference to the couch,” Halmir muttered. “Oh, I forgot. My cousin Marnil’s back from Pelargir. I’ll be lucky to escape the house with all the relatives here. Come on, Alba. Let’s go.”

The hound reluctantly left the couch and followed Halmir outside.

Daeron took a minute to clean up the leather shavings and put the knife away. “Is it all right if I leave the bracers here? Until tomorrow at least?”

Jorell got down a tray from one of the shelves and taking a charcoal stick scribbled Daeron’s name on the front edge. “Put them in here and they’ll be waiting for you. Oh, yes. Just drop the shavings in that box over there. They can be useful.”

Daeron emerged from the saddlery shortly thereafter only to be hit in the chest with a well-aimed snowball. Before he could gather a handful of snow to return fire a second missile hit him on the head.

“Got you!” Halmir shouted and the snow battle was joined. Even Alba got into the act, leaping up to catch snowballs in his mouth.

Daeron was about to drop an armful of snow down the back of Halmir’s coat when a blast of silver trumpets rang out. “Ha! Lord Boromir is back! That means father’s back as well!” 

The snow battle forgotten, Daeron ducked between two buildings and climbed up one of the support buttresses to look over the wall of the sixth circle. “There they are! Look, Halmir!”

There was no mistaking the Steward’s Heir as the troop rode towards the main gates of the city. And as Daeron expected, his father’s dapple grey gelding, Bréthil, was right next to the distinctive golden dun ridden by Lord Boromir. 

“Do you want to go down to the gate and meet them?” Halmir asked, his eyes searching for his uncle and eldest brother amongst the troop.

“No, It’s too long a walk back up. They’ll be coming up here with the horses.” Daeron waited until the troop had passed the first gate and hopped down from the bench, grinning.

“Well, I’m going to surprise Kal and Uncle Thavron at the barracks. I’ll see you around if I can escape the family. Here, Alba!.” Daeron watched his friend and the big hound out of sight then jogged towards the stable entrance. He knew his friend had left so he could have some uninterrupted time with his father. Halmir’s father was one of the Tree Guard and so was home every night unless he had duty. Daeron’s father, Lord Laedren, was Captain and Aide to Lord Boromir and was away much of the time accompanying the Captain-General.

It wasn’t long before the troop arrived in the stable yard. Apparently, the last part of the ride had been done at an easy pace, none of the horses were blowing or sweated, but all were in need of grooming from the spatters of slush and mud on their coats.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at home studying with Janthred?” Laedren teased as he spotted Daeron coming out of the stable that housed Bréthil’s box.

Daeron grinned at his father as he took Bréthil’s bridle and patted the grey on the neck. In return the horse nibbled on his hair and hinted that he’d really like a treat. “Janthred is on his way to his sister’s house in Greywood for Yule. Sorry, Bréthil, I don’t have anything for you today.” As his father dismounted the big grey gelding, he added. “I thought you weren’t going to be back for another three days.”

“Do you want me to leave again?” Laedren tousled his son’s hair as he put his other arm around the boy’s shoulder. He remembered how he’d felt about being hugged in public at age twelve and his son was likely the same way. Hugs and goodnight kisses were given and accepted in private, not in the full view of friends and men you wanted to impress.

“Of course not! Can I help you with Bréthil?” Daeron knew he should go home and let his mother know that Laedren was back early but his father had been gone nearly three months to Cair Andros and he was loath to give up any time with him at all.

“Of course. You can help me with this armour, as well. It’ll be good practice for next year.” Laedren handed Daeron his helm and took Bréthil’s bridle.

If anything, Daeron’s grin got even bigger. “Next year? You mean I’ve been accepted for the Academy?”

“There I go giving out classified information. I wasn’t going to tell you till Yule, but…” Laedren led Bréthil into the stable and started to remove his armour. “I don’t suppose that you have anything to tell me about what you’ve been up to in the past three months? Other than adding what has to be a half head of height on yourself, I mean.”

Daeron set the helm and the pieces armour that his father handed to him on the bench opposite Bréthil’s stall then turned to help with the tack; but his way was barred by the passing of another horse, this one a distinctive golden dun even taller than the big grey. Everyone in the city knew this horse by sight and Daeron hastily bowed as the Steward’s Heir led Gyldenlác, his Rohirric stallion, into the stall next to Bréthil. Once the way was clear, Daeron joined Laedren in the box and took the bridle from his father. The big grey already had his nose in the watering trough. “I’ve been studying with Janthred, of course. Right before he left he said we’d be starting on military jurisprudence when he got back. Why can’t he just call it army law like everybody else does?”

After hanging the bridle on the hook provided, Daeron unsaddled the gelding. He flipped the girth over the seat and frowned. The two of the three straps that attached it to the saddle were worn almost through. He put it on the rack and fingered the damaged leather, worriedly. “Father, your girth…”

“I know. We’ll stop by the saddlery on the way home and see if it can be repaired. That’s one of the reasons why we didn’t gallop in. Get me— ah, you were busy while we rode up, I see. Brushes, rub rags, even a bucket of water and saddle soap.” Laedren sounded pleased.

When Daeron went back into the stall, he grabbed a handful of straw and started removing the mud that had spattered on Bréthil’s off side. The gelding’s ears were drooping in contentment as the Captain and his son worked over him and caught up with each other.

“How’s that pony of yours? I’m surprised you weren’t down outside the gates riding when we arrived,”

“Dae lost a shoe and split his hoof—the off fore—three days ago. He’s still at the farrier’s. We had to walk him nearly four miles back to the gate.” Daeron stopped brushing Bréthil and looked miserable, thinking about the sturdy highland pony he’d been given for his sixth birthday. “I pulled him up as soon as it happened but—“

Bréthil turned his head and butted it against Daeron’s shoulder so he started brushing the gelding again. “The farrier said it would heal but I won’t be able to ride Dae until the hoof grows out.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Daeron. Horses will lose shoes and  accidents will happen. You noticed it immediately and did the right thing. Dae will recover in time.”

Suddenly, their conversation and the relatively quiet sounds of the men working on their mounts and talking was interrupted by a clang, a splash, and loud and inventive cursing. Bréthil cocked an ear towards the neighboring box and snorted in what sounded like amusement.

“I ought to have your rendered down into glue, golden boy!” Boromir roared. “I don’t care if you were a diplomatic gift from Theoden. He just wanted to get you out of his stable.”

Laedren turned and looked over the boards into Gyldenlác’s box and laughed. The stallion had waited until his rider had bent to dip the sponge and kicked the bucket of water over, drenching Boromir, who had stripped down to his shirt and breeches to better deal with grooming his horse. Of course, the stallion looked perfectly innocent, sanguinely mouthing hay from the net hanging in the corner of the stall.

Daeron bit his tongue to stifle his own laughter and went to the storeroom at the end of the corridor for towels and a blanket. When he returned with his arms full he found that Lord Boromir was humorously recounting more details of just why “Gyl” would be more useful as any number of things other than a warhorse. Laedren was laughing like a drain and leaning against the boards separating the boxes while Bréthil and Gyldenlác looked like they were exchanging similar comments on the qualities of their respective riders. 

Daeron draped the towels and blankets over the door to Gyl’s box and returned to grooming Bréthil. In a few minutes the hilarity subsided and everyone returned to tending their mounts.

“He’ll do. Lets take care of the tack and after I check on my men we’ll go home.” Once they had the tack cleaned Laedren dropped the brushes and rags into Daeron’s arms and gave him a push towards the storeroom. While Daeron was on that errand his father dumped the bucket in the drain-channel.

Boromir caught Laedren’s eye as he was putting the bucket away. “You’ve got a good lad there. Bring him with you on the Eve.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Laedren gave a formal salute and bow, then grinned as his commander and friend rolled his eyes. “I’m just getting back into practice, Ori. I can’t call you by name in front of your Lord father now, can I?”

“Well, you could but I wouldn’t recommend it.” Boromir clapped Laedren on the back and returned to Gyldenlác’s box.

Daeron reappeared and his father handed him the damaged girth as well as his greaves and helm. “I’ll get the rest. Now to see the saddler.”

As they made their way around the stables to the saddlery, Daeron suddenly realized that he was supposed to spend tomorrow afternoon with Jorell practicing. With his father home how was he going to explain his absence without ruining the surprise?

He needn’t have worried.

Jorell gave him a discrete wink as Laedren explained about the girth and took the offending item from where it was draped over Daeron’s shoulder. After some minutes examining the girth he nodded decidedly. “Well, you were lucky it lasted this long with the way those buckle rivets were set. I certainly didn’t put those in.”

“No, Fedrel did that up at Cair Andros nearly three months ago. Can it be fixed or is my pay going to be docked for a new one?” Laedren inquired.

“Oh, it can be fixed, sir.” Jorell tilted his head towards Daeron. “Perhaps your son would like to come round tomorrow and learn how it’s done? At the least, he’ll get an idea how to tell if his harness has been repaired correctly.”

“Certainly. I should have thought about introducing you to Daeron months ago. When should I send him over?” Laedren looked at Daeron to see if he had any objection. “It will keep him out of trouble while his tutor is away.”

Daeron had no objections at all to the idea but felt it necessary to object to the intimation that he was a troublemaker. “Halmir’s the one who finds trouble. The problem is that it always happens when I’m nearby.”

The two older men laughed and Laedren ruffled his son’s dark hair again.

“Be here right after the noon meal, Daeron.” Jorell put the girth in one of his trays and labeled it. “When are you heading out again, Captain? It will be a few days before I can get it completed.”

“Not until after Yule. So you have a week at the least.” Laedren shook hands with the leatherworker and guided Daeron back outside. The weather had changed and now big, fluffy snowflakes were drifting from the blanket of clouds above them. The wind had quieted, and though it was cold, it was so beautiful that Daeron didn’t mind the walk down to the barracks on the Third Circle. 

They were there only long enough for Laedren to make sure that all his men were settled in and to see if there were any personality conflicts that could be remedied by rearranging billets. There weren’t any problems. His troop had been living and working together since he’d been promoted to Captain nearly five years earlier. Daeron watched with pride as his father walked through the barracks always seeming to know what to say to each man. As he prepared to leave, the most senior of the sergeants proffered an invitation to his Captain and the Captain’s son to join the troop a few evenings hence for a meal and toast to the season.

When Laedren accepted on both his and Daeron’s behalf, the sergeant grinned. “’t won’t be fancy like they’ll be having up at the Citadel but you won’t leave hungry, I can promise ye.”

Daeron thanked the man for the invitation saying that he would be honored to join them, and on the spur of the moment, offered a bow to the gathered men.

As he followed Laedren out into the dusk to make the climb to the Sixth Circle, Daeron blushed to overhear one of the soldiers say, “Jus’ like his Dad. Quality!”

Laedren had heard the praise as well but pretended not to because it was obvious that Daeron was embarrassed by it.

When they got home, Laedren handed his armour over to one of the waiting servants and went to greet his lady wife. Daeron looked at the greaves and helm in his arms and followed the servant to the small room off the study where his father kept his weapons and gear when he wasn’t out in the field. It would be at least an hour before dinner would be served, if not longer. He might as well keep busy until then. At any rate, cleaning his father’s armour might preoccupy him enough to let him ignore the fact that his stomach was currently far too familiar with his backbone.

The servant brought the supplies that Daeron needed and then left when his help was politely refused. 

Daeron had finished all but one of the lamed pauldrons when Laedren appeared at the door dressed for dinner in an ornately embroidered velvet tunic in deep forest green.

“You’ve been busy, I see. Leave that and get cleaned up. Your mother says you’re to wear a dress tunic since we’re dining formally tonight.”

Daeron wondered who the guests were that made it necessary for his mother to decree that he dress up for dinner. Usually, if there were guests important enough to dress up for he ate in his room rather than join the adults downstairs.

He was still fighting with the tunic’s recaltricant top button as he hurried down the corridor to the dining room, trying to remember the finer points of formal etiquette that both his mother and Janthred had been trying to get him to remember for years. He finally got the thing fastened and taking a deep breath opened the door.

The next morning he gratefully enjoyed the absolute informality of eating breakfast at the wide kitchen table while the cook and servants bustled about. It was a wonder he’d managed to eat anything the night before what with having to remember what to do when and with what. At least his mother seemed to have enjoyed it. His father hadn’t laughed but there was no way that Daeron could miss the amusement that lit Laedren’s grey-green eyes.

Daeron had thought more than once during the interminable meal that he just might prefer reading up on military jurisprudence under Janthred’s watchful eye than any more lessons in social etiquette. But when his mother appeared in the doorway, looking like a woman with a mission he realized that more lessons were exactly what he was going to get.

It was with immense relief that he escaped the house and headed for the saddlery. He was back in his most comfortable clothes and the cold air was refreshing after spending the morning in his mother’s stuffy sitting room pretending to be formally presented to persons of various rank. Ha had a scratch on his neck from the braid at the collar of the dress tunic she had insisted he wear for the exercise and a burgeoning bruise on one knee from where he’d slipped on the polished floor. This etiquette thing was literally becoming a real pain.

Jorell welcomed him warmly and waved him towards the workbench. The damaged girth lay there along with a collection of tools.

“We’ll work on the girth first then you can practice on your special project.” Jorell told him. “Now, tell me what’s wrong with the girth, in detail.”

By the time Daeron left the saddlery his hands and arms ached but he didn’t mind. He was pleased with the way the afternoon had gone. His father’s girth was on its way to being repaired—they still needed to stitch the new lining to it so the stitching where the new buckle straps were attached wouldn’t irritate Bréthil’s skin. Then they had to waterproof the stitching where the new buckle ends had been attached. Additionally, he’d successfully carved four images of the White Tree on the practice leather and Jorell had said that he was ready to start the work on his father’s bracers. 

It was only as he entered the house and saw his mother coming down the stairs from her rooms wearing one of her best gowns that he remembered that dinner was formal that night.


The days passed quickly as Yule approached. The afternoons spent in the saddlery didn’t quite make up for the mornings spent under his mother’s tutelage nor the formality the evening meal had become or being unable to spend time with Halmir but he was just about finished with the bracers. Careful placement of the pattern had incorporated the gouge into one of the branches of the White Tree and Jorell seemed pleased with his work on the girth as well.

The day before the Eve of Yule Daeron entered the saddlery to find Jorell tooling the brow band Daeron had made the while learning the techniques that were used to fix the damaged girth. A garland of roses were blooming on the strip of leather under his knife as Daeron watched.

“It’s beautiful,” Daeron said as Jorell straightened up and set the knife aside. “And your did at all freehand.”

“That comes from practice. When you do this long enough you don’t need templates or guides for the patterns you do a lot.” He nodded towards the bench that Daeron had been working at. The bracers had been dyed black yesterday and left to dry. “Before you burnish those, I have something to show you.”

Jorell opened a locked cabinet and withdrew a stout box and opened it. Inside were withdrew a bottle of what looked like glue, a fine paintbrush, a collection of agate burnishers, a small sharp knife, a pair of tweezers, and what looked like a small booklet containing what Daeron thought were silver leaves.

“Did you ever wonder why the silver on the dress saddles and bridles never tarnish, lad? It’s because we don’t use silver.” He carefully used the tweezers to pull a single sheet of the leaf from between the tissue pages of the booklet and held it up to the light. “We use mithril.”

The thin leaf of the glowing metal was returned to the booklet and Jorell explained the process of laying the metal leaf to decorate the leather. “It can be done with any metal, but silver tarnishes, and gold is too soft for anything that isn’t kept inside. Mithril leaf, however, is strong and once its laid it’s there until the leather wears away under it.”

As Daeron watched, one by one the carved roses on the brow band were lightly painted with glue and a tiny piece of the mithril leaf cut just large enough to cover the glued area was pressed into it. Once all the leaf was in place, Jorell counted to sixty then used a thin agate burnisher to polish the leaf smooth. He used the pointed tip of another burnisher to turn back the one or two areas where the leaf had extended past the edge of the glue and pressed it back into the mithril. To Daeron’s surprise the folded edge appeared to melt into the rest of the metal. Finally, Jorell used a piece of white silk to polish the entire band. The mithril blossoms gleamed in the lamplight on the dark leather.

Then to Daeron’s terror and delight, Jorell talked him through leafing the carved decorations on his father’s bracers. All he’d wanted to do was to salvage the damage and still have a gift for his father but Jorell’s patience and generosity had made them into a gift a Prince would be pleased to receive.

“Thank you, Jorell.” Daeron said as he carefully wrapped the bracers up and tucked them in a cloth bag. “Saying ‘thank you’ just doesn’t seem like enough for everything you’ve done.”

“Come back after Yule. A soldier should know who to take care of  and repair his own gear, and if I have you around I can give you the boring stuff while I woke on the things I prefer to work on.” Jorell handed him the brow band. “Take this for your mother. I know you haven’t had time to do anything about a gift for her since you’ve been here every afternoon. And don’t forget your father’s girth.”

Daeron tucked the brow band into the bag with the bracers and gathered up the girth after donning his cloak. “Thanks again, Jorell. Happy Yule. I wish I had a present to give you.” He paused a moment then gave the man a hug before running outside.

Jorell smiled after him. “You just gave me one, lad. You just gave me one.”

Daeron made it to his room and put the gifts away in his clothes press without running into either his father or mother. He had another thing to be happy about. Tonight he was accompanying his father to the barracks for dinner instead of having to suffer through yet another set of etiquette lessons disguised as a meal. 

Dinner with the troops had been educational in its own way, but it was infinitely more relaxed than dinner at home would have been. The best part was after the meal -which had been, as promised, not fancy but very tasty- when the men settled with their pipes to tell stories. They only left when it became obvious to Laedren that his son wasn’t going to be able to keep his eyes open for much longer.

The Eve of Yule dawned bright, sunny, and cold. Daeron carried the repaired girth down to breakfast and blearily wondered if he could talk his mother into skipping the etiquette lessons for once. 

It turned out that Lady Meriel had far more on her mind than etiquette lessons. She was dressed in a plain blue gown and apron and was busy going over various lists with the cook when Daeron stuck his head into the kitchen. The rest of the house staff seemed to be in there as well and given the foodstuffs and supplies piled on the big table, it was more than obvious that breakfast was being served elsewhere in the house.

Before he could ask anyone he was turned round and pushed towards his father’s study. 

“I would stay out of there, if I were you. You might find yourself part of the Yule Feast tomorrow instead of eating it!” Laedren was cheerful and given the late hour of their return far too awake in Daeron’s opinion.

After some toast, cheese and eggs, Daeron was properly awake. He waited until Laedren had finished his own portion and handed him the girth strap.

Laedren took it from him and found that not only had the damaged end of the girth been completely replaced with new straps and buckles, but the underside had been lined with soft padded doeskin, and the use scratches had been buffed away. “Jorell does excellent work.”

Hesitantly, Daeron said, “Actually, father, Jorell showed me what to do and I fixed it. He double checked everything, though,” he added hastily. 

Laedren smiled at his son. “Well, since your mother is busy this morning, shall we go for a ride and I can try it out?”

Daeron’s returning smile faltered. “I’d like to, but Dae’s lame, remember? You go and I’ll stay and read one of those books that Janthred left me. I ought to look at least one of them before he returns.” 

“No, you come with me. I’m sure we can find something for you to ride. It’s a holiday and you’ll have more than enough studying to do once Janthred gets back. Go change your clothes and meet me in ten minutes at the front door.” 

Daeron took his father at his word and was arrived at the foot of the stairs just as Laedren returned from having a few words with his wife. 

The stable was fairly quiet with only a groom or two in sight and most of the boxes occupied by drowsing horses. 

“Here, tack up Bréthil, and I’ll check with the Horsemaster and see who I can get for you to ride.” Laedren handed him the girth then strode down the corridor.

Daeron opened the Bréthil’s box and received the usual greeting of sniffs and hair nibbles. There wasn’t much stable dirt to be brushed off the dappled grey hide and Bréthil was an accommodating horse by nature, readily taking the bit when it was offered. 

Daeron had just secured the girth and checked the stirrup leathers when the sound of hooves walking down the stone-floored aisle made him look up.

Laedren was leading an elegant blood bay mare that wore a dark green blanket decorated with the symbol of their House differenced by the cadence mark indicating the House’s heir, under the beautifully tooled saddle.

Completely stunned, Daeron was speechless. He stepped out of Bréthil’s box and offered the bay the flat of his palm. She was absolutely perfect, from her delicate nose to the tip of her lush black tail. She responded by sniffing his hand then laying her chin on his shoulder. As soon as the introductions were completed Laedren handed Daeron the reins.

“Her name is Ruinanor..” Laedren said. “Happy Yule.”

“Ruinanor.” Daeron was still stunned. She was his? He turned shining eyes on his father. “She’s perfect, wonderful… oh, thank you!”

“Well, take her out to the yard while I get Bréthil, and you can try her paces.”

Daeron discovered that Ruinanor was so much taller than his pony that he had to make use of the mounting block to reach the stirrup. But that inconvenience was forgotten as he walked her in serpentines across the yard. She was so responsive to the slightest shift of his weight and the lightest touch of the reins that it seemed she picked up on his very thoughts.

Laedren mounted Bréthil and caught Daeron’s eye as he completed a turn. “Let’s go. We need to be back home by mid-afternoon.”

The guards at the main gate cheerfully saluted Laedren and wished he and Daeron “Happy Yule” and the sergeant in charge complimented Daeron on his new mount.

Once they had reached the snow covered fields between the walls and the beginning of the farmland Laedren marked out a large rectangular perimeter by trotting Bréthil round until they met back with his hoof prints. He dismounted and put Bréthil on a ground tie, then pulling a lunge line out of his saddlebag and clipping it to Ruinanor’s bridle, he said, “All right, lad. Cross those stirrups and drop the reins. It’s time you get to know how she moves.”

The schooling session didn’t last very long, perhaps half of an hour, by which time Daeron and Ruinanor had long since come to an understanding with each other.

“Very good,” Laedren praised them, collecting the lunge rein and whistling for Bréthil. “Let’s let them stretch their legs.”

While waiting for Laedren to mount up, Daeron nudged Ruinanor into a trot and attempted to guide her with his legs and weight shifts alone. She was more than agreeable to the exercise and they completed eight serpentines by the time Laedren drew up along side.

“Quit showing off, and take back your irons and reins.” Laedren told him. Daeron complied with a grin, and found he needed to let the stirrups out a hole. Once his feet were back in place, Laedren gave Bréthil his office and the dapple grey warhorse cantered northwards. Daeron followed suit on Ruinanor, her hooves kicking up showers of snow behind her. 

They were returning to the city when Daeron turned Ruinanor to the east, bent over her neck and then urged her into a full gallop. He didn’t keep her at that pace very long and slowed her to a canter as he circled her back towards where Laedren and Bréthil had pulled up to wait. They were about 50 yards away when Daeron realized that two other riders were now waiting with his father. He immediately recognized Lord Boromir’s Gyldenlác but the huge black standing by the golden dun’s side was unfamiliar. He slowed to a trot then to a walk and finally halted about ten feet away from the trio. 

Was that…Lord Denethor?

Daeron bowed as deeply as he could in the saddle towards the Steward and again -but not quite so deeply- towards the Heir with his heart in his throat. He hadn’t a clue as to how to proceed from there. None of his mother’s etiquette lessons covered what to do when you met the Steward while out riding. As he straightened he noticed four mounted guardsmen a short distance away.

I just know I’m in trouble now, he thought as he glanced at his father. But Laedren seemed unperturbed. 

Lord Boromir was the one who came to his rescue by grinning and nudging Gyldenlác forward to take a closer look at Ruinanor. “She’s got quite a turn of speed on her. I think she’d leave me breathless as well. How are her gaits?”

“Ruinanor has a very smooth action, my lord.” Daeron answered, smiling at his mount and stroking her neck as she turned and bumped his left knee with her nose. He then looked up at Laedren and smiled happily and proudly. “She’s my Yule gift from my father.”

“A most generous gift,” Denethor opined. “Come, Boromir. The morning wanes. A happy Yule to you and your son, Lord Laedren.” The Steward turned his mount towards the gates and was immediately joined by his escort. 

“Ride her in health, Daeron,” Boromir said then turned towards Laedren. “Until this evening, Laedren.” He then sent Gyldenlác onward to join the Steward’s party.

Laedren nodded towards the gates. “We need to go back as well.”

An hour and a half later, both Bréthil and Ruinanor were groomed and snug in their respective boxes, the tack was cleaned and put away and father and son were demolishing a substantial luncheon in Laedren’s study as the kitchen and dining rooms were off limits.

“What will happen to Dae, now that I’ve got Ruinanor?” Daeron asked.

Laedren stretched out his legs towards the fireplace and lit his pipe. “I was thinking about sending him to my cousin Narin’s estate near Amon Din. Narin’s son, Nevil, is five years old, and should be ready for a pony by the time Dae’s hoof heals up. What do you think?”

“That sounds like a good idea. I’ll miss Dae, but…” Daeron shrugged sheepishly. “Even if you hadn’t given me Ruinanor, it wouldn’t be too long before I was too tall for him.”

“Technically, you’re not big enough for Ruinanor, but you’ll grow into her soon enough. This way you’ll have about eight months to get used to her and learn what she can do before you start at the Academy.”

Later that afternoon Daeron went up to his room and stopped dead in the doorway when he saw what was laid out on his bed. 

A full formal Court outfit in dark green was draped over the bedspread, one nearly identical to Laedren’s Court garb, save for the same cadency mark on the device – a branch bearing a silver rose crossed by a sword all in silver -  that was blazoned across the front of the tunic. Everything was there; from the finely embroidered silk shirt to the heavy fur lined cloak and appropriate accessories.

“Do you think you can tolerate wearing it tonight?” Lady Meriel stood behind her son. “You certainly can’t come with your father and I to the Citadel wearing your riding clothes.”

Daeron was completely flummoxed. “But…”

She gave him a push into the room. “Why do you think you had a crash course in Court etiquette this week? Honestly, I hadn’t intended on starting you on that until spring since you’ll have to be presented before you start at the Academy. I certainly can think of more enjoyable things to do with my time than make you miserable. Get cleaned up and dressed and meet your father and I downstairs.”

Daeron didn’t recognize himself when he stood in front of the looking glass over the washstand to comb his hair. He looked like a young man instead of a child. 

He dropped the comb and crossed to his bed, sitting down next to the cloak. He’d looked forward to Yule as always, but this year things were different. Ruinanor was a gift for a man, not a boy. And Court clothes? Yesterday next year seemed like it would take forever to get here. Now it didn’t look that far away. 

“Daeron!”

At his father’s shout, he picked up the cloak and on the spur of the moment picked up his parents’ gifts. He still wasn’t certain that he had all the Court etiquette down correctly and if he was going to fatally offend someone, he’d prefer that his parents had received their gifts before his demise.

His mother looked like a queen, he thought, as he saw her in her Court gown of dark green and silver. Or at least like a queen ought to look, he amended, given that he’d never seen a queen.

His father’s attire was identical to his own save for the addition of a formal Robe and the lack of the cadency mark on the embroidered device on the robe’s left shoulder. 

When he reached the bottom of the steps, Daeron paused and bowed before dropping to one knee and offering his duty to his father. Laedren squeezed his shoulder and bade him to rise and smiled as Daeron bowed and offered his duty to his mother. 

Before rising at her bidding he gave her the silk wrapped package and wished her a “Happy Yule.”

Smiling she untied the ribbon securing the cloth and smiled delightedly at the gleaming brow band. “It’s lovely, Daeron! Wilwarin will look lovely wearing it when I ride out!” 

After accepting his mother’s hug and kiss, Daeron handed his father the other package. Laedren unwrapped the bracers and stood looking at them in silence, his fingers running over the burnished leather and outlining the mithril tree. Then, just as Daeron was about to pass out from holding his breath, Laedren smiled and met his son’s eyes.

“I could use some help putting these on.”

The rest of the night passed in a haze of happiness for Daeron with certain events remaining bright in his memory for the rest of his life: being presented to the Steward and both his sons and not stumbling over the words and his feet as he went through the prescribed motions was only one of them.

Once the formal presentations and meal were over, the Court dispersed into smaller, informal groups. Elated that he hadn’t disgraced himself and relieved that he hadn’t spilled something on his clothes during the dinner, Daeron stayed by his father as Laedren greeted various friends and acquaintances. Unfamiliar with most of the subjects of conversation or uninterested in them, his thoughts dwelled on Ruinanor and whether he’d be able to escape the visiting family members and friends who would fill the house on the morrow and ride her again.

Suddenly, two hands came down on his shoulders and jolted him back to the present. “I didn’t realize that bracers were now a necessary part of formal Court dress, Laedren,” Boromir said.

“Only if they’re made by your son, Ori.” Laedren’s voice was proud.

Boromir gave Daeron’s shoulders a gentle squeeze and released him. Then he took Laedren’s right arm and closely examined the bracer. The burnished black leather gleamed in the many lights of the Hall, the mithril leaf of Laedren’s crossed rose branch and sword and the White Tree above them glittering brightly.

“Jorell will have took look to his laurels, I think,” Boromir said, releasing Laedren’s arm.

“Jorell taught me how to finish them, my Lord,” Daeron interjected. “I have a lot more to learn before I’ll be anywhere as good as he is.”

Boromir chuckled. “Everyone has a lot more to learn before they could be as good as Jorell is. We’re lucky to have him. That reminds me, I need to check and see whether he’s done replacing the flaps on Gyldenlác’s field saddle.”

“That can wait till next week, Boromir. Let the man have some time off. The last thing I need is him deciding it would be more salutarious for his health to relocate to Rohan or Dol Amroth.” Denethor had strolled up with Lady Meriel on his arm. “I ought to make you find his replacement if you chase him off.”

“Well, if he does leave, I have his replacement right here. Daeron made the bracers you were commenting on at dinner,” Boromir retorted. 

Denethor raised an eyebrow and turned towards Daeron’s mother. “Is there anything this son of yours can’t do, my lady?”

“I fear his Quenya is lacking, my Lord.” Lady Meriel winked at her son, whose struggles with the complex language could sometimes be heard throughout the house. “But as it seems that is a skill it does not appear he’ll need as an officer of the Guard, such a lack is of little import.”

“I’ll agree with that,” Boromir said before Daeron had the chance to feel embarrassed. “I get a headache just thinking about the damned language. I leave that to Loremasters, scholars, and people like my esteemed brother who seem to find it fun to wrestle with inflections and cases. Speaking of which, where is Faramir? I need a word or three with him. Ah, there he is!” Boromir smiled at Daeron, squeezed his shoulder again, and headed across the room towards his brother.

“I also must depart your charming company, Lady Meriel. Chancellor Orthmann is headed this way and I have no wish to discuss matters of state in the presence of a lady. Lord Laedren, attend on me at Council in three days time.” Denethor placed Lady Meriel’s hand on her husband’s arm and nodded towards Daeron before turning in a sweep of elegant robes to intercept the Chancellor.

Shortly thereafter, Laedren bade the family’s farewells and they made their way down to the Sixth Circle under a cloudless star-filled sky. The cold air was refreshing after the warmth and stuffiness of the Hall and Daeron followed his parents in a happily bemused state of mind. He hadn’t offended anyone, much less the Steward, he hadn’t made a fool out of himself, and hardest to believe but best of all, Lord Boromir had complimented him.

Later, he stretched out in his bed, his Court clothes safely put away, and reviewed the day. It hadn’t been like the other Yule Eves he’d experienced as a child, but since it seemed he wasn’t going to be a child for much longer he rather thought he preferred the way this one had turned out.

For once, he’d not been hurt or in trouble when he encountered Lord Boromir. It even sounded as though he’d impressed the Steward’s Heir a little bit. And hearing Boromir express a matching opinion in regards to learning Quenya didn’t hurt at all. 

Tomorrow was going to be full of visiting cousins and other family members and he might possibly manage an escape from them for a few hours on Ruinanor. 

He yawned and let sleep overtake him. Just wait until he told Halmir…

Finis.

Author’s Notes: This “chapter” ended up about twice as long as I intended but Daeron wouldn’t shut up (neither would Laedren, but Lady Meriel was much more polite about sticking to the essentials). I hope the Boromir lovers got enough of our favorite Steward’s Heir to keep them happy.

Regarding the Horses' Names: The names are all from the Sindarin. Dae = Shadow. Ruinanor = Red Sun. Bréthil = Birch. Gyldenlác = Golden Gift. Wilwarin = Butterfly

Regarding leatherworking: I want to thank my apprentice brother Eoin Drake in the Society for Creative Anachronism for advice on leatherworking and tooling. Jorell is loosely based on him. The technique of metal leafing that Jorell teaches Daeron is pretty accurate. The length of time you need to wait before applying the leaf (in our world it’s usually gold as mithril is unavailable – a possible substitute for mithril could be palladium but it is horrendously expensive and difficult to find) and burnishing it depends on the adhesive you use.

Regarding heraldry: A cadency mark is a symbol overlaid on a father’s heraldic device to show what the birth rank of the son is. In England, the eldest son and heir bears his father’s device with a cadency mark called a label—a horizontal stripe with three or five tabs depending from it, something like TTT. You can find a picture of Laedren’s and Daeron’s heraldic devices at my web page (such that it is): http://home.earthlink.net/~dancingkatz/

Regarding riding: For those who don’t ride, serpentines are an exercise where the rider crosses back and forth across the ring rounding the turn to go the other way by bending the horse around their inside leg. When I started dressage training while I was stationed in England, I did more serpentines than I care to remember, all without the benefit of reins or stirrups. I did a lot of things without reins or stirrups, actually. It certainly helps you develop good balance!

Thank you for your patience. The next Chapter to be posted will be “Rest and Recovery” following up the events from “War Games”.


Chapter 4 - Recovery - Part One

Author�s Note: This is an immediate chronological follow on from �War Games� (Chapter Two) where Daeron was a �prisoner of war� after being captured during the Gondorian version of SERE training. For those interested in my personal image of Boromir: he looks and sounds like Sean Bean from Peter Jackson�s films, but has the black hair from the books.

Dedicated to my friends in the armed services with love and respect. You know who you are.

WARNING!: The following chapter contains relatively graphic descriptions of nightmares suffered by an individual suffering from post traumatic stress disorder from his experiences as a prisoner of war. The nightmare sequences will be readily identifiable so those who chose not to read them can skip to the next part of the narrative. I didn�t put these in the story just to be graphic, there is a plot-driven purpose for their presence.

Through Daeron�s Eyes: Recovery � Part One

By Edlyn

T.A. 3013 - November

The surgeon�s declaration that he�d be returning Daeron to duty in the morning was forgotten as soon as he�d made his morning rounds. The horseplay that had led to the comment had torn the stitches closing a gash in the cadet�s shoulder and there were already signs of infection appearing.

Daeron was silent through the cleaning, re-stitching, and dressing of the wound. He should probably be regretting the ill-advised tackle of his friend Grethen, but it had felt good to do something like roughhousing with his fellow cadets. It felt normal. He probably should have told the surgeon the night before that the stitches had torn but he�d been reluctant to do so since it would just bring the events that led to the wound to the front of his mind again. 

In all honesty, he was having trouble thinking about the three days he�d been in the hands of the �enemy� with any sort of equanimity. The problem was that the memories intruded constantly. Sleep was nearly impossible without one of the surgeon�s draughts because it seemed as soon as he closed his eyes, he was back in the enemy camp at the mercy of his captors. 

He�d wanted to pretend that it hadn�t happened when Halmir, Grethen, and Val visited him; that his injuries were due to something as relatively innocuous as falling from a rain-slick trail down a ravine as Halmir had done five days ago. He�d changed the subject purposefully so he wouldn�t have to tell his friends what had actually been done to him� by others in the Gondorian army.

His brain understood that it was all in the name of training. He was perfectly aware that a war was coming. He hadn�t grown up the son of Lord Laedren, Captain of the Guard of the Citadel and Aide to Captain-General Boromir for nothing. Men were captured in wartime, and the Enemy and his allies had no compunction about using torture in order to get current military intelligence. But behind the intellectual acceptance of the necessity for such training, his emotions insisted that he�d been betrayed.

Why had the commandant waited three days before sending in the other cadets to rescue the captives? Surely, the lesson about what a soldier could face in an enemy�s hands had been demonstrated well before the end of the first day of his captivity? The memories overwhelmed him again�

�Cadet!� 

Daeron jumped and blinked at the sharp-voiced word and looked up, disoriented. The surgeon was offering a horn cup of what looked like the same vile brew as he had been given the day of the debriefing. He took the cup in a trembling hand and choked the contents down. �I�m sorry, sir.�

�Lie down, Cadet, and let that do its work. You�ll be going back to Minas Tirith in one of the carts.�

�Yes, sir.� Lying down seemed like a very good idea all of a sudden. He settled on his side and stared at the tent wall, afraid to close his eyes, not trusting the draught to keep the nightmares away. Eventually, however, he slipped into a fevered sleep.

He woke up to find himself strapped face down on a stretcher in the back of a wagon. Half asleep and not quite free of the dream he�d been caught in, he thought he was back in the hands of his captors. His panicked shouts and struggles brought the corpsman to his side and roused the other injured cadets who shared the wagon.

�Daeron! It�s all right!� Halmir had the stretcher opposite him and was practically falling off it while reaching out to reassure his friend. �Oh, gods! Daeron, listen to me!� 

Blood was seeping through the bandages on Daeron�s back and shoulder and it seemed that he didn�t know that Halmir was there.
 
The corpsman unfastened the straps holding Daeron to the stretcher and rolled him onto his side. While Halmir grabbed and held one of Daeron�s flailing hands the corpsman bit the top off of an ampoule and thrust it between Daeron�s teeth. The terrified cadet choked on the dose and swallowed it. Within minutes he was unconscious.

When he woke next he felt a familiar hand carding his hair and heard Halmir singing a ballad about the Lord of Lossarnach�s daughter and the Ranger of Ithilien. He could hear the sound of rain falling on the tarpaulin above their heads over the words of the song. He was still groggy from the sedative and it took some minutes before he realized his head was pillowed not on his cloak but on someone�s thigh. Instead of the rough canvas of the stretcher, he could feel the softness of brushed doeskin against his chest.

He tried to push himself upright and the singing stopped. �Shhh. Stay where you are, Daeron. I�ve got you.� Halmir was sitting with his back against the side of the wagon and his injured leg propped up on the empty stretcher opposite, and was holding Daeron in place as the wagon jolted over the rutted roadway. Rather than have a repeat of the incident when Daeron had emerged from the sedative the first time Halmir had insisted on holding his friend in place instead. His ankle was giving him hell, but he could live with it if it kept Daeron calm and still.

�S-s-sorry.� Daeron found it was difficult to speak, or to even put two thoughts together. He vaguely recalled a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare because Halmir hadn�t been there when his captors had held him down and applied the hot iron to his back�

�What for?� Halmir�s voice was curious above him. �You didn�t try to deck me when you woke up and you didn�t steal my rations.�

Daeron sighed, closing his eyes against the re-emerging pain as the draught wore off. �They didn�t hurt you... thank the gods��

�Daeron? You�re not making any sense. What are you�?� Halmir didn�t complete the sentence because the corpsman came back wanting to give Daeron another dose of the sedative. 

Halmir grabbed the corpsman�s wrist with his right hand preventing the man from giving Daeron the sedative. �No! He doesn�t need that. He needs water and food.�

�My orders are to keep him sedated, cadet. Let go of me or you�ll be facing a courts martial for assault,� the corpsman growled.

Halmir tightened his grip on the corpsman�s arm. �If you don�t want a broken wrist, you�ll put that away and bring him some water. He hasn�t had any since before we left the camp this morning.� He kept up the pressure and the ampoule dropped from the corpsman�s suddenly nerveless fingers. �I�m an archer, so don�t think that I can�t do it.�

�All right, he�ll get his water and rations and I won�t give him the sedative until after he eats. But I�m reporting you to the commandant when we get to Minas Tirith.� The corpsman conceded and rubbed his wrist when Halmir released it.

�Fine. Go ahead. But you�re not going to neglect my squad mate.� Halmir watched as the corpsman returned to the front of the wagon and rummaged in the boot that was directly behind the driver�s bench. Once he was sure the corpsman was going to do as he said, Halmir turned his attention to Daeron and getting him upright enough to eat. �Daer, you�re going to have to help me. I need you to roll onto your side. You need to sit up.� 

�I�ll try�� Daeron answered and bit back a cry as he moved. The analgesic effect of the previous dose of sedative had most definitely worn off. The other four cadets, who had been Daeron�s fellow prisoners and who shared the wagon with them, watched and whispered to each other but made no attempt to assist. Finally, Daeron was leaning against Halmir�s chest shuddering and gasping from pain. 

The corpsman returned at that point with a water skin and some strips of dried meat. Halmir held the skin and Daeron gratefully swallowed. He was so thirsty that he could have gulped the entire contents at once but Halmir cautioned him to drink slowly. �Don�t rush. If you choke I can�t knock the water out of your lungs.�

Halmir set the water skin to one side and offered Daeron a piece of the dried meat which was refused. At which point the corpsman picked up the ampoule of sedative and opened it. Halmir took it and put it to Daeron�s lips. �Drink this, it should help. I�m not going anywhere, I promise.�

Daeron choked on the bitter draught but managed to get it down. Almost immediately his eyes closed and he slumped in Halmir�s arms. The corpsman was about to take the water skin but Halmir stopped him with an icy glare. �Leave it. And get another blanket for him.� 

The corpsman did so and retreated to the driver�s box, staying out of sight until the wagon stopped moving about an hour before dusk. Daeron had remained asleep but moaned and cried out periodically from nightmares. 

Halmir�s throat was sore from talking and singing to his friend in an attempt to calm him. He�d managed to get some more water into Daeron but he knew it wasn�t enough. He caught the attention of one of the other cadets--this one with his left arm in a sling and still carrying some bruises and a split lip on his face--as he sidled by to get to the tailgate of the wagon. �You. You�re Gharal, right?�

The boy looked wary but answered. �Yes.�

�Find the surgeon and ask him to come here, and send someone with some real food and more water.�

�Why? He didn�t go through anything the rest of us didn�t,� Gharal asked, in a belligerent tone. �He�s just malingering.�

�Malingering?� Halmir hissed. I�m sorry about this, Daeron. �Have you any idea what they did to him?� He pulled the blanket from around Daeron�s torso and turned him so the other cadet could see the damage to Daeron�s back and shoulders. Daeron moaned and rolled his head in protest. �And that�s not the half of it. Do you still think he�s malingering?�

Gharal had gone white in shock. �N-n-no. I didn�t know. We didn�t��

�So, go get the surgeon!� Halmir snapped. 

Gharal left the wagon, looking positively sick. Halmir sighed and closed his eyes wearily. His ankle felt like it was on fire and he was hungry and thirsty himself. But he wasn�t going to leave Daeron alone. �I should have been there when they captured you instead of miles away with a broken ankle. I�m not leaving you alone now.�

He opened his eyes and looked up when he heard a noise at the tailgate of the wagon. It was the surgeon and Gharal. The cadet held a lantern which he hung on the tarpaulin support above Halmir�s head. The other three cadets were gathered at the back of the wagon looking in worriedly.

Halmir found himself evicted from Daeron�s stretcher and back on his own, his leg elevated, having been ordered to stay put. Gharal looked from Halmir to Daeron and back then seemed to come to a decision. He slipped to the tailgate and whispered something to the other cadets. They scattered and he returned to Halmir.

�I sent the others for the food,� he said quietly. �You need to eat, too. Don�t argue with me. I saw you today. You haven�t had more than a mouthful of that dried meat.�

�I�ll eat after Daeron eats and not before.� Halmir had his eyes on the surgeon who was bent over Daeron looking grim.

Gharal looked from Halmir to Daeron and back. �I�ll make sure he eats, I promise. You need to eat and sleep. Look, let me take care of Daeron tonight. I can sleep tomorrow while you watch him during the day. I promise I won�t let that turd of a corpsman near him.� He paused. �Halmir, I need to do this.�

�All right,� Halmir finally allowed. �Don�t let them strap him down, no matter what!�

The other cadets had returned with bowls of stew, fruit and bread�miraculously not stale�along with fresh water. Halmir ate, and after a warning look at Gharal, succumbed to sleep. 

Daeron roused, coughing, as the surgeon passed the smelling salts under his nose.

�That�s it. Wake up, lad.� The surgeon put the smelling salts back in his case and took Daeron�s pulse again. �You have to eat. Afterwards I�ll have someone get you cleaned up and more comfortable.�  He looked carefully into Daeron�s face for a moment and then left.

Within minutes Daeron was propped up and Gharal was feeding him the stew. Pain had diminished his appetite and after only a few mouthfuls he refused to take any more. Before Gharal could remonstrate with him, they were interrupted by an argument at the back of the wagon.

�You are all on report for insubordination!�

Halmir stirred slightly at the sound of the corpsman ranting at his erstwhile patients but didn�t wake. Gharal carefully lowered Daeron to the stretcher and went to see what was going on. �I�ll be right back.�

The other three cadets had arrayed themselves so as to block the corpsman�s access to the wagon, looking stubborn and likely to resort to laying hands on the belligerent sergeant.

�What do you want, sergeant?� Gharal asked, trying to imitate the tone that Lt. Bedreth used when making inquiries into some misbehavior.

�The corpsman glared at Gharal but answered, �I�m to clean up your misbegotten comrade, not that I want to.�

�If you�re referring to Lord Laedren�s heir, sergeant, you�re not going to touch him. Hand up those things and we�ll take care of our comrade.� Gharal maintained his frown until the sergeant handed over the basket and stomped off.

Daeron managed a weak grin when Gharal returned to his side. �You sounded just like the Lieutenant. Are you after his job?�

�No, I�d have to deal with vermin like that corpsman too much. Lazy bastard. If he had his way he�d drug us so that none of us were awake until a week after we get back to Minas Tirith.� Gharal lifted Daeron upright and draped the other cadet�s right arm over his shoulder. �Sorry if I hurt you. I think you probably need the necessary after drinking all that water��

It was embarrassing, but Gharal was tactful and spent the minutes he supported Daeron describing just where he�d like to assign the corpsman and to which miserable duties. 

When Daeron was returned to the stretcher he found that the other cadets had been busy. The canvas was covered with blankets and fire-warmed stones had been tucked into them to warm them. A bucket of hot water had appeared along with a couple of flour sacking towels. 

After Gharal had cleaned him up Daeron refused to take the sedative that had been in the basket turned over to Gharal by the corpsman. �Gives me nightmares�� he mumbled, turning his face into his folded cloak. �I�d rather hurt.� 

Gharal tucked the ampoule into his tunic pocket and seated himself on the floor between Halmir and Daeron�s stretchers. �Well, if it gets too bad, let me know.� He was silent for a few minutes. �Daeron, I want to apologize.�

�For what? Saving me from that corpsman? I owe you thanks for that.�

Gharal dismissed his thanks with a wave of his hand. �You�d have done it for me or any of the others. No, we should have thought about what you had to have gone through and not let him strap you down. You didn�t break and you paid for it. A lot more than I did. I didn�t last more than a few hours�� Deep shame coloured the cadet�s voice.

�Gharal, it wasn�t� I did break� I answered their questions�� Daeron was distressed more by the way his companion looked and sounded than he was by his own lingering pain and weakness. �Please, don�t talk like that.� He reached over and touched Gharal�s hand, then when it wasn�t pulled away grasped it.

�Daeron, you held out three whole days! We should have been able to do it as well!� 

Daeron squeezed Gharal�s hand harder. �Don�t say that! Do you want to know what my father said when he visited me at the camp afterwards? He said that every man�s breaking point is different and that everyone breaks! Everyone!� 

Halmir roused at the agitated sound in Daeron�s voice. �Daer? You all right?�

�I�m OK. Go back to sleep. Gharal and I are just having a discussion.� Daeron waited until Halmir had subsided back to his blankets before turning his attention back to Gharal. �Gharal��

�I still need to apologize to you. All of us do. We thought you were malingering. Then Halmir showed me what they did to you. I�� Gharal swallowed hard. �No wonder they carried you to the wagon this morning.�

�It was that or drag me. I tore the stitches in my shoulder open and the surgeon knocked me out with some gods awful tasting stuff. Gharal, I�m glad you gave in so fast. I wouldn�t want anyone to feel the way I do right now.�

Gharal didn�t respond but just looked miserable.

�Can I tell you a secret, Gharal?� Daeron asked after few minutes of thought.

Interest piqued, Gharal looked up. �A secret? What��

�Lord Boromir was with my father when he visited. He told me he only lasted one day when it happened to him in training.�

�What? But he�s�� Gharal looked completely gobsmacked. �He�s��

Daeron laughed and regretted it as his back and chest muscles spasmed again. Gasping, he managed to add, �That was my reaction, too,� before squeezing his eyes closed and gritting his teeth. Gods! Can�t I do anything normal without�

Gharal forgot about his shame and scrambled to his feet. Raising the tarpaulin he called for one of the other cadets, who had set up bedrolls around a small fire, to find the surgeon.

The surgeon wasn�t pleased to find that Daeron had refused the sedative, until Gharal handed him the ampoule. �He says it gives him nightmares.�

�This isn�t what I prescribed for him�who in the gods names�never mind. Get me a cup of hot water.� The surgeon opened his case and withdrew a small packet. When Gharal brought back the water, the contents were dropped into the cup and thoroughly mixed. 

Daeron groaned as he was lifted and turned onto his side. �Please�oh, gods!�� 

�Drink this,� the surgeon ordered holding the cup to his lips. �All of it.�

Daeron obeyed and was surprised to find the draught wasn�t bitter. It was most certainly effective, the pain melted away without the horrible disorienting feeling that had accompanied the sedative. 

The surgeon nodded as Daeron�s colour improved and his pulse and breathing normalised. �That�s more like it. I�ll be back to check on you later.� He looked over Gharal and Halmir before leaving the wagon. Daeron heard him stop and talk to the other cadets who were camped outside the wagon but couldn�t make out what was being said. 

Gharal took his previous seat between Daeron and Halmir. �Feel up to talking some more or do you want to sleep?�

Daeron sighed as he lay his head back down. �Talk. I�ve done more than enough sleeping today.�

�Me, too.� Gharal readjusted his sling and shifted so he was leaning against the side of Halmir�s stretcher. �I feel like such a failure. I�ve been thinking that I when we get back I ought to resign from the Academy. How can I expect that anyone would follow my orders? How can anyone trust me? Everyone knows I was the first of us to give in.� His voice was as bleak as his expression in the lamplight. �It didn�t take that much, just being punched and kicked a few times and having my arm twisted out of its socket, and I was babbling. Who wants that kind of soldier under his command? And no soldier in his right mind wants to be under the orders of someone like that.�

Daeron was oddly surprised to hear that the other cadet was having a lot of the same thoughts he was. While lying awake the night before after tearing open the stitches in his shoulder, he�d considered the very same thing. The problem was he had no idea what he would do with his life if he wasn�t a soldier. It had been the only career he�d ever considered. 

�What would you do if you weren�t a soldier?� he asked when it became obvious that Gharal wasn�t going to continue.

�I don�t know. I could always apprentice under one of my uncles, I guess. Become an armourer, maybe.� He grinned crookedly at Daeron. �Or maybe not.�

Daeron bit back a laugh. It was a standing joke in the Academy barracks that Gharal always had to have someone else handle the minor repairs on his armour because he was truly hopeless at it.

�I think you should stick to doing something you�re actually good at,� he said. �Like running through orcs with that sword you got for your fifteenth birthday. Honestly, I�d be glad to have you under my command, assuming I ever earn one.� 

�B-b-but!�� Gharal sputtered, looking at Daeron with disbelief.

Daeron was serious about it. �So you broke down under torture. And don�t tell me they �only beat you up a little bit� I can tell they did more than that even when I�m doped to the eyeballs with that damned sedative. You lived to fight another day, right?�

�Well, yeah. But�� Gharal was still trying to deal with the idea that Daeron would want him under his command.

�But nothing. I�d prefer to work a man who knows he isn�t invulnerable and takes appropriate precautions with his men than some jerk that thinks he�s invincible and charges in recklessly. He�s going to get himself in trouble and take my men with him. You might still charge in, but now you�d at least think about it first.� Where am I getting this from? I sound like�

�You sound like your father,� Gharal said, as if reading Daeron�s mind. �Did you know he made sure to talk to all of us before he and Lord Boromir left?�

�He did? That�s good.� Daeron�s thoughts drifted off to his final conversation with Lord Laedren before his father left to accompany Lord Boromir to inspect the garrison at Cair Andros.


Laedren ducked through the half closed flap of the surgeon�s tent and looked own at his sleeping son. The Captain was back in full uniform, his sword at his side and his helm under his arm.

Daeron stirred and opened his eyes when Laedren ran his gauntleted hand through his son�s hair. �What��

�I�m leaving in a few minutes, Daeron. I wanted to make sure you remembered what we talked about last night and to tell you goodbye.� Laedren had knelt next to the cot so he could look into Daeron�s eyes. �You did very well; better than anyone had any right to expect. You have nothing to be ashamed of.�

Daeron bit his lip and refused to meet his father�s eyes. There was a part of him that believed the words that his father and the Captain-General said to him the night before were just polite lies to make him feel better.

�Look, I�ve got three things I want you to think about, then I have to go. First, would you want to have a man who knows his limits under your command or one that thinks he can stand anything anyone throws at him? I can tell you from experience that the latter usually does more damage to his own unit than any enemy he comes up against, by charging in where the Valar fear to tread. He also loses good men who otherwise would have survived and gone home to their wives and children.� 

He paused and continued running his fingers through Daeron�s hair, waiting while his son tried to absorb his words.

He continued when Daeron finally looked up into his eyes. �Second, you�ve been through a lot of trauma in a very short time. You�re not going to get over it in just a day or two. I don�t expect you to do so and neither will any commander worth his salt. I won�t lie, you�ve got weeks, maybe months of recovery to work through. I�ll support you, so will your friends, but you are going to have to do the work to get back to where you were before you were captured. I do, however, expect you to be honest with yourself and others about your readiness to return to active duty. Remember that what you do has an effect on your fellows.�

Daeron nodded then winced as pain shot up his neck and pounded behind his eyes. That was a mistake. �I understand��

Laedren smiled and continued. �Lastly, don�t make any hasty decisions right now� about anything. The results of any decision made while in pain or under stress seem to be exponentially more negative the worse you feel when you make them. If you feel overwhelmed ask for help. Talk to someone you trust and get their opinion before you make an irrevocable decision.� He leaned forward and kissed Daeron�s forehead. �You have my blessing and I�ll be thinking about you. I am not ashamed of you. Rather I am very proud. Remember that.�

Brushing his fingers through Daeron�s hair one last time, he rose and turned to go. 

Boromir stood just inside the doorway, waiting for his aide. �Ready?�

Laedren nodded and crossed to the doorway. Boromir looked over at Daeron and paused. �Meet me with the horses. I�ll be there in a minute.� Laedren took a last look at his son, raised the tent flap, and left.

Boromir knelt in the same place Laedren had just vacated. �Daeron, I told you that you were brave back when you were only eight years old. Trust that bravery. You�ve got a rough road ahead of you, but you�ll make it through. You�ve got a courageous heart. Just listen to it.�

�Yes, sir. Thank you, my Lord,� Daeron managed to choke out, overwhelmed that the Steward�s son would say such a thing to him.

�I�d better get going before Gyldenl�c decides that your father�s feet are fair game to be stepped on.� Daeron couldn�t help a grin at the mention of Boromir�s irrepressible Rohirrim stallion. 

Boromir stood and placed his hand on Daeron�s head in blessing. �I promise I�ll bring your father back safely.�

�Thank you, my Lord.� Daeron watched as Boromir left and stared at the door flap in silence thinking about his father�s and Lord Boromir�s words.

�Daeron?�

He blinked and looked at Gharal who was looking at him, concern written on his face. �Sorry, I was just thinking about something my father said.�

Gharal reached for the water skin and sat on the edge of the stretcher, gently rolling Daeron to his side. �Here. You�re sweating again. Do you need��

Daeron cut him off. �No, I don�t hurt right now. You should get some sleep. I�ll be all right.� 

Gharal held the water skin to Daeron�s lips and waited while he drank. �As I told Halmir, I can sleep tomorrow. You, however, should sleep. I�ll be right here if you need anything.�

Daeron settled back on his stomach and watched as Gharal set the water skin aside and turned down the flame on the lamp before settling back to his previous position. He didn�t want to sleep. Every time he did he was tormented by nightmares where the information he gave the enemy caused the deaths of his parents, his friends, and everyone he held dear. He couldn�t bear closing his eyes and seeing his beautiful mother cut to pieces in her garden or his tall and handsome father trapped and run through by spear after spear until he fell. He didn�t want to hear their screams echoing in his ears.

Gharal seemed to have his own demons and Daeron would right now much rather help him than face them than to deal with his own. He reached out with his right arm and laid it on Gharal�s arm. �Do you want to talk about it?�

�No, not really.�

�All right.� Daeron gave Gharal�s arm a gentle squeeze, careful to avoid the bruises. �I�ll be here if you need anything.�

The two young men sat in the near darkness of the wagon in silence, listening to the sounds of the camp until at last Daeron�s eyes, at least, drooped shut of their own accord.

They arrived at the Main Gates of Minas Tirith at midafternoon on the fourth day after leaving the training camp. Daeron hadn�t been left alone once. The other three cadets had each taken a turn sitting up with him at night while Halmir slept. The surgeon had replaced the original corpsman with another, older man who seemed to know just when to intervene when pain, stress, and tempers got to be too much for the six young men. Free from the nightmare-aggravating sedative, Daeron didn�t get as much sleep but what rest he did get was actually effective. 

Halmir had spent the remaining days sitting on the end of the stretcher and holding Daeron as the wagon jolted its way down the rutted roadway, talking and singing to Daeron when he was awake, and stroking his head when he drowsed off. He and the other four had developed a routine so that when they stopped to rest the horses or to camp for the night, one of them could stay with Daeron while the others saw to making a fire, getting dinner, and heating rocks so that none of them slept cold. By the time the City came into sight, the young men had developed a camaraderie that was well nigh unbreakable.

Daeron had fallen asleep shortly after the wagon started moving after the noon rest stop. Gharal and the others had, with the assistance of the grizzle-haired corpsman, rolled up the canvas sides of the tarpaulin to take advantage of heat and light of the late autumn sun.

Halmir gently shook Daeron�s good shoulder as they approached the Gates. �Daeron, wake up. We�re almost home.� 

Daeron roused and muttered something under his breath. The pain killer was beginning to wear off and he felt the miserable sickness that told him he was becoming feverish again. Even so he couldn�t help feeling his heart lift as the wagon passed under the arch and into the First Circle. Halmir had begun a softly spoken monologue describing what he could see from over the side of the wagon.

�We�re in the First Circle, Daer, and almost to the next gate. Remember when you got me out of that well when we were ten years old and exploring? We just passed the tanner�s yard where it happened. Why is it that I always seem to end up with broken bones when we go exploring?�

�Don�t�know�,� Daeron answered through his increasing misery. �Maybe you�re lucky�.�

�Right. And you�re the King of Rohan�s consort. I think it�s all a plot, personally.� Halmir teased. He felt sweat breaking out on Daeron�s forehead again and frowned. He continued speaking in a light voice, hoping to keep Daeron distracted. �We�re almost there. We just passed Arlin�s shop. Speaking of which, you owe me a new pair of gloves.�

�No, I don�t� It�s not my fault that you just� tucked them into your belt, instead of wearing them� Should I have spent two hours� looking for them after you� fell into that ravine� instead of getting you� back to camp?� 

�Well, I suppose you made the right choice. But they were my favourite gloves.�

Daeron didn�t get a chance to reply because the wagon had finally reached the Academy compound in the Sixth Circle.

The staff of the Academy infirmary efficiently unloaded the injured and checked them over. After a cursory look at the splint on Halmir�s leg the Academy�s surgeon signed him onto convalescent leave, and sent him to his parents� home until the bones in his ankle finished knitting. 

The surgeon sorted out the remaining more or less ambulatory patients before turning to deal with Daeron, only to find that Halmir, Gharal and the other three cadets had gathered round Daeron�s stretcher.

He frowned irritably at them and told them to follow their orders and get themselves off to their respective billets.

Halmir and Gharal looked at each other and sent the other three off to the barracks. �We�ll let you know where Daeron is,� Halmir promised, then turned back towards the surgeon. �We�ll go once we know where you�re sending Daeron, sir.�

�Insubordinate�� The surgeon glared at the two cadets and finally conceded when neither of them would back down. �Fine! Move back over to that bench and stay out of the way.� Once they had moved away from the stretcher, he knelt down and pulled the blanket off Daeron, who was now shivering with fever and rigid from pain.

�What in�� The surgeon bit off a curse and proceeded to examine Daeron, cataloguing the litany of injuries and looking grimmer and grimmer. When he finished, he draped the blanket over the youth and ordered two corpsmen to take him directly to the Houses of Healing. The Academy infirmary was set up for dealing with general training injuries such as broken bones, simple cuts and strained muscles, not this kind of trauma.

Halmir and Gharal looked at each other and began to follow the corpsmen, only to be restrained by the surgeon. �No. You won�t be able to see him until tomorrow at the earliest, and maybe not even then. I applaud your loyalty, but you are both under orders.� He glanced to the side. �Corpsman! Escort Cadet Halmir and Cadet Gharal to their homes.�

Daeron was only partly aware of the argument going on over his head between Adoan, the Healer who had been assigned to his case, and the officer from the Academy who had arrived just as he�d been dosed with something for the pain, and at this point just relished the fact that he didn�t feel much of anything at all. It was bliss just to be lying on something that wasn�t made of rough canvas and wasn�t jolting him until he thought his teeth would shatter.

�I cannot tell you when the boy will be fit to return to duty, Lieutenant Kergil,� Healer Adoan snapped. �He�s been in my hands less than fifteen minutes. It obviously took far longer than that to put him in this condition! You�ll get a report in the morning. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a patient to tend!�

Daeron stirred at the sound of the Lieutenant�s name. Kergil? He was back in the City? Did that mean Grethen and Val were back, too? 

The Healer frowned after the departing officer for a moment then turned his attention back to Daeron. The cadet was spiking a fever again and most of his wounds, including several burns, were obviously infected. He told his assistant to give Daeron a sedative, washed his hands, and reached for a scalpel. At the least those stitches would have to come out. He waited until the boy�s breathing had slowed and the fist that had clenched around a handful of linen sheet had relaxed, then bent to his work.

Daeron spent most of the next two days either unconscious or wishing he was, as Adoan worked to repair the damages inflicted by Lt. Kergil�s enemy troops when he�d been captured during the training exercise. The stress of the four day trip back to the City had only exacerbated the situation and his body was slow to physically heal. 

When he developed pneumonia at the end of the week his mother, the Lady Meriel, went to the Steward himself to request the immediate return of her husband from Cair Andros. Daeron wasn�t in any state to appreciate it but when she had been told that her son had been injured in the field and seen the extent of those injuries, she had been beside herself with outrage and had let the Commandant of the Academy know of it in no uncertain terms.

To the worry of Halmir and Gharal, and also Grethen and Val, who had returned with the remaining cadets from the field exercise four days later, Daeron wasn�t permitted visitors. After tripping over them in the corridor outside Daeron�s room for the third time in one morning, Adoan evicted them from the premises of the Houses of Healing. �I promise you will be notified when Daeron can have visitors but until then I don�t want to see hide nor hair of any of you.�

The four cadets left reluctantly and didn�t see Lt. Kergil receive the same response from the Healer.

Daeron was drowning again�choking�unable to breathe. Delirious from the recurring fever, he believed he was back in the hands of his captors being held down in icy water. He coughed, gasping for air, and struggled in the hands that held him.

No...no...no...Oh, gods! Let me up! I can�t...I can�t...please...No more...please...I�ll talk...I�ll tell you everything...just let me breathe!

Adoan poured another dose of the tincture down Daeron�s throat. He was running out of options for treating the youth. When he finally got the whole story of the ordeal the cadet had suffered from the Academy surgeon who�d tended him in the field, the Healer was more than ready to abandon his oath to do no harm and inflict some serious damage to those responsible for the boy�s condition. If that damned Lieutenant showed his face again Adoan wasn�t going to be responsible for his actions.

There was a knock at the door and it opened to reveal one of the Healer apprentices with a covered tray followed by the Warden of the Houses of Healing. Adoan was relieved to see his superior. The situation was reaching a crisis and he wouldn�t give odds in either direction concerning Daeron�s survival at this point.

Daeron moaned again but his attempts to struggle had grown progressively weaker and his lips had an unwelcome bluish tinge. The Warden made his own examination and glanced at the covered tray before meeting Adoan�s eyes.

The only option left was to try to drain the fluid from Daeron�s lungs, a procedure that, while mentioned in several ancient Numenorian texts, was seldom done because of the risks.

Adoan closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his forehead. Nothing else had worked. The boy was already dying by inches. �Are his parents here?�

�Lady Meriel awaits outside the door. Lord Laedren has been summoned from Cair Andros. The Steward�s courier left yesterday morning. I will...�

�No, sir,� the younger man said, �He�s my patient. I should talk to his mother. If his father isn�t here in a quarter of an hour...� Adoan would honestly have liked to have turned this duty over to his superior but he�d never yet handed off responsibility for a patient, and he wasn�t going to start now. Gods, the boy was the woman�s only child...

As Adoan stepped through the door, Lord Laedren arrived, his uniform mud-spattered and wet, worry writ large upon his face. Lady Meriel rose from the bench where she had held vigil, torn between going to her husband and wanting to know what the Healer had to say. Laedren ended her dilemma by putting his arm around her and turning to Adoan. �My son?...�

Adoan wished he had good news and could remove the fear that resided in the Captain�s gray-green eyes. �A crisis is approaching. We�ve been unable to stop the build up of fluid in Daeron�s lungs. There is one last procedure we can do that might turn things around but it is very risky. Unfortunately, at this point it appears to offer the only chance for his survival.�

Lady Meriel paled, and stricken, she buried her face against her husband�s shoulder, clutching his cloak as she wept. Laedren raised his free hand to stroke her hair but kept his gaze on the healer. �What do you intend to do?�

Adoan explained the procedure: they would drain the fluid from Daeron�s lungs by inserting tubes through his chest wall. If it worked he should recover quickly.

�And if it doesn�t work, he�ll die anyway.� Laedren�s voice was leaden with resignation. �Can we see him?�

�Yes. It will take a quarter hour to prepare him for the procedure. If you will go with Apprentice Erilan, she�ll show you where you can clean up.� 

Laedren nodded, kissed his wife gently, and followed the apprentice down the hallway. Lady Meriel twisted her handkerchief in her hands and watched him out of sight before turning to Adoan. �Is there really a chance that this will work?�

�I�ve seen this work when everything else has failed, my Lady,� he told her.  �But I can make no guarantees. It would be wise to be prepared in case the gods decide to take your son through the veil tonight.�

Adoan hated having to tell anyone those words but especially to a woman who looked to lose her only child. �I must return to Daeron. I�ll open the door when you and your husband can se him.�

He returned to the room to find that the Warden had already started preparing Daeron for the surgery. The smell of alcohol spirits filled the air of the small room and the lamps had been turned up to throw as bright a light as possible on the bed. 

The fire in the stove that sat in the corner of the room had been stoked up and already a pan of water was beginning to boil. The apprentice moved about silently, setting out bandages, linen pads, and various other items that would be necessary. As the minutes passed Daeron�s breathing grew more laboured.

When all was ready, Adoan opened the door and gestured for the couple to enter. He busied himself at the stove watching the instruments that were lying in the boiling water as they kissed their son and whispered to him. He gave them ten minutes then turned, catching Laedren�s eye. The Captain whispered something in his wife�s ear, placed his hand on Daeron�s hair and bowed his head for a moment. He then led his weeping wife out to the hallway. Before the door closed behind them Adoan glimpsed the unmistakable form of Lord Boromir enfolding the two of them into an embrace.

The Warden entered the room through the second door that led to staff only area of the building, his official robes replaced by a plain tunic and apron. Adoan changed into a similar outfit and scrubbed his hands and arms before picking up the scalpel. He nodded to the apprentice who readied himself to hold Daeron still and made the initial incision.

An hour later Adoan checked Daeron�s pulse and breathing and sighed with relief. As soon as the first tube had been placed a goodly amount of fluid had drained from Daeron�s chest and his condition had started to improve. The blue tinge had left his lips and he was breathing more easily. The procedure appeared to have helped; now they needed to monitor the boy for infection and to make sure that his lungs didn�t collapse. The apprentice carried out the hamper of bloodstained aprons and sheets while the Warden double checked the incision sites.

When the Healer stepped out into the hallway he found Lady Meriel sitting on the bench between her husband and Lord Boromir. Kneeling before her he took her hands and smiled gently. �Your son lives, my Lady. He�s not out of the woods just yet, but he lives.�

He looked up at Lord Laedren and wasn�t surprised at the expression of naked relief on the man�s face. However, Daeron�s father was pale with exhaustion following the 65-mile ride from Cair Andros. �You can see Daeron tomorrow. I don�t expect him to wake before midmorning. In the meantime, both of you should rest. I will send a messenger if there is any change.� He placed Lady Meriel�s hands in her husband�s and rose to his feet.

Lord Boromir rose from the bench, placed his hand on Adoan�s shoulder, and quietly said, �Thank you,� before turning to Daeron�s parents and gently steering them down the hallway.

Adoan returned to Daeron�s room and took the chair which had been moved to sit near the head of the bed after checking Daeron�s breathing again. So far so good. If the boy made it through the night he should make a full recovery.

Daeron woke up to the unfamiliar scent of alcohol spirits in his nose. He ached all over, an almost comforting feeling given his familiarity with it over the past number of days, but the crushing feeling in his chest was gone. He blinked in the dim lamplight and turned his head. It took a few moments for him to realize he was lying on his back, his torso propped up with pillows. Something soft cushioned his injured back and after a few more moments he identified it as a sheepskin. 

There was a rustling sound and the clink of metal somewhere to his right. Before he could try to look to see the source of the sound, a rugged-faced man in Healer�s robes stepped into his line of sight, holding a pewter cup in his hand.

�If you�re not thirsty, I�ll be very surprised,� he said in a gentle voice. �I�m Adoan.� He held the cup to Daeron�s lips. �Small sips only, lad.� 

When Daeron had finished the water, for he had been thirsty, Adoan smiled and turned away to place the cup on a table that was just out of Daeron�s sight. The table held an emergency surgery kit and there was no point in upsetting the fragile young man with the sight of it.

Daeron found that his eyes wouldn�t stay open. Just drinking the water had exhausted him. He felt gentle hands stroking his temples as he fell asleep again.

The scent of roses and sandalwood filled his nostrils when he roused next and the hand holding his was soft and familiar. �Mother��  He opened his eyes long enough to see her smiling through her tears then his body�s exhaustion dragged him back into sleep. The next several days passed in the same manner. He woke for a few minutes then slept for hours. Gradually, he spent more time awake but as his body recovered his sleep was invaded once more by nightmares.

�Go away! I don�t want you here!� 

Adoan frowned as he approached Daeron�s room and heard the boy�s angry outburst. This was the tenth time in three days that he�d raged at a visitor. Additionally, he�d become recaltricant about eating and following instructions in regards to his recovery. The outbursts would be followed by a disassociative withdrawal and the cycle would repeat. The boy had already run off his mother and best friend this morning. The healer opened the door and saw that Daeron had rolled onto his side and turned away from his father.

Laedren folded his arms across his chest. �What you want makes no difference, Daeron. You owe your mother a profound apology. Let me know when you�re ready to give it and I�ll bring her to see you.� He looked down at the rigid figure on the bed and sighed before turning to meet Adoan�s eyes. �May I have a moment of your time, Healer Adoan?�

�Certainly, my Lord. If you�ll come to my office?� Adoan gestured towards the door and turned towards it. 

Adoan�s office was small, to all intents and purposes no more than a redecorated closet, but it was large enough to hold a desk, two mismatched chairs and an overflowing bookshelf. He offered Laedren the sturdier of the two seats and sat down in the other. �I am assuming you want to talk about Daeron�s latest�shall we call it attitude?�

�Yes,� Laedren paused as he gathered his thoughts together. He seemed to come to a decision then continued speaking. �What experience have you had with returning prisoners of war?� 

�Some. Usually, I handle repairing the physical damage and immediately turn them back over to the army surgeons. But I�ve had a few patients like Daeron, whose recovery is taking a significant amount of time. I�m honestly not surprised that he�s behaving this way.� Adoan grimaced. �I have to admit though, that those patients were grown men, not adolescents.�

�That does make things more difficult, does it not?� Laedren grinned for a moment before sobering. �Post-trauma stress isn�t something they teach you about at the Academy, by the way, though I think they should. I had to learn about it the hard way. I trust you to do what you need to do to get Daeron through this. I�ll back what ever you think is necessary.�

�Thank you.� Adoan was grateful to hear that. �Can you tell me what you believe he�s thinking that�s causing him to push everyone he cares about away? I have a suspicion, but as a soldier I think you can provide an expert opinion.�

�I�ll do my best. Ask away.�

Alone in his room, Daeron was trying to keep hold of the detached, numb feeling he�d found after he blew up at his father but failing. He felt ashamed of himself, not only for the current incident but for sending his mother away in tears. The trouble was that as soon as he started feeling anything, the fear would come back; fear that was fed by far too vivid nightmares when he let himself sleep. 

He�d had another nightmare last night when he finally succumbed to exhaustion.

His captors had left him alone after he finally had broken and answered their questions. He�d lost track of time when he was hauled to his feet and dragged outside. He could smell crushed grass, burning wood, and the sickly-sour odor of blood over it all.

Someone grabbed his jaw in their hand and hissed in his ear, �Such a good little soldier, to tell us everything.� His jaw was released and the voice ordered the blindfold removed from the prisoner. �Let him see the results of his babbling.�

The blindfold was pulled away and the first sight that met his eyes was the lurid light of fires burning throughout the City. He choked on the suddenly ash-filed, smoky air and fell to his knees as he saw the atrocities committed by his captor�s men. The smell of blood and burning flesh sickened him. Then he screamed as he saw his mother�s dead body dragged from the ruins of their house, her skin flayed and her bones shattered, her face a rictus of terror under a netting of bloody cuts.

That wasn�t the end of it. One by one, everyone he loved was paraded before him: his father, his Great-Uncle Forlong, his friends Halmir, Grethen, Val, and Gharal, all dead after suffering degradation and torture. Even Jorell, the Citadel�s saddler, was dragged before him, his clever hands reduced to shreds of flesh over white bones. Only after they made him witness the hanging and quartering of the Steward and his family was he released from the hold of his guards. He fell face first to the ground, retching violently. He was pulled upright again and his captor turned his attention back to Daeron.

�Such a good little traitor.� The hissing voice said, the hand petting his head as if Daeron was a prized hound, then gripping the black locks to force him to look into the sightless eyes of Lord Boromir�s corpse�

The ugly dream had invaded his sleep the first night after being rescued and returned about a week after the surgery that saved his life. Each time he�d slept since then it had been repeated, growing more graphic and horrifying each time. 

He was exhausted but feared to sleep and refused to swallow the sedatives offered by Adoan. He was hungry but couldn�t eat more than a mouthful of food without losing it shortly thereafter. He hurt and wanted the pain to go away but refused the pain medication because it seemed that the nightmares were worse after taking it. He hated being alone and wanted his family and friends nearby and yet he chased them away when they visited. He wanted to heal so he could return to the Academy and earn his commission but dreaded the thought of returning there at the same time. 

He knew that Adoan would come in any minute with another dose to swallow or to ask questions that he couldn�t�didn�t want to�answer.  

I can�t stay here. I just can�t. I can�t go home. I can�t go back to the Academy�

In desperation, he rolled to lie on his back and started cataloguing the imperfections in the plaster ceiling of the room in yet another attempt to stop the panicked litany in his mind.  There, that�s where I left off. There�s a rust coloured spot next to the third beam that looks like a cat�s paw. There�s four cracks that spread out from it. The one to the right is spidery. It splits off like the five rivers of Lebennin�

Adoan dropped the pen and grimaced as he shook a cramp out of his hand. �I should write a treatise on post-trauma recovery and give you credit for most of it, Laedren.�

Laedren shook his head. �No, all I did was give you my opinions based on my experience. What are we going to do about my son?�

�I am going to move him out of that chamber and put him in one of the open wards with other recovering soldiers,� Adoan answered. �Isolation was a good idea when he was dealing with the pneumonia, but it won�t answer for dealing with what�s going on in his mind. I think it�s time that he�ll has to deal with other people will he, nil he. You are going to go home and reassure your lady wife that her son does still love her, in spite of the way he�s been acting.�

Laedren smiled crookedly. �I�ll take that as a hint and leave you to your work. As I said before, if Daeron gives you any problem, do what you think necessary. Let me know about it afterwards if something has to be done on the spot.�

�I will. Good day, my Lord.�

Daeron�s examination of the ceiling was interrupted by the arrival of Adoan and two apprentices carrying a stretcher. The Healer gave no explanations but told the apprentices to move Daeron to the stretcher and take him to the west wing�s ground level ward. �I�ll see you during my rounds later today, Daeron.�

Daeron�s confusion was obvious, as was his discomfort when his healing back made contact with the canvas of the stretcher, but Adoan just observed in silence. Once Daeron was on his way to his new bed, Adoan summoned a page and sent him to deliver several messages. Then he took himself off to check on his other patients.

The ground level ward in the west wing of the houses of healing was one of several dedicated to the care of Gondor�s soldiers who were injured on active duty. It was overseen by two Healers who had once been in the army themselves who ran the ward and it�s patients under military discipline. 

By the time Adoan arrived at Daeron�s bedside later in the afternoon, the cadet was quiet and subdued, but wasn�t in the near catatonic, disassociative state he�d been going into over the past few days. He was also lying on his stomach as the thick sheepskin hadn�t transferred to the ward with him and the linen sheets scratched against his still unhealed cuts and burns. 

It was the burns that had Adoan concerned now. They had been debrided when Daeron was first brought in but the procedure needed to be repeated, especially on Daeron�s feet and lower legs, to prevent necrosis and further infection. He gave several quietly voiced orders and shortly, Daeron found himself the focus of two healers and three apprentices. 

The following hour was harrowing, in spite of the pain deadening draught he�d been given, as the burns on his feet and back were alternately soaked in salt water and scraped clean. He�d been given a thick leather strap to bite down on but it hadn�t muffled his groans and cries as the healers worked. 

Screens had been put around his bed to provide a modicum of privacy but halfway through the procedure the one to the right of his bed was moved aside and the soldier who had the next bed reached over and enclosed Daeron�s hand in his own.

�It�s all right, lad. No need to feel shamed for crying out,� the grizzle-haired man told him. �There isn�t a one of us that hasn�t done so.�

Daeron released his grip on the edge of his mattress and turned his hand to squeeze the soldier�s. The part of his brain that wasn�t gibbering that his torturers had him again was grateful for the small kindness. 

Adoan tossed the scalpel into a bowl, washed his hands, and instructed the other healer to apply a salve and fresh dressings. Then he traded his stained apron for a clean one before moving around the bed to take the leather strap from Daeron�s mouth. He took a few minutes to massage the cadet�s jaw to ease the pain of the locked muscles, meeting the eyes of the older soldier with a look of thanks. He hadn�t missed the kindly gesture. 

�Sure, and these healers ought to find something better tasting for us to bite on than some mouldy piece of harness. They�d come up with something better in a minute if they were the ones tasting their saddle for the next three meals, they would.�

�For shame, Sergeant Arnagond. I�ll have you know that we use only the best saddles and not a one of them is mouldy in the least,� Adoan retorted. �Though I will allow the taste could be improved.�

�Ha!� The Master-Sergeant was tickled by Adoan�s response. He gave Daeron�s hand a last squeeze and released it. �You�ve drew a good healer, lad. Best to stay on his good side.�

�Flatterer!� Adoan kept his eyes on his patient but continued the banter with Arnagond while sliding his hand down Daeron�s neck to check his pulse. It was still elevated but was gradually slowing.

�Not a bit of it. That butcher in Cair Andros would�ve taken my entire leg if you hadn�t been there. Speaking of which, we have to do some negotiating regarding when you�re going to let me out of this bed.� The Master-Sergeant�s eyes danced and Daeron realized that this was an ongoing discussion between the older man and the Healer.

�Negotiating? I don�t negotiate, Sergeant. You know that�� The ensuing �argument� distracted Daeron from the discomfort of being turned onto his side as the last of the dressings were secured by bandages around his torso.

By the time the Healer and Sergeant concluded their banter, the screens had been taken away from around Daeron�s bed, all evidence of the treatment had been removed, and he�d relaxed under Adoan�s hands.

�I�ll consider letting you out of bed at the end of the week, and that�s final.� Adoan concluded.

Arnagond made a show of reluctant acceptance and shrugged as he settled back against his pillow. �Can�t blame a man for trying, can you?�

�Are you still trying to convince �Adamant Adoan� to let you out of bed?� another soldier from a bed across the aisle inquired. �I knew you were stubborn, but this is ridiculous.�

Most of the other men in the ward got involved in the discussion, comparing Adoan to other healers and whether stubbornness was a requirement to enter the profession.

Adoan smiled as he felt Daeron relax completely and fall asleep. This was why he chose to tend the military patients. Every one of the men who�d participated in the �argument� had been where this boy was at one time or another and had played the �army versus the physicians� game to distract him from the unavoidable pain. It had worked well enough that he�d not needed to dose Daeron with a sedative for once.

Laedren�s suggestion of putting Daeron in with other soldiers�enlisted men rather than officers�instead of leaving him isolated was already bearing fruit. Not that the officers ever went into a group ward unless things were so dire there was nowhere else to put them; they were tended in private rooms or, if they had personal physicians, in their own homes. 

Daeron slept the rest of the afternoon away. He was roused by one of the apprentices long enough to eat and attend to certain necessities then fell back into slumber, still drained by the painful treatment he�d suffered through earlier in the day. He was so disoriented with fatigue and pain that he didn�t argue about the indignity of being fed and cared for like a babe. 

The hot iron fell against his back again but he was past responding with more than a rasping moan. His throat was as raw as his wounds. The one who asked all the questions seized his hair and jerked his head back, hissing into his ear. �This will end if you cooperate. Answer my questions and I�ll even heal you.�

�No.� 

�Ah, you don�t believe me.�  Something softly stroked along the last burn leaving a blessed numbness behind it. �See? It need not all be pain.�

�No.� But this time he could hear uncertainty in his voice. 

�So be it,� the voice hissed and the irons fell on him once more. 

The agony was too much, he couldn�t bear anymore. �S-s-s-stop. P-p-please�� he croaked�

Daeron woke suddenly, drenched with sweat, and the agony of the dream was echoed by the very real pain that had overwhelmed his sleeping mind. The healer on duty heard his cry and dosed him with something that sent him into sleep again within minutes, the pain vanishing to nothing.

They returned him to the tent and left him alone in the darkness. He shuddered as his mind replayed the horrendous images of death and destruction on the backs of his eyelids. Unable to bear it he opened his eyes.

He was unable to move or scream as the shades stepped before him, pale glowing wraiths, wearing the marks of the atrocities inflicted upon them at the time of their deaths.

The first to stand over him were the three cadets who had helped tend him during the journey back to the City, their uniforms and flesh torn and bloodied, disgust and hatred in their eyes.

�Let me sit heavy in thy soul always, I that died at hands strengthened by thy treason!� 

�Think upon me, that fell in forlorn hope and let thy soul ever despair!�

�Think upon me, trampled beneath the bloody hooves of thy treachery, and with guilty fear let fall thy spear to stab yourself!�

They vanished to be replaced by Gharal, in whose chest gaped a dreadful wound.

�Let my death sit heavy on thy soul! Think how your weakness stabbed me in my prime of youth!�

Halmir, his best friend since he could walk, was next, covered with blood and his throat torn open.

�Let me sit heavy in your soul. I that was drowned to death in my own blood, by thy guile betrayed to death! Think on me, and fall thy honourless sword on thy own neck!�

Jorell stared down at him, displaying the bloodied and fleshless claws that had once been his hands, anger and betrayal in his face, before speaking.

�Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake, and with hands burned black by blood end thy days! Think on me and may thy sleep ever be filled with perturbations!�

Daeron was frozen where he lay, unable to close his eyes again and each word stabbed and burned worse than any of the blows or burns he�d taken from the enemy. Bitterness poured from the shade who stood over him once Jorell had faded away, her gown in rags, her once lovely face a mask of bloody cuts.

�Think of me dishonoured and slain in my garden, my blood nourishing the flowers I loved. Let me be lead within thy bosom, and weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death! I rue the day I put thee to my breast! Thy mother�s soul bids thee to despair.�

He whimpered with the despair she�d summoned as she left, and knowing whose shade would appear next, pleaded for escape.

�Father��

Laedren stood over him in the ruins of his uniform of the Guard of the Citadel, his sword hanging broken in his hand, bearing the marks of many wounds.

�The first I was that helped thee stand, to walk, to lift thy first blade; the last but one was I that fell by thy word. I felt my heart itself torn out with thy hands, now ever bloodied by treason. Oh, that I had never fathered you! Forever think on me and live always in terror of thy guiltiness, for in thy treachery thou hast destroyed all of worth!�

Daeron sobbed in grief and fought to move to clutch at the fading shade, to beg for forgiveness, but he was still paralyzed and bound. The last shade stepped forward and he wailed in horror for the Lord Boromir now stood over him, the marks of the noose about his neck and bloody evidence of the other tortures plain to see. Worst of all was the disdain, and coldness in his face. 

�When I was mortal, I was strangled by thy cowardice, my body by thy treason punched full of deadly holes then torn apart by thy faithlessness. Thy words broke and blackened these walls of white stone, thy fear opened the gutters to run with innocent blood, thy puling weakness hast given up all to the Enemy! Think on the fall of the Citadel and me and despair!�

Daeron howled as Boromir�s shade vanished�

Continued in Chapter 5: Through Daeron�s Eyes: Recovery � Part Two


Chapter 5 - Recovery - Part Two

Author’s Note: This is the second part of the story of the events that  follow on chronologically from Chapter Two: War Games.

Dedicated to my friends in the armed services with love and respect. You know who you are.

Thanks to my readers for their patience while I battled with getting this typed up, and also to my beta and twin sister, Rhyselle, for catching my typos and making sure Daeron didn’t become a GaryStu.

Through Daeron’s Eyes: Recovery – Part Two	

By Dancingkatz

Daeron howled as Boromir’s shade vanished…

Daeron howled and suddenly pushed himself up, reaching for the fading shade. He ended up throwing himself off the bed and landed on his back, entangled with Arnagond who, awakened by the boy’s moans, had reached out to comfort him, only to be pulled from his bed when Daeron fell.

The quiet ward was in an uproar of questions and curses. The on-duty healer hastened in from the anteroom a lamp in hand, demanding to know what was going on. The ambulatory soldiers had left their beds and gathered round Daeron and Arnagond.

Daeron’s eyes were open but sightless, seeing some horror invisible to anyone else, and the howl had subsided to racking sobs.

“Shut up, the lot of you!” Arnagond bellowed in his best Master-Sergeant voice, glaring at the noisiest of the group. “Get back to your beds.” He maintained the glare until the last of them returned to their beds. The healer was about to call for an apprentice to assist in getting the two patients back into their beds, but Arnagond stopped him. “No, I’ll take care of him. The last thing he needs right now is to be manhandled and left alone. Take the lamp with you. I’ll call you once he’s calmed down.”

The Healer didn’t like it but agreed. He also didn’t like the orders he’d gotten from Healer Adoan regarding the boy, but it appeared that neither Daeron or Arnagond had taken any further hurt from the misadventure.

Once the healer had left them the Master-Sergeant pushed himself up to sit against the frame of his bed, ignoring the pain from his stump, and pulled the sobbing boy against his chest. “Be hush, lad. Be hush.” 

Gradually, Daeron quieted as Arnagond continued to murmur soothing nonsense.

“That’s better. Dreaming can be hard, especially for a soldier. I’ve had my share of nightmares over the years.” Daeron stiffened in his arms and he murmured. “Hush, it will be well, lad. Eventually, it will. Now, hush. Hush.”

As the hours of the night crept onwards he continued in this vein and eventually Daeron began to speak of the nightmare. In the midst of his recital Adoan silently arrived and stood at the foot of Daeron’s bed listening.

“This one was the worst,” Daeron said after the painfully difficult retelling. “I never remember dreams but ever since… I’ll never be able to forget this.”

“Perhaps. But then again it might fade once you’re recovered. It’s no wonder you had such a dream after the day you had.” 

Daeron didn’t respond. He didn’t try to move but tension returned the too thin body. “I don’t think I want to recover.” His voice was full of shame as he made the admission.

Arnagond waited while Daeron gradually confessed his fear that what he dreamed would come true if he went ahead and became an officer like his father. “I can’t…”

“Lad, ‘twas a nightmare, not a prophecy.” 

Daeron shook his head but said nothing. Arnagond thought for a while, his hand gently carding through Daeron’s sweat dampened hair. Finally, he spoke. “You have a duty to do everything you can to recover, lad, to your parents, to your family, and your friends, that’s entirely separate from your fitness to serve in the Army.” 

He continued speaking as Adoan silently approached them 

“It was only a dream, lad. You aren’t bound to live out a single thing that happened in it. Understand?”

“Yes, Si-Sergeant.”

Arnagond smiled at the “sir” that almost slipped out. “You better not call me ‘sir’. I work for my living, cadet,” he mock growled.

“Yes, Sergeant.” 

Arnagond sighed, his body had been complaining that he was far too old to spend a night sitting on flagstones but he could live with it if it helped this frightened youngster.

“Now, it looks like our esteemed healer is here to read us the riot act for being out of our beds without permission. Having a quiet night, Adoan?”

The healer snorted. “You should know that the words “quiet” and “night” never are used together when referring to a healer.”

Daeron looked up at the Healer, too exhausted both physically and emotionally to say anything.

“They aren’t usually used together when referring to a soldier either,” Arnagond observed. “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing out of bed.”

Adoan folded his arms and tilted his head as he looked down at the sergeant. “That thought had crossed my mind. I distinctly remember saying that I would consider letting you out of bed at the end of the week.”

“Funny how fast five days can go by, isn’t it, lad?” Arnagond grinned at Daeron, who was wilting by the minute. “Here, let our favourite healer get you back to your own bed. It oughtn’t be too much work, given you’re thin enough to be a stick.”

Adoan lifted Daeron from Arnagond’s arms and lowered him onto his bed. Then he turned to assist the older man. 

Once settled against his pillow, Arnagond nodded towards Daeron and whispered, “How much did you hear?”

“Enough to be going on with. I’ll be back in a minute. I want to make sure you didn’t undo all my hard work.”

Adoan returned shortly accompanied by the on-duty healer and did a quick but thorough examination of Arnagond and Daeron. Both had suffered some bruising but hadn’t aggravated their existing injuries. 

“Here, shove the lad’s bed next to mine. If he has another nightmare I can wake him, without getting out of my own blankets.” Arnagond suggested, having noticed that Daeron was fighting the sedative that he’d been given.

Adoan agreed and as soon as it was done, Daeron reached over to grasp Arnagond’s hand and finally let his eyes close. 

Arnagond stayed awake thinking about what he’d been told as they’d sat on the floor in the near-darkness. He heard a rustle of bedclothes across the way and raised his head to seek the cause. One of the other soldiers, Bandarel, who was recovering from a shoulder wound, had risen and was carrying a lamp in his good hand. He sat the lamp, which was turned down to a soft glow, on the night table and took a seat on the edge of Arnagond’s bed. 

“I couldn’t help overhearing most of what he told you,” he whispered.

“Of course, you couldn’t. Everyone knows that you have ears that would shame a bat. I take it something is bothering you about it?”

“Everything. I used to be assigned to the aggressor team for the training exercises before I got transferred to my current unit. There’s no way in Arda that we’d be permitted to do a tenth of what was done to him. We could threaten with irons but we were never allowed to actually burn the cadets.” Bandarel kept his eyes on the sleeping youth as he continued. “Something is very wrong at the Academy if this is being permitted.”

Arnagond frowned and shifted his leg before speaking. “Are you still friends with any of the men who are currently assigned to the team?”

“Yes. I was planning on sending a note to one or two of them to stop by and visit me. I’ll send it tomorrow, or rather today – given that the sun appears to be rising.” He blew out the lamp and got up. “You should get some sleep.”

“As if you don’t need any. Let me know what you find out.” 

Bandarel tipped his head and returned to his bed. Arnagond rolled onto his back and stared up at the rapidly lightening ceiling. He didn’t mind helping Daeron work through the nightmares. He’d done that many times with his own son. But this was more than just an unfortunate misadventure. It seemed there was more behind this than anyone had thought. Perhaps he ought to send some messages himself…

Just as his fellow cadets had cared for him on the trip back to the city, the men in the ward took it upon themselves to assist Daeron as the days passed; insisting that it was their privilege to help him eat, to sit and hold his hand through dressing changes and treatments, to entertain him with outrageous stories, and be there with reassurances when the nightmares invaded his sleep.  

By the end of a fortnight, the last of the stitches had been removed from wounds that were finally healing, and Daeron was beginning to put on weight. However, that didn’t prevent the men from referring to him as “Sticks” when they included him in their banter. There were still dark circles under his eyes from too many nights of broken sleep but his bruises had faded to near invisibility. The burns were still problematic but were closer to being healed. 

The first visitor he had wasn’t his father or a classmate but Lt. Kergil, who’d been present at the debriefing the morning after he’d been liberated. Groggy from the after effects of the soporific he’d been dosed with during the latest treatment of his burns, it had taken a while to place the saturnine man who stood at the foot of the bed frowning down at him. 

“Sir,” was the safest response Daeron could think of while wondering why the officer had come. Hadn’t the man worn the insignia of a full Lieutenant at the debriefing? Daeron blinked to refocus his eyes but, no, the insignia on the man’s shoulder was that of a second lieutenant. Had he been demoted?

The officer stiffened then turned and strode from the ward, leaving Daeron wondering if the encounter had been a figment of his currently rather befuddled imagination. 

He frowned and carefully rolled onto his side, running his fingers through the soft fleece of the sheepskin, which had found its way onto his bed two days previously, trying to remember for certain if the man had actually been wearing full Lieutenant insignia at their previous meeting or not.

His thoughts were interrupted by Arnagond stumping back to his bed on the crutches that Adoan had finally allowed the old soldier. 

“What did that sour-faced –“ he coughed, and changed the epithet he was about to use when he saw Daeron was awake. “What did he want with you, lad?” he finally asked as he sat down on his bed and leaned his crutches against the wall.

“I don’t know. He was standing there when I woke up.” He frowned again.

“What’s troubling you, lad? No point in keeping it bottled up inside.”

“He was wearing a second lieutenant’s insignia. But I’m almost certain he had full Lieutenant’s bars back at the camp. Maybe my memory is playing tricks on me.” Daeron wondered why the trivial matter seemed to be more significant than it was.

“Move over, Sticks, and take this.” Bandarel  dropped onto the side of Daeron’s bed and handed him a piece of tea cake then provided Arnagond with a similar piece. “Here, old man. My sister sent enough cake to feed a regiment, much less all of us.”

Arnagond snorted at the term “old man” but accepted the cake with a look of anticipation. “Let me know if her husband decides to leave her, I’ll gladly take her into my household as a cook.”

“I’ll be sure to let her know. Are you willing to accept the consequences if I do?” 

“It’s tempting, but I since I obviously can’t outrun her husband, I’ll just have to benefit from  your generosity when she deigns to send you anything.” 

The two older men bantered with each other and Daeron ate the cake which was almost as good as his mother’s and snickered at the jokes he managed to catch. 

Bandarel presently rose to his feet and brushed the crumbs that had accumulated on Daeron’s bed to the floor. “I have a thank you note to write—well, scrawl, actually, since I have to use my left hand—to my sister. I have a surplus of paper and ink, if anyone wants any.”

The gift of the cake had put Daeron thoughts on his mother and he suddenly missed her terribly. Unfortunately, he’d alienated her, along with pretty much everyone he cared about. He had to apologize to her…

“May I have some, Bandarel? I should write my parents.”

The paper, pen and ink were supplied, along with a lap board and Daeron spent the remainder of the afternoon struggling to find the words that he hoped would bring his parents’ forgiveness. When the missives had been given to the corporal who seemed to operate as Bandarel’s personal courier, Daeron lay back in his bed and tried to hide the tears that were threatening. Arnagond, Bandarel and the other men were all that were supportive and friendly but his heart felt hollow. When Arnagond asked if he was all right, he lied and said his burns were hurting. He couldn’t bear to tell the master-sergeant that the thing that hurt the most was his heart.

Arnagond called one of the on-duty healers over and after a quick examination the man left only to return with Adoan. Adoan concurred that Daeron was stressed and gave Daeron a draught that sent him into sleep. As the frown lines on the youth’s brow smoothed out, Adoan looked at Arnagond and lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.

“The lad spent the past hour writing letters to his parents,” he told the healer. “I think it’s his heart that hurts him more than anything right now.”

“That’s usually the way it happens. Well, he should sleep until supper. Let me know if he rouses before then.” Adoan spoke the last to the other healer who nodded and went to take up his other duties.

After the healers left Bandarel returned to sit with Arnagond and to discuss the earlier visit of the officer. 

“I trust you noticed that Kergil is sporting a lower pay-grade these days. I have it on good authority that he was demoted after an inquiry into the way he was running the aggressor squad during the last set of war games.” Bandarel spoke softly so only Arnagond could hear. “Apparently, all four members of his team have requested immediate transfers to another unit.” His gaze moved to Daeron, who slept soundly in the next bed and he continued. “All four of them filed written statements that they had followed the orders that they’d been given to ‘test’ Cadet Greyvale under protest.”

“And the bastard is still in the army? They should’ve pulled his commission and put him under me as a rank private!” Arnagond was furious. This was not the way the Army was supposed to operate. Everyone knew that the cadets had a hard lot, it was part of the job description, but to order deliberate harm to one…

Arnagond decided that it would be a good idea to keep an eye out for Second Lieutenant Kergil. The man had no business being in the ward, much less hovering around Daeron.

Daeron roused enough to eat supper and then fell back asleep immediately thereafter. Given that he had slept most of the afternoon and evening, it wasn’t surprising that he woke in the middle of the night when something knocked into his bed. He opened is eyes and saw the silhouette of a tall man before the window opposite his bed. Enough moonlight shone to highlight the metal of uniform insignia on the man’s shoulder. Before Daeron could say anything, one of the other men moved and called out in his sleep, and the figure fled. He stared at the place where the man had stood for a while then fell back asleep.

The nightmare returned shortly before dawn.

He’d answered their questions, finally. But the pain didn’t stop, nor did the questions. The hissing voice was always in his ear, worming past every defense he tried to put up. 

“They’re not going to come for you, you know. They’re not interested in rescuing a sniveling coward. So you may as well tell me everything. It will hurt much less if you tell me what I want to know sooner rather than later.”

Worse was the hand that would alternately soothe and slap. Daeron had long since passed the point of crying out, but the sudden realization that he longed for the gentle, approving pats on his head made him wail in despair.

Arnagond had awakened Daeron from the nightmare but for once the boy wouldn’t speak about what he’d dreamed. The soldier returned to his own bed after a few minutes but didn’t go back to sleep. He was worried and he had the dismal feeling that more was going on than he knew.

Daeron was uncommonly quiet and biddable the next day; only the way his eyes would return to the doorway of the ward giving a clue to his preoccupation.

When the afternoon visitors arrived he grew even quieter. Eventually the afternoon passed and the visitors left.

"I shouldn't have said those horrible things to her," he said to himself as he settled onto his side, his back to the door, when he realized that the person he most wanted to see right now hadn’t come. 

Meriel waited by the outer door to the ward, and took a deep breath.  In her fingers she folded and unfolded the note that had been delivered the afternoon before.  She glanced at Adoan as the last of the other visitors passed them.  "I wasn't so sure about what Laedren and you came up with, but now, thank you for doing it."

 Adoan smiled reassuringly. "I think that Daeron's over the worst of the trauma now. He's wanting to be with people again instead of pushing them away."

"Then I'd best let him know that he didn't push me away after all."  She slipped through the door and paused momentarily to scan the ward for her son's bed. She found it in the middle of the line of beds against the eastern wall of the room. The braziers were lit in the corners of the room, and lamps supplemented the weak late autumn sunshine that came through the unshuttered windows. Most of the men were settling to nap or read to pass the time before supper was distributed.

She loosened the heavy cloak she'd worn to the Houses of Healing as she moved to his bed and stopped at the end of it.  She noticed the grizzled old sergeant in the next bed and smiled briefly at him before focusing on her son's back.  Going to her knees between the two beds, and disregarding what the floor might do to her gown, she reached out and touched Daeron's shoulder as she softly said his name.

She couldn't resist catching up an elflock of his longish hair and began to detangle it with her fingertips.

Daeron opened his eyes and whispered "Mother?"

"Who else would dare to touch that mop on your head," she teased, tugging gently on the lock she held. 
 
He was afraid to turn and look at her, feeling deeply ashamed for the words he's hurled at her at her last visit. But he rolled over and blinked back sudden tears and buried his face against her shoulder. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean..."

She held him close against her and crooned soothingly, "I know you didn't mean it, Daeron.  Even before I left the room, I knew that it wasn't you chasing me away."  She rocked him gently back and forth, like she had when he was a young child.

Daeron wept and tangled his fingers in the folds of her cloak. "I don't know if I can explain... I wanted you to stay but I didn't want..." He couldn't find the words that would explain why he'd behaved the way he did.

"Please forgive me, mother. I was wrong, so very wrong."

Meriel pressed a kiss on the top of his head.  "You are forgiven."  She tipped his face up and looked into the eyes that were so like his father's. "It hurt me, but I realized that it wasn't you who chased me out, but whatever worm is wriggling in that brain of yours."

Daeron looked into his mother's face and saw that she meant every word she'd said. "I want to tell you what happened, but I don't want to upset you. I don't want you to be ashamed of me."

She shifted to sit upon the edge of the bed, with her arm still wrapped around his shoulders.  "I could never be ashamed of you, Daeron.  I will listen.  And do my best to not let my anger at those who did all this to you reign."

Speaking softly, Daeron leaned his head against his mother's breast. The delicate scent of her favorite rose and sandalwood perfume surrounded him and he let its familiarity sooth him as he tried to describe what had been done to him. "I finally gave in and answered their questions. I was a coward. Worse, what I told them could have..." he choked, struggled for composure.

Meriel didn't break into tears, although she wanted to.  She tightened her embrace and tried to communicate her care for him through that touch.

Daeron continued, "It could be just the information they needed to defeat the army. I keep dreaming about it. They kill you, father, everyone, because I gave in and talked. Oh, mother, I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

"Oh, Daeron."  She kissed the top of his head again. "You are no coward.  Believe me."

"I put you in danger and I guess I got the idea that if you didn't love me, if I chased you away, then it wouldn't happen."

"I know exactly how you feel, Daeron," she told him, carding her fingers through his hair until, frustrated by the knots, she pulled a horn comb from her chatelaine and began to work out the snarls.

Daeron was silent for a few minutes, just reveling in the feel of his mother's gentle hands.

"Remember when you were eight, and Halmir accidentally stabbed you?" she asked.

"Yes. I was surprised that it hurt so much."

"Do you remember how I reacted?"

"You cried." Daeron thought back to that day. "You were crying and screaming. Janthred swore."

"Daeron, I blamed myself for what happened.  I should have been paying more attention to what you and Halmir had been up to.  You nearly died that day."  She stopped combing his hair for a few long seconds.

Daeron looked up, distressed by this revelation. "But it wasn't your fault! I shouldn't have agreed to use the real knives."

"I had nightmares for weeks and weeks after.  I'd wake up your father with them.  There was so much blood on the flagstones, and in my dreams it washed you away from me."

"You didn't let me out of your sight for weeks afterwards. Even the day Lord Boromir came, you were constantly checking to make sure I was still in one piece. It wasn't your fault, mother. Surely, you don't still think it is?"

"I still want to keep checking to see that you are all in one piece." She resumed grooming his hair. “And, no, not anymore.  But it was very hard to stop blaming myself." She added, "It was Lord Boromir who took me to task, you know."

"He did?" Daeron was distracted from the downward spiral his thoughts were trying to take. "But why?"

"Because I was so caught up in my sense of guilt for something that was not my fault, that I was going to likely cause the very imagined disasters that terrified me in my dreams.  His words... and they--woke me up."

Daeron thought about her words for some time, then said," Lord Boromir is very wise, isn't he?”

Meriel nodded and parted his hair, drawing it away from his face.  "Yes, he is--we are very fortunate to have him not only as our Steward's Heir, and your Father's--and your--Captain-General, but as a friend also."

"Mother, would you mind if I told you what I dreamed?"

"I wouldn't mind at all, Daeron."  She laid down the comb and nestled him against her again.  "Tell me what you can."

Daeron dropped his head to her shoulder his face turned towards her neck and whispered. "After I told the enemy what he wanted to know, they left me alone for a long time, then I was dragged outside. They took off the blindfold and the city was burning. They made me watch while everyone I ever loved or cared for was killed before my eyes. You'd been in the garden, you were wearing that blue apron you wear when you're cutting flowers. They hurt you horribly and I couldn't do anything to save you."

She gave him a squeeze, and waited a moment to see if he would say more.

Daeron paused for a bit and then continued. "Then I saw father die. And they... killed Lord Boromir and the Steward and... it felt like my hand was on the knife and rope."

"Like it felt like it was my hand upon the knife when you were young."  She picked up his hands and lifted them so they were before his face.  "Look at them, Daeron, and tell me what you see?"

"Just my hands."

"Look at them and describe them to me."

"Well…." Daeron was at a loss as to what the point of the exercise was but he did as she asked. "There's a scar from when I cut myself in Jorell's workshop three years ago... and there's some bruises..."

"Is there any blood on them?"

"Blood? No.…"

She enfolded his hands in her own.  "Clean hands and clean heart are the basis of honour.  Do you remember me telling you that when you were young?"

"Yes. You told me that every night when you came to hear my prayers."

"Your honour is bright, Daeron.  Your hands are clean, and so is your heart.  Have you been saying your prayers?"

"No," he answered reluctantly. "I... didn't feel that I should speak to the Valar... I... I..." He gave up. He couldn't find the words to express how unworthy he felt.

"It's when we feel least worthy to petition the Valar that they long for us to do so.  Will you let me hear your prayers tonight, after you eat your supper?  I'll let you off on the Standing Grace," she added, with a slightly teasing glance at the bumps under the blanket that were his bandaged feet. "Just this once."

Daeron nodded and hugged her close. He was weeping again, but this time it was from sheer relief. "Oh, please, yes."

Meriel waited until he stopped crying and settled him back against his pillows. “Would you like me to read to you for a bit?”

“Please.”

His mother opened the girdle book that she carried next to her chatelaine and opened it. After a moment’s thought she began reading of the awakening of the Second-Born. As her sweet voice read the familiar words, the susurrus of conversation between the men quieted and soon all those who were awake were listening. 

Adoan entered the ward as she finished, followed by the two on-duty healers and a handful of apprentices to do the evening round. Meriel closed the book, laid her hand on Daeron’s forehead and smiled at him. “I’ll leave you to your healers for a bit. I’ll be back to share supper, I promise.”

She rose and turned to go, catching the gaze of Arnagond who had quietly sat up to listen to her reading. He offered her a half bow. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Whatever for?”

“Reminding us why we do the job we do.” 

“I should thank you, Sergeant. I understand you’ve been a great friend to my son.”

“He’s a good lad, my lady. I’d be a happy man to serve under him one day.” Arnagond dipped his head again and let her go.

Meriel had stepped beyond the doors of the ward and was contemplating the sunset through the western-facing window of the anteroom when she was accosted by the one man she would gladly leave lying in the dirt if she ever found him injured.

“Lt. Kergil,” she said coldly, and went to step past him. 

However, he grasped her arm and prevented her from doing so. “Meriel, my lo…”

“Do not call me that! Unhand me at once, you…cur!” She was furious. Not only had this—she was not going to call him a man—been responsible for her only child’s current condition; he’d been a lurking, unwelcome presence around the borders of her life ever since she had turned down his proposal and chosen to wed Laedren sixteen years previously. 

“A cur, madam? You dare to call me cur?” he hissed, yanking her close and burying his other hand in her dark hair. 

Meriel groped at her chatelaine with her free hand for the embroidery scissors that hung there. “Aye, I do. Unhand me this instant unless you would prefer to find yourself--fixed!” The sharp points of the scissors were suddenly far too intimate with a sensitive part of his anatomy. He instantly released her and snarled, “Bitch!”

“Yes, and you dared to harm my pup. Get thee gone, cur!” Meriel was incandescent with rage now. 

“You’ll pay for that…” Kergil threatened, stepping towards her again. Then the sudden sound of voices approaching the closed doors to the ward sent him fleeing. Meriel sank onto a bench and hastily composed herself. The doors opened to disclose Adoan and his fellow healers.

“You may return to your son now, my Lady,” Adoan said.

“Thank you, Healer Adoan. I am very, very grateful for what you’ve done for him.” She smiled at him, her reaction to the events of the past several minutes hidden. She had no time to be weak with Laedren in Cair Andros and Daeron still abed. If necessary, she would petition Denethor for protection from the obsessed man. But for now, her highest priority was her son.

Adoan gestured for her to precede him into the ward.

After sharing supper with Daeron, she sat and listened to his prayers then stroked his forehead until his eyes closed. Once she was certain he was asleep she bent and kissed him. “Sleep well, my darling.”

When she stood, she was surprised to find one of the injured soldiers at her side. His right arm was in a sling and his shoulder bore a bulky bandage. He introduced himself as Bandarel and offered her his left arm.

When they reached the anteroom, a large and sturdy looking corporal was standing at parade rest by the bench that Meriel had sat on after her encounter with Kergil.

“My Lady, permit Corporal Marrin to escort you to your home. It being after dark, I think Daeron would prefer that you not walk the City on your own.”

Meriel looked into Bandarel’s dark eyes and flushed when she saw the knowledge writ there.

“I shall say nothing to your son, my Lady, I promise.”

“But, how…” she said weakly. Was that dreadful confrontation already common knowledge?
 
“My fellows call me the Bat, my lady. I have been blessed—or cursed, if you will—with extraordinarily sensitive hearing. No one else here is aware of what happened.” He bowed over her hand. “Marrin is pathologically discrete. Were I you, I would not leave home unescorted until your Lord husband has returned to the City.”

“Thank you. I will gladly accept the Corporal’s escort.”

Bandarel watched her go and returned to the ward. The sooner Lord Laedren returned to the City the better; things were far more complicated than he had imagined. 

Daeron had awakened some time after midnight, uncertain of what it was that drew him from his sleep. The ward was dark, even the nightlights had burned down and not been relit. No moonlight came in through the windows because thick clouds obscured Ithil. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, wanting to return to the, for once, pleasant dream he’d been having.

Then a familiar hand was stroking his hair and the hissing voice that was present in his nightmares spoke at his ear. “Such a good little traitor, you are. Betraying everything just to….”

He suddenly realized that this wasn’t a dream. Terror filled him, and he screamed and flailed, tangled in the blankets. Something was knocked off the night table, shattering on the flagstones with a crash; the voice hissed a curse, the hand lifted from his head and a shadowy figure fled the room as the ward erupted into noise and chaos. 

The darkness was dispersed as the healer who had night duty ran in bearing a lamp, demanding to know what was going on.

Arnagond reached over to Daeron. “It was just a dream, lad.”

“No! It wasn’t a dream. He was really here,” Daeron insisted. He couldn’t stop shaking. He hadn’t just dreamed that hand in his hair or that voice in his ear. He’d heard it before while awake, for three whole days. He’d finally broken and given in not because the pain had become more than he could bear, but because he couldn’t bear to not feel the soothing touch of that hand in the midst of a living nightmare. “He was here…”

Bandarel had come over carrying another lamp, carefully avoiding the broken pieces of the ewer that had been on the night table. Something glinted amidst the shards. He set the lamp on the night table and he bent to pick up a military issue survival knife. The edge had been freshly honed.

“Whoever it was, he was most definitely real.” He looked up as Adoan arrived. “Someone just made an attempt on Daeron’s life. He can’t stay here any longer.”

Adoan nodded sharply and gave out several quick orders. The duty healer left and the other men reluctantly returned to their beds. Then he turned his attention to Daeron. 

Shortly, the ward returned to a more or less normal state. Daeron was moved to a private room elsewhere in the Houses of Healing. Messages were sent out to recall Lord Laedren from Cair Andros, to notify the Academy Commandant of the attempted attack on one of his cadets, and to Lady Meriel. Daeron was unaware of most of it, Adoan having immediately dosed him with a strong sedative.

The next day Adoan spent several hours with Daeron insisting that the cadet go over everything he could remember about his ordeal and the ensuing nightmares. Bandarel was present for most of it, as well as his silent Corporal. About mid-afternoon, during a break when Adoan had left  to deal with an emergency admission, Daeron looked at Bandarel and said flatly, “You’re not an infantry Sergeant, are you? And he’s not just a Corporal.”

Rather than answer Bandarel adjusted his sling and asked Daeron, “What makes you think that?”

“You’re not acting the same way you were in the ward,” Daeron answered. He looked at the man in silence for a few minutes. Bandarel seemed not to care that he was being closely observed by the boy that he was, in reality, guarding. “You’re a Special Officer.  That’s why you’re always sending and receiving messages. Arnagond said that after I arrived in the ward you’d become a model correspondent all of a sudden.”

“I can’t verify anything you’ve said, Daeron, one way or the other. But I can tell you this wound wasn’t faked. I just happened to be here when they brought you in. Something is very wrong at the Academy. I was asked to keep my ears open is all.”

“I heard Arnagond call you Bat Ears.” 

Bandarel laughed. “I’ve had that nickname since I was a six year-old. It has come in handy a few times.” He sobered. “Did you see anything that might identify your attacker last night?”

“No. But his voice—it was the same as in my nightmares.” He hesitated before continuing. “It was the same as…as…I heard it when I was captured.” 

He was looking down at his clenched hands so he didn’t see the expression that flickered over Bandarel’s face and the way the man’s posture changed. He exchanged glances with his companion and Marrin rose to his feet and slipped out the door.

Minutes later Adoan returned and what Daeron was beginning to consider a cross-examination continued.  

Later that evening Daeron realised he’d gotten used to the sound of the breathing of fifteen other men; he just couldn’t seem to be able to fall asleep in the silence of this room and, so ended up staring up at the ceiling, which was barely illuminated by the flame of the night light on the table across the room from the bed. It didn’t help to know that there was a guard on the other side of the door, either. Adoan hadn’t mentioned it, but Daeron had seen the man in the uniform of the Tower Guard when the door had opened to admit an apprentice and his supper tray. It didn’t take any stretch of the imagination to figure out what the man was doing there.

He hadn’t even been able to get Marrin to take a note to his mother. His eyes fell upon the flame of the night light and he remembered her words about the Valar. 

O, Valar, I am lost and afraid, but the Light you bless us with shines through the darkness, leading me safely past terror and doubt. Let me trust in your strength when mine fails. Let me trust in your presence when I feel alone. Let me trust in the rightness of your design, the beauties hidden and unhidden, and the love eternal which never dies. Amen.

A feeling of peace stole over him and he finally slept.

He woke in the very early morning to find his fingers entwined with another’s and opened his eyes to see his father dozing in a chair with his feet propped up on the edge of Daeron’s bed. Daeron didn’t speak but just feasted his eyes on the beloved face. Laedren had removed his armor and boots, for they lay on the floor next to the chair, but was otherwise still dressed in his uniform. O, thank you, Valar!

Content and feeling safe, Daeron let himself fall asleep again. 

Later that morning, after both had roused, Daeron had made his apologies to his father, and they’d eaten breakfast, Laedren found himself temporarily evicted from the room while Daeron was cleaned up and his remaining injuries treated and redressed. The officer took the time to seek out Bandarel and found the man sitting with Arnagond in the ward. He wanted more information before he talked to Daeron about the midnight attack.

When Laedren returned to Daeron’s room, he found that the guard who’d been on the door was gone with no replacement. Reminding himself to check on the whereabouts of the guard, he opened the door, to find Daeron arguing with Adoan about taking the dose the Healer was offering.

“It doesn’t hurt that badly.” The lie was obvious because Daeron’s face was pale and sweat beaded his brow. “I don’t want to sleep all day.”

Adoan looked like he was ready to hold Daeron’s nose and pour the draught down his throat as if he were dosing a recaltricant puppy, so the argument must have been going on for some minutes.

“Daeron, take the dose. Now.” 

Adoan took the cup back from Daeron who had immediately choked the vile tasting stuff down at his father’s words. “I take it, that is what’s called ‘command presence’?”

Laedren snorted. “Something like that. Will it put him to sleep?”

“Eventually,” Adoan answered. “But you should have time for some conversation before it does. I should hire you to help me deal with some of my more stubborn patients.”

“You don’t pay enough.” 

Adoan laughed, mentioned that he’d be by later to check on his patient, and left.

Laedren took a seat in the chair, turning it to face his son who still looked pale. “Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch. Now, I want to hear your description of what happened the other night.”

“…It was the same man who…” Daeron was finding it hard to stay awake. He struggled to sit up and found his father had pushed him back against the pillow.

“No, stay there. So the voice was the same as the one that was interrogating you. That puts a different complexion on things.” The Captain mused  for some minutes then continued. “Daeron, I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“I thought I was going crazy when he whispered in my ear. Everything is so mixed up. I thought I was dreaming but then I felt his breath on my neck…” Daeron’s words came more and more slowly and he finally succumbed to the draught. 

Laedren waited until he was sure that Daeron was asleep and then went to get some answers to questions that seemed to be becoming more critical by the hour. 

The next few days passed fairly uneventfully, except for the nightmares which were still plaguing Daeron’s nights. Lady Meriel and Lord Laedren took it in turns to visit, but neither Halmir, Gharal or Jorell had yet made an appearance. 

Bandarel had periodically come to see him but Daeron felt his brief visits were more like reconnaissance patrols than social calls. Arnagond had come in stumping along on one crutch and his new prosthetic leg at least once a day but he was usually chased back to his own bed by one of the healers before the conversation could get interesting.

Lord Laedren arrived late in the morning with Lord Boromir in tow, the two of them having just left a Council meeting, to find Daeron scowling at the pages of a rather thick book, and several closely written sheets of paper scattered on the blankets.

“I see you must be vastly improved, if your healer has let you be assailed with that much reading,” Boromir said as he crossed to the bed in Laedren’s wake.

Daeron looked up and let the book fall. “Lord Boromir! Father!” He started to sit up, intending to make a bow but was waved back by the Steward’s Heir.

“What are you studying?” Laedren gathered up the loose sheets of paper and frowned at the crabbed lettering.

“Mother had Janthred gather some books and make up assignments. This is supposed to be military history but it sounds more like politics to me.” Daeron picked up the book again only to have it snatched from his fingers by Boromir.

“Let me see. Ah, good old Eagle-Beak! I remember this from my Academy days. Yes, there’s quite a bit of politics in here, but it all has a bearing on why Romendacil I chose the strategies he used to defeat the Easterlings.”

Laedren snorted. “It’s Thoronbaec, and Romendacil I used the strategies he did because there’s only one way to take out a fortress like the Ectalabren. Politics had nothing to do with it; and no, I am not going to get dragged into this debate again.” Laedren plucked the book from Boromir’s hands and returned it to Daeron. “

Daeron couldn’t resist asking, “What I don’t understand is why he spent all that time in negotiations with Harad and Umbar. Why would he spend all that time ignoring the Easterlings? Didn’t that give the East-King more time to fortify Ectalabren?”

Laedren shook his head and grinned as Boromir sat in the chair next to the bed and began to answer Daeron’s questions. He cleared his throat and said, “If you will excuse me, I need to speak to Adoan.” 

Daeron and Boromir paid him no mind, their entire attention being on the discussion. Daeron was more animated than he’d been in weeks, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. He reached for one of the pages lying on the bed as Laedren exited the room, leaving the door slightly open behind him.

“So, all those months of politicking was to make the East-King think that Romendacil had no interest in Ectalabren or the pass it guarded. He dropped his vigilance and opened the city again. Once he did that it was easy for Romendacil’s forces to get in via the trade road and compromise the cisterns.” Daeron ran his finger along the line of the canyon pass on the map he held. “I knew the fortress was besieged, but I didn’t realize that it had started almost a year before the first soldier set foot in the Gateway canyon.”

“Yes, not all sieges are conducted with trebuchets and fire,” Boromir told him, delighted with Daeron’s interest and perception. “The other benefit to all those negotiations was that it prevented Harad and Umbar from effectively allying with the Easterners. If you go into the archives and take the time to wade through all the minutiae of the negotiation records, you’ll find that Romendacil was offering them some things they really wanted. Even though they considered the Numenoreans to be the devil incarnate they dealt with him. All men will deal with the devil when it serves their self-interest.”

Daeron considered that for a few minutes then set the map aside, his face set, his eyes looking past Boromir at the doorway. “It’s all about sieges and self-interest, isn’t it? Whether it’s a city, a fortress, or just one man. The East-King didn’t want to keep the city closed off because the lack of trade was probably on the verge of making his own people rebellious. Harad and Umbar preferred to deal with Romendacil I in the council chamber because it meant they weren’t going to have to field their armies and give away information on their military strength. They were under siege just as much as Ectalabren.”

Boromir nodded but said nothing. It was obvious to him that Daeron was coming to some rather unpleasant conclusions for a youth raised on the ideals of honour. Boromir had dealt with the same issues and it had shaken his world to have to accept the truth.

“I was like Ectalabren, wasn’t I? No matter how many defenses I put up, once he got inside, I was compromised. Only instead of breaching a cistern, he offered a moment’s kindness in the middle of…No!”

To Daeron’s horror, Lt. Kergil had slipped into the room, his eyes on Daeron and an expression of utter loathing on his face. Then he realized that the cadet was not alone and he lunged towards the chair where Boromir sat, hands raised to choke the life out of the man sitting there. 

But Daeron’s warning allowed Boromir time to turn and grapple with Kergil. The men toppled to the floor and in spite of Boromir’s greater bulk, the second lieutenant’s madness lent him strength, and he managed to get atop the Steward’s Heir. Boromir planted a hard knee in a place guaranteed to get the attention of even a mad dog, and Kergil threw himself backwards, pulling a knife from his belt.

Before the man could take any further action, Daeron threw himself from his bed to fall on Kergil’s back, getting him in a chokehold, squeezing his forearm against his windpipe as hard as he could, and hanging on for dear life.

Kergil gargled something through the chokehold, and failing to claw Daeron’s arm away from his throat with his free hand, brought the knife down and back.

Daeron screamed as the blade stabbed into his side but didn’t let go. He saw Boromir rise and pull his sword just as Laedren and Marrin burst through the door, followed by Adoan and Bandarel. 

Barely able to breathe, and with three swords ready to fillet him, Kergil surrendered. Daeron let go his hold around the man’s neck and he slid to the floor, groaning as the impact jarred the knife in his side. He thought, as he was lifted up to the bed—which Bandarel had cleared of the books and papers by dint of sweeping them to the floor—that he’d forgotten just how much a knife stab hurt since he was eight years old.

Kergil was taken away, under arrest, now hissing pejorative epithets and threats at Daeron, Laedren, Boromir, and Marrin. It was clear by the time Marrin and another soldier had taken him out of earshot that he’d believed Boromir to be Laedren.

“I told you we looked like twins,” Boromir quipped as he and Laedren turned back to see how Daeron was fairing.

“And I told you that problem could be solved if you dyed your hair blond,” Laedren retorted, sheathing his sword, then taking Daeron’s hands in his own. 

“Why should I be the one to dye my hair? You’d look just as fetching with golden locks as I would,” Boromir teased, standing at the head of the bed and placing his hands on Daeron’s shoulders. Daeron snickered but immediately stopped. Laughing was not a good idea right now.

“Not according to Meriel. Do you want to be the one to explain to her why my looking like a transplanted Rohirrim is necessary?” Laedren was plainly worried but he kept up the banter to distract his son.

“Do you think I’m crazy? No, thank you! I prefer to stay on the good side of your lady. She has a wicked right hook!” Boromir glanced towards Adoan and then increased the pressure on Daeron’s shoulders at the Healer’s slight nod. “Or don’t you recall just how my nose became crooked?”

“I thought that was from Gyldenlác bashing you in the face with his head because you forgot his sugarloaf,” Laedren returned. “No, that was the third time your nose was broken. Let me see, the first time was…”

Daeron then lost track of the conversation because Adoan had pulled the knife from his side and begun treating the wound. He had passed out by the time the cautery iron was employed and the dressing was wrapped in place.

He was awakened by the acrid bite of Adoan’s apparently favourite restorative in his nostrils. “Wake up, Daeron. You need to answer a few questions.”

“…attempted murder of a superior officer, assault and attempted murder of a cadet nominally under his command, gross misuse of authority, violation of innumerable military articles, not to mention the attempted assassination of the Steward’s Heir, with witnesses to all of it; moreover, witnesses willing—no, eager—to testify before a Courts Martial and the Steward. He will not view unbarred sunlight again, and that not for long.” Lord Boromir was speaking to a harried looking, stout, grey-haired man wearing brown court robes.

“Yes, my Lord. It is obvious to me the man is guilty of all you say, but the forms must be observed, before any of that can happen. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to speak to this young man and get his view of events.” The man spoke to Boromir in a tone of great patience and familiarity.

Boromir laughed and clapped the man on his back. “All right, Giselher, we’ll leave you to it. I can’t help it that you actually managed to teach me some jurisprudence.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, my Lord. You should know that by now. I promise I shan’t terrorize the lad. I leave that for lawbreakers.”

Boromir crossed the room to stand over Daeron. “Answer Giselher’s questions to the best of your ability, Daeron. He’s an officer of the Law Courts. Your father will be in to see you once he’s clear of his morning duties.” He smiled and squeezed Daeron’s shoulder in a gesture that was rapidly becoming comforting and familiar. “Thank you, Daeron. You’re a man I’d be glad to have at my back anytime.”

“My Lord….” But Boromir was gone, leaving him with Giselher and many questions of his own.

The lawyer sat down, looked at him for a few moments, nodded as if answering an internal question and began.

When the Giselher had left, Daeron stared at the ceiling, feeling as though he’d just completed a three day cross-country ride… as the horse. If this was the way the man questioned witnesses, Daeron definitely didn’t want to be a lawbreaker under his examination. 

The most distressing moment had been when the man had pulled the knife that Kergil had used from the satchel he carried and asked Daeron to identify it.

“It’s mine.”

“No. Is this the knife you were stabbed with? Did you see it in your attacker’s hands?”

“Yes, it was the knife he used. But it is mine. My father gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday, just before I entered the Academy. I had it on my belt when I was captured…”

“Captured?” 

“It was part of training. He must have taken it from me when I was unconscious.”

“Who must have taken it from you?”

“Lt. Kergil, or one of his men. He was the commander of the aggressor forces.”

Gradually Giselher pulled the details of Daeron’s captivity from him as well as the attempted attack in the ward.

“So, after torturing you under the guise of this ‘war game’, Kergil came to the Houses of Healing, and attempted to attack you in your bed even before today’s events.”

“Yes. I just wish I knew why.” Daeron said, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “Oh, I know why he did what he did at the enemy camp. That was just part of training. But I can’t figure out what he has against me that would make him do what he did afterwards.”

Giselher had offered no suggestions and concluded the interview, taking the knife and his notes with him.

Daeron’s musings were interrupted by the arrival of his mother and father. Laedren looked rather grim, but Meriel smiled and crossed to embrace Daeron.

“It seems that your grandfather was right. He always said that you would find trouble, and if you weren’t looking it would find you.” 

“It finds me. I don’t go looking for it, honest!” Daeron said into her shoulder as he carefully returned her hug. The painkiller Adoan had given him was effective so long as he remained still but with any significant movement the wound made itself unpleasantly known in spite of it.

“You could have fooled me; leaping on Kergil like that.” Laedren sat on the foot of the bed and removed his gauntlets, uncovering the bracers that Daeron had made him for Yule three years previously. “No, I’m not angry at you. You only did the same thing I would have done. Your grandfather said the same thing about me.”

Daeron released his mother and looked up at Laedren. “He used my knife, the one you gave me.”

“I know.” 

“But why? I don’t understand why he did all this.”

“I can answer part of it,” Lady Meriel interrupted. She took Daeron’s hands and held them together between her own. “Kergil grew up near my father’s holding in Lossarnach. It seemed he was always underfoot, and when I turned sixteen and went to Minas Tirith with my parents and your great-uncle Lord Furlong’s household, he tagged along. After I met your father at Lord Boromir’s coming of age celebration, Kergil proposed marriage to me. I turned him down and accepted your father’s proposal instead. Ever since…” She sighed and looked at Laedren sadly. “Kergil was jealous of our happiness. He’s tried to alienate the two of us every so often but hadn’t done anything to cause trouble for nearly six years. I think when he saw you it brought all that jealously and anger back to the front of his mind.”

“But…” Daeron looked from his mother to his father and back. “That was just wrong! Didn’t he have any honour?”

Meriel squeezed his hands and hushed him. “Jealousy is a very ugly thing, Daeron. It makes people do things they wouldn’t normally do. Kergil had to have known who you were when his men brought you into the camp. You look so much like your father. All I can suppose, is that his jealousy saw your father and took out his anger and hatred on you in his place.”

Laedren rose and knelt next to Meriel, his one arm wrapping about her waist and covering her and Daeron’s joined hands with the other. “It didn’t help when I was promoted to Captain and appointed as Lord Boromir’s Aide, either. Nor when I discovered that Kergil had been embezzling unit funds.”

“He thought Lord Boromir was you. When he came in he was coming for me and then saw Lord Boromir…He was going to kill both of us.” Daeron realised.

Meriel nodded. “Thank the Valar he didn’t. I couldn’t bear losing either of you.”

“Well, by the time the Courts and the Steward finish with him, Kergil won’t be able to hurt anyone again.” Laedren said with confidence. “And yes, dear, I know he accosted you when you came to see Daeron that day. He was trying to press assault charges against you. Since I didn’t see any broken bones I assume that this time you used a weapon of some sort instead of your fist?”

“What? Mother! He accosted you?” Daeron was outraged.

“There was no harm done. I threatened to geld him with my embroidery scissors and he let go of me.” She freed one of her hands and patted her chatelaine. “I should gone ahead and done it.”

Daeron stared at his mother in surprise. He’d had no clue that his delicate-looking flower of a mother could be so ruthless.

“And of course, I used a weapon. It took weeks for the bruises on my knuckles to fade after I punched Lord Boromir’s nose that time. I had to wear gloves when outside the house for nearly a month.” 

Laedren laughed and kissed her hand. “I had wondered about that fashion statement.”

Daeron had turned his attention to Laedren, remembering the conversation between his father and Lord Boromir. “So what you were saying was true. Mother did break Lord Boromir’s nose!”

“She certainly did! It’s never been the same since.” 

Meriel and Laedren turned smiling faces towards the familiar voice. “Oh, Ori, you know you deserved it. And your father was right there and didn’t say a word to me afterwards,” Meriel told him as he approached the little family group.

Daeron wasn’t sure which astonished him more, that his mother actually hit the Steward’s Heir with apparent impunity, or that she called him by a nickname. And he was awfully curious about what had made his usually so proper mother do such a thing!

“He wouldn’t dare! He knew he might have been next!” Boromir dropped a kiss on Meriel’s cheek and gave Laedren’s shoulder a squeeze. “I just spoke with Giselher. He’s on his way to my Lord father with the results of your interview and it looks like Kergil’s trial will be held after Yule. There’s no need to befoul the holiday season with such proceedings and he’s not going to be going anywhere.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a page in the livery of the Tower. The boy bowed and announced, “I beg your Lordships’ pardons, but the Lord Steward requests the immediate attendance of the Lord Laedren and Lady Meriel upon him. I am to bring you to his presence, my Lord, my Lady.”

Meriel kissed Daeron again and rose to her feet, followed by Laedren. 

“Go on, I’ll keep Daeron company.” Boromir shooed them towards the door and the waiting page. “It won’t do to keep my father waiting.” He then picked up the book he and Daeron had been discussing at the time of the attack and sat down. “Shall we continue our discussion, this time without any unseemly interruptions, I hope?”

Daeron was more than agreeable. He took the book from Boromir and opened it to the relevant section, listened to be sure his parents and their escort were out of earshot, then asked with a grin, “Lord Boromir, just what did you do that made my mother break your nose?”

Daeron was downright ecstatic. He was out of the houses of Healing finally, on convalescent leave in his parents’ home, and would be returning to the Academy at the end of the weeklong Yule festivities. Halmir, Gharal, Grethen and Val had been spending the past several afternoons “getting him back into shape” by insisting he come with them on jaunts around the festively decorated levels of the city and daily rides on Ruinanor, who had made much of Daeron’s return to see her in the Academy stables. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve been taking it in turns to take care of her and ride her out every day,” Val said as the bay mare investigated Daeron’s pockets for treats. “She really missed you.”

“We all missed you. We were ready to sneak into the Houses of Healing and kidnap you since they wouldn’t let us come and visit,” Halmir said from the vicinity of his horse’s front legs as he finished wrapping them. 

“Then we found out why they wouldn’t let us visit,” Grethen had added, handing Gharal a martingale. “We weren’t even allowed to send you any notes. I hope you didn’t feel abandoned.”

“No, not really. Besides I was the one who chased everyone away. I’m really sorry about that.” Daeron told them as he readied Ruinanor for their ride.

“Hey, it happens. At least you didn’t throw the chamber pot at me. That’s what my Uncle Thavron did once. He hit the Chief Surgeon when my dad ducked.” Halmir snickered. “When my uncle complains about how much trouble we all get into, I just remind him of that and he shuts right up.”

“Knowing your uncle, that’s probably the only time he shuts up,” Gharal observed as he finished fastening the standing martingale and tightened the girth. “Where are we going today?”

“Let’s just use the schooling field,” Grethen suggested. “No point in wearing ourselves out by going all the way down to the Pelennor.”

Of course, Daeron had ached like blazes the next day, but that didn’t matter. His life was back on an even keel and he had a good deal to look forward to.

He was to accompany his parents to the Yule Eve Court and feast at the Citadel and had just discovered that his dress uniform was laid out on his bed, instead of the traditional dress robes. Before he could wonder about the change in wardrobe, his father entered the room. “Dress uniforms tonight, by order of the Lord Steward.” 

Daeron stood at attention next to his father in the Hall of Kings as the ritual of Yule Eve Court went forward. Laedren wore the full ceremonial dress uniform of the Guard of the Citadel, including the engraved cuirass, lamed pauldrons, and greaves. Half hidden by the black and silver gauntlets, Daeron was secretly proud to see the mithril sigil of the House of Greyvale beneath the White Tree on Laedren’s bracers. His cloak fell in perfect folds and Daeron hope that one day he would wear the same uniform with even half the panache his father did. 

Daeron himself wore the dress uniform of a third year cadet, the black material unrelieved save for a thin band of silver piping at the collar and cuffs, the row of silver buttons and the shoulder insignia of silver bullion. His boots were a miracle of brightness,  courtesy of several hours of elbow grease and polish. 

Lady Meriel stood at her husband’s other side, her gown a mist of silver tissue and white silk.

He was startled when Lord Denethor’s herald announced there was a final presentation to be made before the Court was adjourned to the Merethrond for the traditional feast. “Daeron of Greyvale, attend upon the Lord Steward!”

Daeron never remembered how he got from where he had stood to kneeling before Lord Denethor and kissing the Steward’s Ring of Office. In a daze he heard the Steward himself announce that Daeron had saved the Lord Boromir’s life while recovering from grave injuries received in the line of duty. 

“I am given to understand that the individual who attacked the Heir stole the knife given by your father upon your admittance to the military Academy. As that blade is now tainted with the criminal’s treason, it is fit that the House of Hurin provide you a weapon in its place.”

Stunned, Daeron stood as the Steward raised him up and placed a knife in his hands, closing his fingers around the intricately decorated sheath and hilt. “This dagger was worn by Steward Beregond in his days as Heir of the Stewardship, carry it with the same courage and honour he did.” 

Daeron could see Boromir from the corner of his eye, miming for him to breathe, a huge smile on his face. But the Steward was not done with Daeron. 

“Though you are three years short of being rated a man in the eyes of the law, actions speak far louder than the calendar. Being a man you should bear a man’s weapon. Take then this sword and wear it henceforth for the protection of Gondor.”

A page offered Denethor an elegant scabbard and the Steward drew forth a long sword of exquisite workmanship. He held it before Daeron and said in a ringing voice, “Kneel and take your oath, Lord Daeron of Greyvale.”

Daeron went to his knees, tucked the knife into his belt and placed his hands on either side of the blade before him. “Here do I, Daeron, son of Laedren of Greyvale, swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the Realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or in plenty, in peace or in war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end.”

“And this do I hear, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance.” 

The sword was returned to its scabbard and placed in Daeron’s hands. “Rise, Lord Daeron.”

Any doubts about his fitness to become an officer of Gondor that Daeron still held from his ordeal were swiftly fleeing. And when Boromir clasped his wrist in a warrior’s handclasp in front of all the Court, he knew they’d never return.

FINIS


Chapter 6 - Storms and Honour

Author's Note: Many, many thanks to my meteorologist friend Terri Ruwe who helped me figure out what had to be happening down in the ocean by Dol Amroth in order to have a tornado drop onto the Pelennor.  All the descriptions of the effects of the tornado are things that both she and I have personally experienced or seen.  And as always, thanks to my beta-reader Rhyselle for being a such a good sounding board and brainstormer when the characters became recalcitrant, and keeping the grammar-police away.  Any remaining grammatical, punctuation or spellings errors are mine, not hers.

Dedicated to the memory of those people who lost their lives during the super-outbreak of 148 tornadoes on April 3, 1974.  

Disclaimer: All familiar characters, places and events are copyright to the Tolkien Estate and its licensees.  This is a work of fanfiction and not intended to infringe on copyrights held by the above named entities or any other person.

Chapter Six - Through Daeron's Eyes: Storms and Honour

If Daeron hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed it.  

Early summer storms weren't uncommon in Gondor, particularly along the Anduin.  But this had been something completely out of his experience.  The dark funnel that had dropped from the clouds after a deluge of rain and hail had left a trail of devastation across the Pelennor unlike any he'd ever seen before.  

His tutor, Janthred, had once told him of "devil-winds" that were generated from huge sea storms; unpredictable whirlwinds that could demolish a stone-built holding in minutes while leaving a flimsy lean-to or shed mere yards away untouched.  Daeron was willing to believe it now, having just seen straw stuck into the stones themselves of a limestone wall, like arrows in a target butt, and a half loaded stone-wain perched in the top boughs of a tall oak tree.

Now he and his fellow cadets were searching through the rubble of such a holding looking for survivors.  Unfortunately, survivors were few and far between.  Only a scant half-dozen battered and shocked people were currently in the hands of the healers.  Far more had died, crushed by rubble or apparently picked up by the whirlwind and thrown to earth again hundreds of feet away from where they'd attempted to shelter.  He and Halmir were in charge of a dozen lower-year cadets and his other classmates were likewise supervising similar groups.

This was slow, heavy, and horribly depressing work.  More than once they'd thought they'd heard a cry for help and dug through rubble, only to find that by the time they managed to lift away the debris that the trapped victims had died.

His entire group was tired, filthy, and wishing that someone would come and relieve them of this miserable duty.  He'd had to comfort more than one cadet when the sights, sounds and smells got too be too much to bear.  He'd have liked to been able to send them back to Minas Tirith and the comfort of their parents but it wasn't possible.  

One of the duties of the army, in addition to the protection of the land from the incursions of orcs and other unsavory invaders, was to provide manpower and support in the wake of natural disasters.  Given the increasing number of attacks by the forces of Mordor as well as the random orc gangs, placing the cadets on this duty only made sense.  They weren't ready to face battle but they could search for survivors, clean up debris, dig new wells, and do most of the jobs that disaster recovery entailed, freeing fully trained men for the more dangerous task of keeping the enemy at bay.  


He kept an eye on his group.  This was work that would break a full grown man, much less a thirteen or fourteen year old, and he was certain the underclassmen's barracks would be home to nightmares for some time.  He knew that his own dreams would be more than unpleasant.  

When Halmir returned with the others, Daeron sent his group to rest and eat.  However, he only went to get water and then returned to searching.  He wasn't hungry, and quite frankly, he doubted his ability to keep anything down.

By late afternoon they had given up all hope of finding any more survivors.  So when they approached what was left of a barn, Daeron was surprised to hear cries for help.

The team set to work with a will, moving shattered pieces of siding and other debris; only to be halted by a massive tree that looked to have been thrown like a javelin against the foundation of the barn.  It was far too large for them to move on their own.

Desperately, Daeron searched the surrounding area for other teams.  He spied his classmates Grethen and Val and their group trudging away from another pile of rubble dejectedly.  He shouted for them and waved them over.

"Keep working on clearing the smaller branches and loose stones.  I'll be back.  Halmir, see if you can find some axes."  Daeron ran this time, towards the picket line where his mare, Ruinanor, drowsed with her stable mates.  He grabbed her saddle from where it leaned with the others and hastily threw it on her back, tightening the girth, and thanking the Valar that they hadn't removed the horses' bridles but had only dropped the bits when they'd arrived at the holding.  Then he did the same with Halmir's chestnut gelding.  "Come with me, you two.  I need you."  Spotting a length of rope near the water buckets, he grabbed it and mounted, the gelding's reins in his right hand.

When he arrived at the rescue site he threw the reins to Halmir and the rope to Grethen.  "Tie it around the tree and give me the end.  Val, get the others out of the way, then go get your horse and find more rope." 

When Grethen had tied the rope securely round one end of the tree, he handed the rope up to Daeron, who wrapped it round the pommel of his saddle and passed the remaining length to Halmir.  "Get everyone away from the rope.  Ready, Halmir?"

"All set here."

"On three, back up and keep going.  One, two, three!"  Daeron sat deep in his saddle, urged Ruinanor to move with his heels and pulled her head into her chest.  "Back, back.  Good girl.  You can do it.  Back, back."

Halmir had begun backing his gelding on Daeron's count and the horses struggled to move the deadweight of the tree from where it lay.

"Whoa!   Good, Ruinanor.  Whoa!"  The bay mare was sweating and upset.  This was not the type of work she was accustomed to doing.  "We need more ropes and more horses.  That tree's too heavy."

Halmir pointed to four of the under-classmen and told them off to find rope, and another four to bring their horses.  Daeron set the remainder to clearing more of the smaller pieces of rubble, mainly to keep them busy.  He threw his reins to Halmir and dismounted, climbing up onto the trunk and calling out to those trapped behind it.

"Are you all right?  Is anyone hurt?  We're working on moving a tree that's in the way."

"Thank you, oh, thank you!" a hoarse voice called back.  "It's just me and Perrin and he's hurt bad.  Hurry!"

"Hang on, we'll get you out, I promise."  Daeron looked round at the sound of hoof beats.  Val had finally returned with rope and the four underclassmen, Lieutenant  Bedreth, and one of the Training Sergeants who carried a canvas bag.  "Sir."

"You're still in charge, Cadet Greyvale.  We're just helpful bodies.  The sergeant has some axes." 

"Yes, sir."  Daeron bit back his surprise at the lieutenant's words and turned back towards the apparent chink where the boy's voice was coming from.  "There's a tree in the way and we're going to move it.  What's your name?"

"Arthen.  Please hurry!"

"We'll be as quick as we can.  Keep on being brave."

Daeron jumped down from where he stood on the trunk.  It was hard to believe that a wind could move such a massive piece of wood as though it were a broom straw.  But the evidence was right here before his own eyes.  He found some likely places to tie off the ropes, and then started ordering his troops.  "Grethen, set your cadets to cutting and moving away as many branches as possible.  Val, throw me that rope and get a fire started, we're losing the light and will need torches.  Halmir, get the horses organized.  One rope to a horse.  If they pull at once this thing ought to move."  He paused and listened for the continued sound of the trapped victims.  "Lieutenant, one of the people under there is hurt badly, and will need a healer.  Are any of the healers nearby?"

"I'll get one if I have to tie him across my saddle.  Good luck, cadet."  The Lieutenant rode off towards the opposite side of the holding where the healers had set up their field hospital.

Daeron briefly wondered who this person was who was using his mouth and brain to organize the rescue and give orders to a higher ranking officer, then started tying rope to the largest branch he could find.  He directed the remaining cadets to do the same to other branches and to take the loose end of the rope to one of the riders.

It took more time than he liked and it was nearly dark by the time they were ready to make the new attempt to move the tree.  Daeron mounted Ruinanor and ordered everyone away from the tree and ropes.  Oh, please, don't let one of the ropes snap.  "Stay back until I tell you to go in and finish clearing the rubble.  Sergeant, make sure nobody gets in the way."

He saw the sergeant herding the youngest cadets further back from out of the corner of his eye and concentrated on making sure the ropes and horses were ready.  "All right, on the count of three, back your horses.  Make sure you go straight back.  One, two, three!"

For a minute it looked as though the ropes were going to snap but then, with a groan, the tree moved!  

"Whoa!"  Daeron halted Ruinanor, who like the other horses was wet with sweat and unhappy about the whole affair.  Daeron unfastened the rope from the saddle and dismounted, praising her.  He latched onto one of the smaller cadets and told him to walk Ruinanor until she had cooled down.  Immediately, the other first-year cadets went to do the same for the other horses, freeing the older and stronger cadets to assist in moving the remains of the barn from over the survivors.  "Sergeant!   Let's start clearing the rest of that rubble." 

By the time they reached the small corner of the barn's foundation that had sheltered the two survivors, Daeron's hands were raw from the edges of the rough-hewn fieldstone and splintered wood that he'd helped move out of the way in spite of his gloves, and everyone else in the group were in a like situation.  The relatively thin leather had become torn and abraded earlier in the day and it now provided little protection.  But as the last piece of debris was lifted away and he saw the grateful and relieved face of the boy holding an unconscious and bloodied old man, he forgot about own his aches and hurts.  

"Arthen, are you hurt?"  He knelt next to the boy, who couldn't have been more than eight years old.  He could see bruises and some minor cuts but nothing more.  It appeared that the old man had sheltered the boy with his own body.

"No.  But Perrin is."  Arthen gulped and burst into tears, now that there were grown-ups present and he didn't have to pretend to not be scared any more.  

Lieutenant Bedreth had finally arrived with the healer, who pushed past Daeron and set to work on Perrin, demanding that someone bring over some torches for how was a man to see?  

Daeron picked up Arthen and carried him away from where the Healer was now working over Perrin.  He turned the boy over to the Sergeant, promising to come and see Arthen later.  "I have to get back to work.  Can you think of any place where people might have hidden when the storm happened?"

"The ice house and dairy, maybe."  Arthen pointed shakily eastwards from the collapsed barn.  

"We'll look there, I promise.  Go with Sergeant Jassen now.  I'll look in on you later."  Daeron watched as the sergeant led the boy towards the small cluster of tents that had been set up to shelter the surviving refugees, then turned to find his team.  It was full dark now at the end of a brutal day but that didn't mean that they were finished.  When he got back to the area of the barn, he found that several other groups had arrived and the huge tree was now being cut into smaller sections.  Someone had gathered up the rope, coiled it, and stacked the coils neatly.  The horses, including Ruinanor, were picketed and being watched over by two first year cadets.

He spotted Lieutenant Bedreth near one the fires and went to report.  He made sure to commend Cadet Berahel for his spotting of the trap door, as well as his classmates and the cadets who assisted in the rescue of Arthen and Perrin.  After he was dismissed, he picked up a torch and more of the horribly ubiquitous black and yellow markers, intending on checking out the dairy and ice-house.

However, he was halted by the Lieutenant's aide, who told him that fresh men had arrived and he was to see his troop safely bivouacked and fed.  "That includes yourself, Cadet."

"Yes, sir.  Arthen said that some people might have taken shelter in the ice house and dairy.  I think it would be a good idea to check them out.  They were to the east of the barn we found Arthen in."

"Both places will be checked.  Give those markers to-ah, Sergeant Ralthir, take those markers from Cadet Daeron and check out the icehouse and dairy.  They were standing to the east of that barn."

A short while later Daeron located his classmates by one of the campfires that had been lit around the steading after having seen his team settled with their bedrolls and dinner.  He'd caught two of the younger cadets on their way to get water from the stream that ran nearby and herded them back to the campfire where he explained to them all that they were to get water only from the healers.  It appeared that his team was made up of city-bred boys who had no understanding of the problems a polluted water supply could cause.  

He located his pack and dropped to the ground next to it to unfasten and open his bedroll.  It didn't take long to open it out and bless Halmir and the others; they'd picked a bivouac spot that was singularly lacking in rocks to dig into one's back or hip.

But before he could sleep he needed to make his daybook entry.  Before he entered the Academy his father had made sure he knew how important it was to report the happenings of each day, no matter how mundane and ordinary it seemed.  Mundane and ordinary certainly weren't adjectives Daeron would apply to today's events but he didn't know if he had the competence to describe some of the things he witnessed.  Things like the stone wain in the oak beggared belief.  

As he opened the writing case that had been his mother's gift upon his entry into the academy, he mentally thanked her again.  It had proven a most useful gift.  The interior was cleverly padded and compartmented to hold three turned wood nib holders, metal nibs, a penknife, an emery block, two sealed bottles of ink, and an elegant green glass pen as well as his daybook.  The closed box made for a small but effective lap desk for the times, like now, when he didn't have access to a desk or table.  

He'd taken the time to clean up while supervising his team's ablutions so he didn't have to worry about dirtying the pages.  He opened one of the ink bottles and took up the glass pen.  It was the easiest to write with and he didn't want to try sharpening a dull nib at this point.  He could hear his tutor's voice in his head as he began the entry, cautioning him to think before he wrote so that his meaning and lettering were equally clear.  

Oddly, as he wrote of the day's events and made annotations of the commendations he'd recommended his weariness fell away.  Finishing the entry, he put the book and writing case away in his pack and stretched his stiffening muscles.  He wasn't going to be able to sleep any time soon; unlike his classmates who were long since snoring--in Halmir's case , quite literally.  

After a moment's thought he reached into his pack and pulled out a handsomely-tooled leather case.  Another gift, this had been given to him by Jorrell, the Citadel's master saddler.  It held leatherworking tools and materials.  It had proved more than handy over the past three years for repairing tack and replacing straps and so forth on armor.  But tonight he needed to do something that would take more concentration than replacing a billet on Ruinanor's saddle.  

He unwrapped a rolled strip of leather that was tucked in the corner of the case and held it to examine the partially done tooling in the firelight.  One-third of the length had been carved to look like a garland of roses and other flowers, and the continuation of the design had been drawn on the remaining length.  Daeron set the belt, which he would eventually give to his mother, on the block of ironwood that took up about a quarter of the space in the case and selected a carver from the collection of tools.  He'd been working on it in his spare time for over two months now and was hoping to get it finished before the graduation ceremony in July.

He'd added another full blown rose to the garland when the sound of someone stumbling and cursing colorfully beyond the range of the firelight broke his concentration.  He grinned in spite of himself at a particularly memorable phrase.  Only one man he knew used that particular epithet...

"Arnagond?"  He set aside the belt and his tools and scrambled to his feet, peering in the direction of the familiar voice.  

"There you are, lad.  I was about to go and feed that corporal who has charge of quarters his own tongue for sending me on a wild goose chase!"  The gruff sergeant stumped into the firelight and grinned at Daeron who now almost matched his height.  "I won't be able to call you lad much longer it seems.  What are they feeding you lot these days?"

"Nothing I'd call edible."  Daeron grinned back and offered his hand only to be dragged into a quick embrace and slap on the back.  

"It's good to see you, lad, though I wish it were under other circumstances." 

"What brings you out here?  I thought you were..."

"Oh, once Adoan got finished with me, the powers that be decided to send me over to the Quartermaster-General's to get the mess there straightened out.  I came out here with a dozen wagons of food, tents and equipment."  Arnagond shrugged.  "The entire army's mobilized, even old crocks like me, between the relief work and heading off any orcs or Easterlings that might decide to take advantage."

"You're anything but an old crock," Daeron told the sergeant.  "Are you all right?  I heard you stumble."

"Some lunatic decided to leave a pile of stones where they have no need to be and of course, my new leg found them before I saw them."  Arnagond scowled at Daeron's smile.  "Don't tell me you had something to do with it."

"No, but I bet Halmir did.  I was wondering about the lack of stones under my bedroll." 

"That friend of yours is nothing but trouble waiting to happen.  Except that it'd be too much of a nuisance to get up again, I'd fill his boots with the damned rocks." 

"I could do it for you, if you want," Daeron offered, his grin widening.  He hadn't pulled a prank on Halmir in months and still owed his best friend for about three practical jokes.

"It's tempting, but no.  I'll be gone back to the City before he wakes up and wouldn't get to see his reaction.  Speaking of which, I have to get back to my wagons.  I saw that pretty mare of yours in the picket line and decided to come find you while the stuff is unloaded.  You might see Bandarel around and about, as well.  Like I said, there's not a single man stood down.  Likely he wrangled a cushy job, unlike the rest of us."

"Probably.  Take care of yourself, Arnagond.  I'll make sure I stop in and see you once I get back to the City." 

"I will, lad.  Take care of yourself as well.  And don't lose any of your gear!" Arnagond teased.  

"I won't!  Goodbye."  The two exchanged a soldier's handclasp and the veteran sergeant stumped off into the darkness.  

Daeron picked up the belt and his tools and put them away, yawning.  Talking to Arnagond for those few minutes seemed to have settled something in his brain and sleep was no longer evasive.  He banked the fire and slid into his bedroll with a sigh, and before he lost all capability to think, he wondered just what was Bandarel up to these days...

- - - - - - - - - -

By the time Daeron saw his bedroll again he was more heartsick than he could ever remember being.  It had been a day full of death; the rescue operation had now become one of recovery.  They'd found no more survivors, only bodies.  

After they'd discovered the bodies of a half-dozen children and the women who'd been watching them beneath the ruins of a cottage, he'd ended up sending his first and second year cadets to help the quartermaster sort through and set up the supplies that had been delivered by Arnagond.  It was no less hard on the third and fourth year cadets, but he couldn't bear to see the sight of 13 and 14 year olds pulling the bodies of what could have been their little brothers and sisters out of the rubble again.  

"I keep telling myself it would be worse if orcs had done it," Halmir said as he deposited a waterskin into Daeron's lap and dropped down beside him.  "But I don't believe it."

Grethen and Val had arrived as Halmir spoke, looking just as miserable as Daeron felt.  "It's because we understand orcs," Grethen said.  "They're filthy, sadistic monsters, but we can understand it when they attack.  This... how do you understand something like this?"

"Evren keeps saying that it's an act of the gods," Val muttered as he pulled his pack closer.  "If it is, I don't understand why I should respect the gods any more.  No self-respecting god should wantonly kill babes."

Gharal arrived moments later, his arms full of rations.  "Here.  There's a mess tent set up but I couldn't face eating with the survivors.  I had to tell one of the children we rescued yesterday--she couldn't have been more than 6--that her mama wasn't going to wake up.  I told her that her mama had gone to heaven, but after what I've seen over the past two days, I don't think I can believe in a heaven any more."

They ate in silence and, for the first time in months, Daeron didn't bother with the standing grace.  It wasn't that he was angry at the Valar; he was just too tired, physically and emotionally, to get up from where he sat.  

"Did you check on your teams?" he asked once everyone had finished eating.  He'd made himself look in on his team after he'd made his report to the on-duty Lieutenant.  The younger boys had the same questions his friends and classmates seemed to have and he had no answers to give them.

Gharal shook his head and climbed to his feet.  "Not yet.  I sent them to eat and got our food.  They should be ready to bunk down by now.  Anyone want to come along?"

Halmir sighed and got up, too.  "I'll come with you.  I want to stop by the healers and see how Perrin and Arthen are doing.  At least we saved them."

Daeron watched the two leave and then stared down at his plate, his thoughts grim.  Grethen and Val exchanged glances and Grethen gathered up the mess kits, taking Daeron's out of his hands, while Val eyed the pile of dead wood that was stacked nearby and reached for his axe.  "We'll get these cleaned up and get some more wood.  I don't know about you, but I want a fire again tonight."

"I definitely want a fire," Val said.  "Come on.  We'll be back soon, Daeron."

"Don't get lost," Daeron told them and got a guffaw and an offended snort from the two as they moved off.  Once he was alone he sighed and stared down at his folded hands.  He should write his daybook entry but he felt too depressed to even try to put the events of the day down on paper.

"An officer's daybook is not just a record of orders of the day, reports of injuries, disciplinary actions and supply requests, Daeron," Laedren had told him when he gave him the calf-bound volume that Daeron still used.  "An officer uses it to put down his thoughts about his men, the actions of his superiors, his own actions, and information about the land he's traversing, the health and well-being of his men, and more.  Your daybook is a record of your decisions, and should you be called before a board of inquiry, its contents may save your commission and career.  Better to put more information down than you think necessary rather than less.  And never sleep before making your entry."

The memory of his father's words was the only thing that made him get up and pull the writing kit from his pack.

* * * * * * * * *
Today has been nothing but a day of death, he wrote.  Not another soul has been found alive in all the ruin caused by the storm since we found Arthen and Perrin yesterday.  I have lost count of the number of markers I have placed.  Would being in the crews who carry the bodies to the morgue be easier than this has been?  Thinking we heard a cry for help only to discover that it was our imaginations and that the ones we found had long since passed through the veil?  

My team is tired in spirit as well as body.  If I could, I'd send those who remain to help the healers as I did the youngest.  But I can't do this alone.  All I can do is comfort them as I would have wanted someone to comfort me if this had happened when I was a new cadet, barely free of the trappings of childhood.  Tomorrow we begin again and it will no doubt be worse.

I have no hope that there are any more survivors to be found.  Would this be harder to deal with if those we find had been the victims of an attack by the Enemy, as Halmir said tonight?  Or would it be easier because we know why orcs kill our people? 

I can only hope that elsewhere fewer were lost, and that more survived to rebuild their lives and dreams.
* * * * * * * * * *

He'd just put down his pen when he heard a choking sound.  He turned his head to identify where it came from and found himself peering into a stand of trees.  They 'd been told to stay out of the woods, as the storm had uprooted many of the massive trunks and they leaned precariously against one another, liable to fall with the shifting of the breeze or from some subsidence or other.  Ever since they'd arrived there had been periodic crashes as the damaged trees finished falling to the earth.

But the sound came again and it sounded like a man in great distress.  Dropping the daybook onto his bedroll, he went to investigate.  If someone was alive in there...

He hadn't gone far into the stand when he discovered a toppled tree, the massive trunk down and a familiar man pinned beneath its bulk.  

"Bandarel!"  Daeron fell to his knees by the man, who wore the blood-stained leathers of an Ithilien Ranger.  

"Daeron?"  The pain filled eyes lightened to recognize the cadet.

"Hang on!  I'll get help."  Daeron started to rise but was restrained by a surprisingly strong grip on his wrist.

"No... too late for me... take this... for the Steward... only for the Steward... promise." 

Daeron was appalled at the effort it took for the man to whisper the words.

"But..."

"No,... give it... to... the... Steward... only... swear... on your oath!"  The hissed words were followed by a round of choking coughs and trickle of blood appeared at the corner of Bandarel's mouth.  

"All right, I swear!  On my oath, I promise.  It goes to the Steward only, no matter what.  Bandarel!"

A small pouch was pressed into his hand and, with a rattling sigh, the last breath left Bandarel's body.

Daeron knelt there in shock for an unknown time, Bandarel's head and shoulders cradled in his arms.  It was only when he heard Grethen shouting for him that he moved to tuck the pouch into his tunic, and raised his voice for his classmates to find him.

"Daeron, you're not supposed...oh, gods!"  Halmir skidded to a halt as he recognized the dead man.  "Oh, gods.  I'm sorry, Daeron.  Grethen, over here!"

The others arrived and somehow Daeron found it in himself to direct them.  "Get the Lieutenant, one of the sergeants, anyone.  Bring axes, saws, whatever can be used to get the trunk off him.  I can't leave him here."

The ruddy late afternoon light that made its way under the branches of the trees lit Bandarel's face in a soft rose glow, making it appear that life still existed where there was none as Daeron waited for a recovery team to arrive.  He and his classmates couldn't move the huge trunk but the idea of leaving his friend's body to the ravages of nature was something he couldn't bear.

Two hours later he was back at his camp, under orders to stay there.  Bandarel's broken body had been extricated and taken to the morgue to await cremation with the others lost to the storm.  After staring in silence into the fire that Gharal had built up for some time, he reached for his daybook and began writing a memorial to his friend.

* * * * * * * * * *
I never thought I'd be saying a final farewell to a friend so soon.  But it's happened and my friend Bandarel Cerrelsson has passed through the veil.  Bandarel had no need to be kind to me when we met in the Houses of Healing last year.  Nor had he any reason to seek out my company once I was released to go back to the Academy.  But he did both.  He taught me a lot of things that the Academy doesn't teach you, like how to rig your pack so your entrenching tool doesn't end up poking you in the back each time you take a step.  It doesn't sound like much when written down, but that tip, like the others he'd drop in the course of conversation, has made things a lot easier than they might have been as I've learned to be a soldier of Gondor.  He taught me that first impressions may not be correct but that fact shouldn't stop you from trusting people.  He taught me that leadership isn't something that comes automatically with rank, that it has to be learned.  He taught me that your duty comes first, right after your honour.  He taught me that there are times when an order should be questioned--not necessarily refused--but questioned.  He taught me that promises and oaths are to be kept, even at the expense of your own comfort.  He was a good man, an honourable man, and a loyal son of Gondor.  I can only hope to use what he taught me and hope that from beyond the veil he will look down and be proud of me.

I have a promise to keep to him, the last thing he asked me to do, to finish the job he was doing when he died.  I will not let you down, Bandarel.  You have my oath.
* * * * * * * * * *

Daeron sanded the entry and set the book aside.  Halmir sat nearby, not intruding but waiting patiently until Daeron noticed him.

"You need anything?" his best friend asked.

Daeron shook his head and returned his gaze to the fire.  It was only after the others had gone to sleep that he withdrew the pouch that Bandarel had given him from his tunic.  It was sealed, barely large enough to cover half of the palm of his hand, and heavy for its size.  He needed to keep it safe until he could get back to the City and find a way to get it to the Steward.

He thought for a while then reached for his leatherworking kit.  One of the times he'd visited with Jorrell, the saddler had taken the time to teach him how to make a puzzle case.  Done correctly, only the maker or one who knew the secret would be able to open it and access what was inside.  Daeron had seen wooden puzzle boxes before but never one of leather.  He had the case he'd made under Jorrell's direction in the box with his tools; if he were lucky the pouch and its mysterious contents would fit inside it.

By the time he fell asleep, the pouch was secure in the case, hanging from a sturdy throng around his neck beneath his clothing.

- - - - - - - - - -

He was awakened by the toe of Halmir's boot nudging his ribs.  "Wake up sleepyhead, or you'll miss breakfast."

The idea of food wasn't one he wanted to contemplate but he hauled himself out of his bedroll and pulled on his boots.  It was going to be another thoroughly miserable day of locating and marking bodies.  There were already several groups leaving the camp, the yellow and black flags in their hands.  He rolled up his bedroll and went to gather his team together.

He'd just gotten the younger cadets organized when Sergeant Ralthir arrived.  "Your team is coming with me today.  You're to report to the command tent immediately."

Daeron paused before approaching the command tent to straighten his uniform.  He couldn't do much about the dirt and stains, but he could at least make sure he had all the buttons fastened properly.  Taking a deep breath he pulled himself to attention and strode towards the doorway of the tent.

He stopped the requisite distance from the table that functioned as a field desk, saluted, and said, "Cadet Greyvale reporting as ordered, sir," his eyes on the tent wall above the Lieutenant's head as per regulations.

"The Captain-General has some questions for you, cadet," Lieutenant Bedreth said, then excused himself to Lord Boromir, who had been standing to the side, and left the tent.

Daeron didn't move from his position of attention but waited while Boromir seated himself in the Lieutenant's chair, which creaked alarmingly under the bulk of the Steward's Heir, Bedreth being a much less substantial person.

"You've grown some inches since I saw you last, Daeron.  At ease." The familiar voice was warm and the tired green eyes were compassionate as Daeron met them.  "I received word this morning of the death of Lieutenant Bandarel, and understand you found him ere he died."

Lieutenant?  I was right, then.  Bandarel wasn't 'just a soldier.'  "Yes, my Lord.  I heard the sound of someone choking and when I went to investigate I found him trapped beneath a fallen tree.  He died within minutes of my arrival."

"You are aware that Lieutenant Bandarel did special duties, are you not?"

"The Lieutenant asked when I first met him that I not ask or speak about such things, sir," Daeron answered carefully.  If anyone knew if Bandarel had been a special officer, the Lord Boromir would, but Daeron took the notion of "a loose tongue might get you hung" very seriously.  Additionally, all the special officers reported directly to the Steward, not the Captain-General.

Boromir snorted in amusement.  "He taught you some of his tricks, I see."  Then he grew serious.  "Bandarel was to deliver something to Minas Tirith.  It was not on his body when it was brought to the morgue.  Did he give you anything?"

Daeron hesitated.  What had he promised exactly?  That he would give the pouch to no one save the Steward.  He could answer the question without breaking his word.  "Yes, my lord."

"Very good.  Give it to me."

"No, sir.  I can't do that," Daeron said through the lump that had suddenly developed in his throat.

"What was that, cadet?"  Boromir was no longer genial.  

Daeron returned to a position of attention before answering.  "I cannot give it to you, my Lord, on my oath."

"This is a matter of national security, Cadet Greyvale.  I am ordering you to turn the item over to me, immediately."  Yes, Lord Boromir definitely had left geniality behind.  The words had the snap of a Command and the only reason Daeron didn't pull the puzzle case from his shirt was the memory of Bandarel's words "to the Steward only" and his oath.

Oaths were not to be broken, not under any condition; particularly deathbed oaths.  Bandarel had said the Steward was the only person Daeron could give it to and that was the way it was.  It didn't matter that Lord Boromir was Daeron's commanding officer and, at the moment, angry at Daeron's failure to obey an order.

"I will request that you turn over the item to me one more time, or you will be searched, it will be taken from you, and you'll be spending the next month contemplating your actions in the brig."  Boromir was out of the chair now, standing behind the desk with his hands flat on the map that covered most of the surface.

Daeron blanched and for a moment his courage quailed; but Bandarel's words "on your oath!" rang in his mind and he stiffened his back and quietly answered, "No, my Lord."

"Guard!"  Boromir's eyes never left Daeron's.  "Fetch the Master at Arms here immediately."  The soldier who had responded to the call saluted and left.  

Minutes later, the Master at Arms arrived, and stood by while Boromir gave Daeron another chance.  

"Cadet, I order you to turn over the item Lieutenant Bandarel gave you."

Now trembling, Daeron again refused.  

"Master at Arms?  Search Cadet Greyvale for non-regulation items."

The stone-faced man nodded and stepped forward.  "Do you wish me to relieve the cadet of his weapons, my lord?"

Boromir glanced to Daeron's waist where hung the sword that Lord Denethor had presented to him the past Midwinter and the knife once worn by Steward Beregond.  "Yes.  Place them on the desk."

Humiliated, it took all of Daeron's will to stand still while the Master at Arms removed the sword belt and made his search, but when the case was found and taken from him he couldn't help making a grab for it.  He was immediately seized by the guard who had returned with the Master at Arms and held fast.

Boromir examined the case and tried to open it, but the apparent "lid" was no such thing.  After some minutes he growled, "Tell me the trick to this, cadet.  Bandarel was no leatherworker."

Daeron kept silent, his eyes on the tent wall, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder as the guard pulled his right arm behind him.  That physical ache was nothing compared to what was going on in his heart.  He felt as though he were being slowly torn into two pieces, his oath warring with his duty to obey his commanding officer.

"No, sir."

"Very well.  Master at Arms, what is the penalty for failure to follow a direct order from one's commanding officer?"

"Ten lashes, my lord.  And a fortnight of hard labour." The Master answered automatically.

Daeron swallowed as he realized what was happening.  He'd had to witness two floggings so far in his time at the academy and had prayed never to have to witness another.  Now he was going to be the recipient of one.  

"Cadet Greyvale, you have failed twice to obey a direct order from your commanding officer.  You are hereby sentenced to 20 lashes and a month of confinement at hard labour.  Master at Arms, secure the cadet, take him into custody, and administer the sentence immediately."  Daeron had never heard that tone of voice from Lord Boromir and hoped never to hear it again.  Thank the Gods his father wasn't here, this was horrible enough without...

"Boromir?" 

As the Master at Arms snapped the irons around Daeron's wrists, Lord Laedren of Greyvale, Daeron's father and Lord Boromir's aide, entered the tent, his hands full of dispatches.  

Daeron was turned round and pushed towards the doorway of the tent, and met the astonished and disappointed eyes of his father for only a second before being frog marched out.  He tried to close his ears to the sound of his father asking, "What in Arda has my son done, Ori?" Unfortunately, he was no more successful at that than he was at blocking out the ordeal to come.  

He discovered that confinement in the field meant being shackled to the central support of the Master at Arms' tent.  Between the weight of the 4-inch-wide post and the tension of the guy lines holding it in place, there would have been no way of breaking free even if he'd been secured with ropes instead of iron chain.  

He waited; his back against the post, his wrists fastened securely behind him, his uniform tunic and shirt still unfastened from the search, and wondered where he was going to find the courage to bear what was to come.  

I swore by my oath.  He repeated that to himself until they came, stripped him of tunic and shirt, and took him out to where a scaffold had been raised.  The cadets were lined up in parade ranks and a number of the regular troops and civilians were also present.  His father and the Captain General stood to the side as the Master at Arms read the order of punishment, and Halmir stood with Daeron's other classmates at attention, with a look of complete disbelief on his face.

His shackles were fastened to the scaffold's cross piece and the guards stepped away.

<i>No, no, please, Valar, no...</i>

The first lash fell and he couldn't stifle a groan.  The pain was horrendous.  By the time the last stroke fell, he was unconscious, his lip bruised and bloody from biting down on it to stifle his screams.  

He was awakened by one of the field surgeons who impersonally inspected his back, poured a stinging antiseptic over it, and grunted to the Master at Arms, who stood nearby, his arms folded across his chest, that there was no reason Daeron shouldn't be set to labour.

Four hours later, Daeron staggered as he straightened from laying the body of a toddler girl on the growing pyre.  His mind had begun to ignore the pain in his back but it couldn't ignore the sights and smells of the small lifeless bodies he'd been carrying from the morgue to the site of the funeral pyres.  The growing heat and humidity of the day didn't make the gruesome work any easier, nor did the fact that he hadn't eaten anything since the night before.

The men of the company whose turn it was to do funeral duty ignored him, save to gruffly tell him to get out of their way as they carried the adult bodies to the other pyres.  They were aware that his participation in this duty was a punishment, not an honour, and not a one was going to offer a word of comfort to the boy.  

Midafternoon found Daeron continuing his labour while the duty company stood down for a rest from the heat.  He'd worn a track in the grass between the morgue tent and the pyre, 40 steps each way, his arms burdened during the first trip, and his heart burdened even more on the return.  

The steading had been a large and prosperous one, providing the White City with grain, milk, cheese and other staples.  More than three-quarters of the residents had died, too many of them children.  He placed the last child on the pyre just as the sun touched the horizon and blindly turned back to the now empty morgue.  ***On my oath.  On my oath.***  He stopped in the entrance to the tent and swayed, uncertain of what to do.  The task was completed.  No longer having the task to concentrate on, now the pain of the flogging overwhelmed him along with the effects of the heat and he crumpled to his knees, his empty stomach heaving.

- - - - - - - - - -

"No, Laedren." Boromir clasped his hand around his aide's shoulder as the other man started to step towards the fallen cadet.  

Laedren shrugged off his Captain-General's hand but went no further.  This had been a hellacious day from the moment he saw his son being taken in irons from the command tent.  Regulations were regulations, and he believed that if Boromir said that Daeron refused a direct order twice, then his son had.  But he couldn't help feeling that the punishment did not fit the crime.

"Didn't you think to ask him why, Ori?" he'd ranted at his best friend and commander.  "Daeron had to have a reason for refusing."

"The reason doesn't matter.  He refused a direct order twice.  I gave him several chances to comply without giving an order.  I can't change the regulations just because he's your son!" 

"I know that!" Laedren had growled as he paced the tent.  "But knowing the reason might help me understand what is going through his mind.  This is completely, utterly unlike him and you know it!"

Boromir wasn't as untouched by the situation as some might think.  He had a soft spot in his heart for the son of his best friend.  He watched his friend pace for some minutes then forced himself to turn to his work, trying to put the knowledge of what the boy was going to be facing out of his mind.

As he watched, the Master at Arms and another soldier approached Daeron.  The youth was pulled to his feet, the Master at Arms looked him in the eye, then turned him, fastening Daeron's wrists behind him, and then stepped back, allowing the soldier to lead him to the tent on the other side of the encampment.  It was possible to hear some of the jeers and hoots that were tossed at his son as he was walked past his fellows and it took all Laedren's strength of will not to react.  Once Daeron had been escorted into the Master at Arms' tent, Laedren turned towards his Captain-General and formally requested leave to return to his previous duty, which had been verifying the identities of the survivors so that the appropriate relief could be arranged.

Boromir granted permission and sighed as he watched his aide stride off towards the refugee encampment.  They had been friends too long to have the relationship destroyed by this incident, but the strain on it was unmistakable.  He made his way back to the command tent which Lieutenant Bedreth had turned over to him for the duration, having cheerfully moved into the tent used by the quartermaster.

The leather puzzle case sat in the center of the map table, mocking him.  It looked to be so simple to open but nothing he'd tried had worked.  Given its size and what he expected Bandarel to have been carrying, cutting into it would only damage the contents.  Time sensitive contents.  He needed them and he needed them now.  

He rested his hands on the table and frowned as the beginnings of a headache started nagging at him.  He had to stay until the funeral rites were completed before he could head back to Minas Tirith and find some other person who could possibly open the damned case.  

- - - - - - - - - -

After shackling Daeron once again to the post of the tent, his hands in front of him this time, his guard gave him water and bread before leaving the tent to take position by the entrance.  

Daeron managed to drink most of the water but eating the bread was beyond him, given the stink of death that covered him.  He'd been given enough slack in the chains that he could curl up on his side and so he did, falling into a stupor of pain and misery.  His mind sheered away from the morning and the continuation of his humiliation and punishment.  The stripes in his flesh were as nothing compared to the stabs of the jeers that his fellow cadets had thrown as he stumbled back to the tent or the disgust in the eyes of the funeral company.  Or the look on his father's face that morning...

The tent was dark, without a lamp, the only light coming through the entrance flap from the torches when ever the evening breeze moved the canvas aside.  He kept his eyes on that gleam until exhaustion won out.  

- - - - - - - - - -

Sitting alone in his study, Boromir flipped through the pages of the daybook in his hands.  It wasn't his but he'd found it on the corner of his desk yesterday morning.  Upon questioning, his secretary said that it had been among the papers and books that had been with him while out dealing with disaster recovery.  

The daybook belonged to Daeron of Greyvale.  It must have been brought to the command tent with the cadet's other gear when he was put into confinement.  He'd intended on giving it to Laedren, who had taken the boy's pack home but something had made him keep it to hand.  He'd set the book aside and attended to the day's duties but found himself picking it up at odd moments throughout the day, and skimming the contents.

Some of the entries brought a smile to his face in spite of his mood. 
 
* * * * * * * * * *
It's odd.  The hardest thing about formation isn't keeping in line, or making sure that I've got my nose lined up directly behind the spine of the cadet in front of me.  It's the way that as soon as you get called to attention and can't move; your nose always itches.  Either that or a speck of dust gets in your eye.
* * * * * * * * * *
We had to take Grethen over to the infirmary again.  This is the fifth time he's cut his head open by bashing it against the upper bunk during reveille.  Why do they assign the tall cadets to lower bunks?  Maybe they think coshing their heads will stop them from growing any taller?  I think I'm going to start rolling out of bed now so that when I do get taller, I won't have the same thing happen to me.
* * * * * * * * * *
I actually managed to disarm one of the training sergeants today!  Of course, it was only once, and I got disarmed about twenty times, but I did it! 
* * * * * * * * * *

Other entries were more serious.


* * * * * * * * * *
Five senior cadets were convicted and sentenced for "conduct unbecoming" and for the assault of one of the daughters of the innkeeper of the Sheaf and Grapes.  They were stripped of their rank at morning parade, flogged, and then turned over to the Guard.  They'll be incarcerated until it is known whether the girl will die or not.  I don't understand how anyone, but especially a man who is to become a Knight of Gondor, could do such a thing.
* * * * * * * * * *
Yesterday I almost failed in my duty because I was afraid.  I overheard Gallis bragging to his sycophantic friends that he'd broken into Sergeant Verun's desk while doing CQ duty the previous night and gotten the questions for the upcoming test on military jurisprudence.  They heard me as I tried to back out of the barracks and caught me, threatening mayhem if I gave them away.  I'm ashamed that I agreed to keep quiet because I didn't want to get beaten up by them.  They let me go and I went to morning formation.  But even before the orders of the day were read, I knew I had to report them.  What they did was cheating and that's wrong and dishonorable.  So once we were released from formation I reported to the officer of the day and told him what I overheard.  Hardly anyone is talking to me now because I "snitched," and no one, not even Halmir, stopped Gallis when he and his friends took their revenge last night.  This morning Halmir said I was stupid for not keeping my mouth shut.  But I couldn't, I just couldn't.  I didn't fail my duty in the end, but did I lose my honour?  A truly honourable man wouldn't have balked at doing what was right because he was afraid, would he?
* * * * * * * * * *
There is less than two years to go before I graduate, and as I write this last entry before the new year begins I find that I feel less ready for the duties expected of a Knight of Gondor now than I did on my first day here.  There is so much more to it than I ever dreamed.  In the books I read as a child, things like duty and honour seemed so straightforward and easy.  But they're not.  It's one of the most difficult things in the world to keep them.  Every day it feels as though the complications of life trips one up even more and it becomes harder to toe the line; especially now that I've been made a squad leader.  I not only have to guard my own duty and honour, but that of the youths I'm supposed to lead.  I'd hoped that this last day before the Midwinter leave began would go smoothly, but it hasn't.  Two of my squad failed inspection and earned the last demerits required to get the Master at Arms involved.  I could have turned a blind eye to the incorrect uniform and the ill-maintained harness and let them go home, but in honour I couldn't let it go.  In the future, damaged harness could lose them their weapons.  And an incorrect uniform will damage the image of the Guard-not to mention their poor attitudes when I brought these things to their attention.  So I sent them on the Master at Arms and now they leave for home chastised and in disgrace.  They don't understand why I didn't let it go and I don't know how to explain it to them so they'll understand.  This would be unbearably depressing if it weren't for my friends Halmir, Val, Grethen, and Gharal, who all seem to understand without needing explanations.  I couldn't ask for better brothers at arms than I have in them.
* * * * * * * * * *

Honour and duty seemed to be the keynote to most of the daybook entries that were more than mere reports of the day's activities; especially since Daeron had returned to the Academy after that debacle of a field exercise in his third year.  Boromir started to set the book aside again but paused as he noticed the edge of a piece of paper tucked into the pages.  Curiosity piqued, he opened the book to the marked pages.

* * * * * * * * * * 
We were given a pass today but as father is at Cair Andros and mother is on her annual visit to Great-Uncle Forlong, I chose not to go home.  Instead, I went up to the saddlery to visit with Jorrell and he took the time to teach me how to make something he calls a puzzle case.  I don't know what use such a thing could have, other than as a curiosity, but it was a way to spend an empty morning.  When I left Jorrell, I went to the buttery to see if any of the men I knew from the Houses of Healing were there.  The first person I saw after coming through the door was Bandarel.  We ended up going riding after eating the noon meal and spent the afternoon talking.  Whether Bandarel is really just a sergeant, or not; he's very wise.  I've tried to remember the things he said as we rode, because some were pretty practical, and I'd be a fool to pass up good advice from an experienced soldier.

" If you're trying to take a roomful of people by surprise, it's a lot easier to hit your targets if you don't yell going through the door."

"Suicidal glory is the luxury of the irresponsible.  You're not giving up.  You're waiting for a better opportunity to win."

"Good soldiers never pass up a chance to eat or sleep.  You never know how much you'll be called on to do before the next chance."

"War is not its own end, except in some catastrophic slide into absolute damnation.  It's peace that's wanted.  Some better peace than the one you started with."

"When you choose an action, you choose the consequences of that action. ...when you desire a consequence, you had damned well better take the action that would create it."

"A tactical retreat is not a bad response to a surprise assault, you know.  First you survive.  Then you choose your own ground.  Then you counterattack."

But before we parted he grew more serious and began to talk about honour and what is likely to happen in the next several years.  I'm never going to forget the things he told me then.

"Guard your honor.  Let your reputation fall where it will.  And outlive the honourless."

"We live in a time of transition, an uneasy era which is likely to endure for years to come.  During the period we may be tempted to abandon some of the time-honored principles and commitments which have been proven during the difficult times of past generations.  We must never yield to this temptation.  Our values are not luxuries, but necessities - not the salt in our bread, but the bread itself."
* * * * * * * * * *

Boromir didn't finish reading the remaining quotations, but pulled his attention back to the beginning of the entry where, he realized, Daeron had provided he name of the one other person who could open the case.  He dropped the daybook on his desk, snatched up the puzzle case and headed for the saddlery.

- - - - - - - - - -

Three miserable days after carrying the bodies to the funeral pyre, Daeron dropped another stone onto the pile that would eventually turn into a wall around the field and staggered back to where the rest of the punishment detail were digging up the sod.  The soil on the Pelennor was rich but stones in it were plentiful.  Rather than damage horses and ploughshares, a new crop field had to be dug out by hand and the stones removed.  

At least there was a purpose to the work, he thought wearily, as he took back the spade he'd left stuck in the dirt after coming across the stone.  It wouldn't have been easy work in any case, but the weight of the irons shackled round his ankles and the chain that connected them made it much harder.  The length of chain was such that he could walk but not run, could raise a foot to press against the spade but not to climb.  But far heavier than the shackles or the stones he carried or dragged was the weight of the disgrace that lay over him.  Even the slowly healing stripes from the lashes he'd received were less painful.  The point of the spade hit another stone, and he sighed before setting it aside to pull the offending piece of granite free of the soil and begin the painful trek to the far side of the field yet again.

*** I may be disgraced.  When this is over, I may be thrown out of the Army.  My father might even disown me.  I might be a pariah.  But I'll still have my honour.***  

Bandarel had been right, keeping one's honour was difficult; if he'd ever needed proof of it, his current situation certainly provided it.  

He'd just set the stone on the pile when one of the guards set to watch them ordered him to halt.  He stopped in his tracks, going to attention.  The rules had been made more than clear to him the first day after being returned to the City, his hands bound to the pommel of Ruinanor's saddle, at the tail of the column when the academy cadets had left the steading the morning after the funeral service.

He'd realized early on that the whole point of his punishment was to make his life so miserable and difficult that he wouldn't even think to break regulations again; but when it came to a point of honour, honour had to trump the regs, didn't it?

- - - - - - - - - -

Boromir scowled at the puzzle case that lay on his desk and paced.  Jorell hadn't known how to open this particular case; apparently Daeron had personalized it.  Additionally, the saddler had looked Boromir in the eye and told him that even if he knew the particular trick to this case, he wouldn't open it.

"It's a point of honour, my lord," he'd said and then turned back to working on the delicately tooled scabbard he'd been working on when Boromir had burst into the saddlery.

Laedren entered the office with more dispatches and handed them to his Captain-General.  As he turned to go back to the outer office he spotted the book on the desk.

"That's Daeron's daybook.  It was missing from his pack."

Boromir looked up from the dispatch he was reading and frowned.  "Go ahead and take it.  My secretary must have picked it up by accident when he packed my things."

Laedren picked up the calf-bound volume and couldn't help but open it to Daeron's last entry.  He skimmed over it and then read the last line aloud.  "'I have a promise to keep to him, the last thing he asked me to do, to finish the job he was doing when he died.  I will not let you down, Bandarel.  You have my oath.'  Boromir, what is this promise he made to Lieutenant Bandarel?  Did he tell you?"

"Your son said nothing except to refuse to obey two direct orders." 

"Did you read this?  Given what Bandarel was, wouldn't it be a good idea to find out what he asked Daeron to do?"  Laedren was ready to lose what little patience he had left with Boromir.  "Listen to me, Ori.  The point isn't that he's my son.  The point is only he knows what Bandarel said at the end, and that he's the only person that can open that case without destroying the contents."

Boromir rubbed his hand over his face, shot a look at his friend and Aide, then stomped over to the door shouting for his secretary to get the officer in charge of the brig to bring Cadet Greyvale to his office "yesterday."  "There, are you satisfied now?" he snapped.

"Thank you," Laedren answered, tucking the daybook into his belt pouch and crossing to a small table that held a decanter of wine and two goblets.  He filled one of the goblets then carried over to Boromir.  He exchanged the dispatches for the goblet and steered the Captain-General towards his chair.  "When was the last time you slept, Ori?"

"Who needs sleep?  The night before that damnable storm, I think.  I don't suppose I can count the couple of catnaps I got while we were out canvassing the damage," Boromir answered, leaning his head on one fist.

Laedren sorted through the dispatches and handed two over.  "You need sleep.  You're grumpy, out of sorts, and frankly, you have not been thinking very clearly.  The rest of these can wait.  Give me an answer on those two and then go to bed.  It's going to be a while before they can bring Daeron in from the Pelennor.  The punishment detail is digging out new fields this month.  I'll wake you as soon as I get word they're ready to bring him up."

Boromir sighed and acquiesced to his Aide, reading the two dispatches, scrawling an answer on each.  Then picking up the wine goblet and rising from the desk, he made his way to his bedchamber.

- - - - - - - - - -

Daeron shivered as the cold water dripping from his hair ran down the back of the dull grey tunic he wore.  After being brought back to the City, he'd been turned over to a sergeant at the brig, who ordered him to strip, wash and put on the tunic and trousers lying next to a tub of cold water.  His eyes stung from the harsh lye soap but it felt wonderful to finally be clean again.  As soon as he'd pulled on his boots he was shackled again and shoved out to where two of the Citadel Guard waited.  Of course no one had told him what was going on.

When it became obvious that they were taking him to the Citadel, his heart fell into his boots.

- - - - - - - - - -

Laedren looked up as Boromir's secretary stuck his head in the doorway.  

"The prisoner is being brought up, sir."

Laedren stacked the papers he'd been pretending to read for the past hour and stood.  "Very well.  Bring the prisoner in directly." 

The secretary vanished to the outer office as Laedren crossed to the door to the bedchamber.  Hopefully, after a three hour nap, Boromir would be a little more reasonable than he'd been the past few days.  Even the Lion of the Citadel couldn't function properly while running a sleep deficit.  Once this-situation-was dealt with Laedren was going to make the time to get some sleeping draughts from Adoan and, from now on was going to make sure his Captain-General got some sleep!

Boromir was stretched out on the great canopied bed in the dim room, not quite snoring.  Laedren shook his shoulder, said, "Boromir, wake up," then turned to light the lamp as the curtains had been drawn against the afternoon sunlight.

Boromir was one of those people who woke quickly and by the time Laedren turned back to him, was sitting up reaching for his discarded boots.  "They've brought him?"

The strain on Laedren's face was obvious in the lamplight now that there was only Boromir to see him.  "He'll be here directly.  Oh, Gods, I'm so glad that Meriel doesn't know about this; that she's still in Lossarnarch, so she doesn't have to see his public disgrace.  It would kill her."  He handed Boromir his sword belt automatically as the other man stood.  "It's killing me."

Boromir started towards the door to his office, settling his uniform tunic more smoothly over his shoulders, then stopped as Laedren followed.  "No.  You're staying here."

"He's my son, Ori!  He probably thinks I've disowned him!"

"Nevertheless, you're going to stay in here, out of his sight.  That's an order, 'Dren.  This is bad enough without..." He paused as the distinctive sound of chain against marble was heard.  "'Dren, please."

Laedren drew away from Boromir, his face stiff.  "As you order, my Lord."

Boromir shook his head in frustration.  "It's going to be hard enough on him without you there.  I'll leave the door ajar.  You'll be able to hear him, but for the Gods' sake, stay in this room and don't let him see you!"

"You didn't care so much for his welfare when you sentenced him!" Laedren snapped.  

"He disobeyed me in front of witnesses.  What else could I have done?  He's here.  I need to get this over with.  Please, just stay here."  Boromir turned and walked from the room, schooling his face into an expressionless mask.

Laedren caught a glimpse of his son, dressed in the dull grey of prisoner's garb and looking far the worse for wear as his Captain-General left the bedchamber, and dropped onto the side of the bed, his head in his hands.

- - - - - - - - - -

Daeron stumbled as he stepped over the threshold of the Hall of Kings, Boromir's hand grasped firmly around his upper arm.  The Steward's heir had long legs and his stride was greater than the limit the chains permitted Daeron.  They were followed by the guards who'd brought Daeron up from the brig; one of them peeling off to stand at attention by the closed doors, the other continuing to shadow Daeron.

The noise of the shackles he wore echoed in the great hall, making Daeron feel even more intimidated than he had been as they progressed past the statues of past kings towards the Steward.  He tried to tell himself he was shivering because of the water that continued to drip down his back but knew it was just plain old-fashioned fear.

Denethor, garbed as usual in his favourite fur-trimmed robes, was seated in the Steward's Chair, the White Rod held cradled in the crook of his arm.  His face was stern as he watched his son approach with the disgraced Cadet Greyvale.

They finally reached the front of the Hall where both knelt.  Daeron went to his knees hard, handicapped by the shackles, wincing and biting his lip against the shock of hitting the marble floor.  He kept his head bowed and prayed to the Valar that he behave honourably, regardless of the outcome of this interview.  

Denethor extended the hand that bore the ring of office towards Boromir, but kept his eyes on the youth.  Boromir bent and kissed his father's ring, straightened and stepped to the side after handing his father the leather puzzle case.

The Steward turned the case over in his hands, and examined it before speaking.  "Cadet Greyvale, I am given to understand that you disobeyed a direct order by the Captain-General to open this, even after having been told that it was a matter of national security that my son have the contents."

"Yes, my Lord."  Daeron wondered how he managed to get the words out through his chattering teeth.

"And you did this in full knowledge of the consequences of such disobedience."

"Yes, I did, my Lord."

The Steward continued, "This seems quite at odds with your past performance, cadet.  Why have you refused--twice--to open this--puzzle--and to turn over Lieutenant Bandarel's final commission to the Captain General?"

Daeron answered, "I swore an oath, my Lord, to -- Lieutenant -- Bandarel, to give the contents into your hands only."

Denethor raised an eyebrow and stared hard at the boy, taking in the visible signs of abuse and the look of exhaustion on his face.  Daeron's posture made it plain that he was still feeling the effects of the flogging.  "So, if I ordered you to open the case and give the contents to my son, you would refuse to do so?   Refuse the order of your Steward?"

Daeron hesitated before answering as a part of his brain screamed "Obey the Steward!  Don't be an idiot!  Obey the Steward!" but he squashed it, raised his head and looked Denethor in the eye.  In the steadiest voice he could manage, he answered, "Yes, my Lord.  My oath is to give the contents only into your hands."

Denethor turned his head and glanced at Boromir, then nodded towards the guard who stood behind Daeron.  "Release Cadet Greyvale's hands."

Boromir frowned and shifted his weight as if to step towards the cadet.  What was his father doing?

The guard unfastened the shackles and Daeron winced as he let his hands fall to his sides. I'm not dead yet, so I suppose that's something. he thought as his hands tingled with returning circulation.

The tension in the room was palpable and Daeron made himself keep his hands at his sides, not bringing them together to rub his sore wrists as he so wanted to do.

Denethor got to his feet and came down the two steps that supported the Steward's chair and halted right in front of Daeron.  He held out the puzzle case towards him.  "Cadet, open the case and fulfill your oath."

Daeron raised shaking hands to take the case from the Steward and took a deep breath.  It took several minutes to manipulate the case in order to get it open because his hands weren't being cooperative, but finally, the true lid fell away and he pulled out the small sealed pouch.  He held it up, placed it and the case in Lord Denethor's hands, then bowed his head and returned his hands to his sides.  He felt lightheaded from relief to have fulfilled his oath to Bandarel, but at the same time he was filled with trepidation as to what was to happen next.

The Steward turned back towards his chair, examining the seal on the pouch, holding the opened case in his other hand, and then, as he seated himself, he handed the pouch unopened, to Boromir.  Resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, he propped up his chin on his fist and looked down at Daeron, turning the puzzle case over in his fingers as he did so.  "Cadet Greyvale,  tell me, what made you so determined to keep to your oath to Lieutenant Bandarel?"

"Lieutenant Bandarel told me once, 'Guard your honor.  Let your reputation fall where it will, for reputation is what others believe you to be.  Honour is what you are.  It is the thing that separates the knight from the brigand.'"  Daeron paused, trying to find the words he wanted.  "He told me that keeping my honour wouldn't be easy or straightforward, and that I'd have to choose every day, every hour, with every decision I make to keep it or to compromise it.  He said that I would have to live with any breach of my honour for the rest of my life as a sin committed without any hope of absolution.  "  He shook his head and shrugged helplessly; this was part of it but there weren't words to truly explain his reasoning.

Denethor nodded slowly.  "Without honour, we are no better than animals.  It seems that you have learned a very hard lesson, cadet.  And lived up to the spirit of the oath that you swore to me."  He glanced at Boromir, "if not precisely to the letter of it."

Boromir shifted uneasily under the look his father gave him, suddenly remembering not a few times that he'd chosen to follow the spirit instead of the letter of the law.

Daeron relaxed minutely, but said nothing.  He was bemused by the expression that had flitted over Lord Boromir's face but had no time to think about what it might mean as the Steward spoke again.

"We owe you an apology, Cadet.  Had the right questions been asked at the time that you were asked to turn over the--delivery--you would not have been required to break the regulations in order to keep from breaking your honor.  Therefore, I am commuting your punishment to time served.  And I would like to learn more about this puzzle case of yours." He smiled at Daeron.  "I believe that they might be of use for Lieutenant Bandarel's fellow officers."

Stunned, Daeron took some moments to process the Steward's words.  Licking his suddenly dry lips, he said, "I will be glad to teach you about the case, my Lord.  But..." He stopped speaking, straightened his back, and then continued, "I would prefer to complete the sentence, my Lord.  I did disobey Lord Boromir's orders.  It wouldn't be honourable not to complete the term of punishment."

Daeron heard the guard behind him shift as if surprised and waited quietly for the Steward's response.

A look of respect appeared on Denethor's face.  "Then, Cadet Greyvale, after you show me the secret of this," he held out the puzzle case towards the youth, "you will be returned to your labours on the Pelennor."  Denethor beckoned Daeron forward and turned in his chair so that his shoulder blocked Boromir's view of what the cadet did to the puzzle case.

Daeron clumsily rose to his feet, and carefully mounted the steps to stand before the Steward and demonstrated the necessary actions to open and close the case.  Denethor watched closely and repeated motions, fumbling once but then correcting himself.

Boromir, his curiosity getting the better of him, approached and tried to peer over his father's shoulder.

"As you were, Captain-General.  If you do not know how to open this, perhaps the key to my brandy cabinet will remain safe from your fingers."  Denethor exchanged a glance with Daeron that had a touch of mischief in it as he said the final words.

Daeron couldn't help but smile at the Steward's words and Boromir's abashed reaction.  

After Daeron was certain the Steward had mastered the trick to the case, he returned to his previous place and put his hands behind his back so the guard could replace the shackles.

Denethor tucked the case into a pocket of his robe.  "Thank you, Cadet Greyvale.  When you have completed your sentence, I would like to commission you to make a case for each of my sons--large enough to carry a folded dispatch, perhaps."

"Gladly, my Lord.  Thank you, my Lord," he answered with a bow of his head as the guard replaced the shackles about his wrists; this time making sure to put them over the sleeves of the tunic Daeron wore and closing them carefully instead of carelessly snapping them shut as had been done on every other occasion.

"Guards, escort Cadet Greyvale back to his duties.  Captain-General, please remain."  The tone of his voice made it plain that Boromir had no choice but to stay.

Once the doors to the hall had been closed behind them, Daeron bit back a laugh as one of his guards informed the two that stood on either side of the doors that the Steward's Heir was likely to find himself parboiled in the hot water he'd landed himself in, and a quiet bet exchanged hands before he was led down the corridor.

- - - - - - - - - -

Boromir entered his office with the same expression as that of a cat which had a close encounter with a rain barrel.

Laedren stood up from the desk where he had been poring over a map, and bowed his head to Boromir.  "Ori, what happened?"

Boromir ran his hand through his hair and dropped into the nearest chair.  "One has just been informed in one's sire's most inimitable fashion that one has been an idiot. And that was the least negative of the adjectives used."

"Ah."  Laedren wanted to ask after his son, but instead asked, "For any particular thing or just in general?"  He twirled the calipers between his fingers, the only outward sign of his inner worries.

"For being so stupid as to jump to conclusions without cause, for being blind to the necessity to ask questions, and acting in such a way as to put my best friend's son through hell on earth because of it.  " He shook his head.  "I can't think of a time when I've made a worse mistake."

Laedren looked over at his Captain-General but said nothing.

Boromir took a deep breath and forced himself to meet Laedren's eyes.  "Father commuted the sentence to time served but Daeron insisted on completing the term.  He said that since he did disobey my orders, he was honour-bound to complete it.  It's obvious someone has beaten him up since he was brought back to the City.  Oh, Gods, Laedren.  I'm sorry!"

Laedren abruptly sat down in the desk chair, the calipers clattering on the desktop.  "You said he insisted on finishing it?  Even though--?" He broke off, and bowed his head.  His shoulders shook as he pressed a hand against his chest.

"Yes.  I will have one of my agents keep an eye on him.  If any of the other men..." Boromir trailed off and crossed the room to drop to his knees beside Laedren.  "Oh, gods.  'Dren?  'Dren?  I-I-I've never seen such an honourable man as your son.  If I could turn time back..."

Laedren looked up, his face wet.  "Ori, my heart feels like it could burst--I've never been so proud of him, not even when your father gave him his sword."

Boromir was speechless with regret, with anger at his careless handling of the situation, and with admiration for the young cadet who was paying the price.  Then the silence was shattered by a knock on the office door and, Boromir climbed to his feet, turning towards the door.

Laedren quickly swiped at his tear wet cheeks and got up and moved to stand staring out the window as he got himself under control.  He blinked as he watched the grey-clad figure of his son, escorted by two guards, approach the tunnel that led to the sixth level.  The young man was in chains, yes, but his shoulders were back and his head was up, casting a last glance up at the windows of the citadel.

Laedren drew himself to attention and gave his son a salute, even as Boromir commanded the visitor to enter.

The visitor was quickly dealt with and dismissed.  Boromir joined Laedren at the window in time to see Daeron and the guard enter the gate on the fifth level.  Once they were out of sight he turned to his friend and Aide and quietly asked, "Are we well?"

Laedren put his hand on Boromir's arm and answered, "Yes, my friend, we are well." 

- - - - - - - - - -

Daeron entered the cadet barracks with trepidation.  It had been a horribly difficult month completing his sentence, but he didn't regret his decision to turn down Lord Denethor's offered commutation.  He had no idea whether he'd be a pariah or if his friends would accept him back after all that had happened.

He most definitely didn't expect to find the entire cadet corps lined up on each side of the senior barracks at attention when he opened the door; nor to hear Halmir call, "Present arms!" and salute him.  They held the salute until he returned it with a bemused expression.  Then he found himself mobbed as Halmir called, "Order arms!  Company, fall out!" 

He was overwhelmed by the welcome and was relieved when Gharal broke it up and sent the lower year students back to their own barracks.  Once the last of them had gone, the other members of his year offered their personal welcomes and retired to their usual groups to give him time with his friends.  

"This, this wasn't what I expected," he said to Halmir.  "I don't understand.  I thought..."

Val interrupted, "You thought you'd be a pariah because you dishonoured our class?  Oh, Daeron!"

Halmir shot Val a look that plainly said shut up already! and answered Daeron.  "My oldest brother shares quarters with one of the men who stood guard in the Hall of Kings the day you were taken to Lord Denethor.  He told Kal what happened and Kal told me.  He also told anyone who would listen that you turned down a commutation of the sentence."

Gharal broke in then.  "Daeron, you didn't dishonour our class at all.  There isn't a man in the Guard who thinks you're anything but honourable, and they'd go to blows with anyone who intimated otherwise."

"Face it Daeron," Halmir said, "You couldn't have been more honourable if you tried.  You could have taken the commutation but you didn't.  You kept a death bed oath in spite of having to defy the Captain-General to do so.  You're going to be held up as an example of exactly what a cadet should be.  What a soldier of Gondor should be."

Daeron couldn't say a word.  This was far, far from what he'd expected his return to the barracks to be.  His head was reeling trying to take it all in.

"You're almost out of uniform," Grethen said suddenly, trying to lighten the mood as he unsuccessfully attempted to pinch the fabric of Daeron's uniform tunic.  The month of hard labour had developed his muscles even more than three and a half years of throwing a sword around the training grounds had, and the fabric was visibly strained where it stretched across his shoulders.  "Don't worry, I'll lend you a couple of my tunics until you can get a new issue." Given that the other cadet was still a good six inches taller than Daeron, the offer led to some hilarity from the others.

"I think I'll just see the quartermaster in the morning, but thanks." Daeron responded.  Speaking of uniforms made him recall that he'd left his bedroll and pack at the campsite.  He looked down the aisle and saw that nothing sat on top of the footlocker at the foot of his bunk, which had been made up and looked like an illustration in a training manual.  "Do you know what happened to my gear?  I left it at..." 

"I believe you might be looking for this?" 

Daeron turned at the sound of the familiar voice and saw his father, who was in his full dress uniform standing in the doorway, Daeron's pack in his hands.  Beside him stood Lord Boromir, also in full dress and wearing the Horn of Gondor at his waist.

Someone, Daeron didn't know who, called the barracks to attention.  

"As you were, cadets," Boromir told them and gestured Laedren forward.

Halmir and the others stepped back giving Daeron space as Laedren dropped the pack to the floor next to Daeron and then embraced him.

"I cannot tell you just how proud I am of you, son," Laedren told him as he stepped back to look Daeron in the eye.  "I just don't have the words.  Welcome back."

"I was afraid you..." Daeron trailed off and hugged his father again, regardless of the presence of his peers.  "When I saw your face that day.  I wanted to explain but..."

"There's no need for explanations.  Here, I think you'll want this back." Laedren handed Daeron his daybook with a smile.

Boromir had waited to the side as Laedren greeted his son but now stepped forward.  "You'll want these back as well.  A soon-to-be Knight of Gondor needs his weapons." 

Daeron turned and saw that the Captain-General carried the sword belt that had been taken from him in the command tent on the steading.  "My Lord--"

Boromir raised his voice, gaining the attention of all in the barracks.  "Will you accept my apology for my error which led to your unjust punishment?  A commander has an obligation to his men, to act himself in an honourable fashion, to trust his men, to look at the full picture before jumping to conclusions.  A month ago I failed you, by letting my emotions rule me, a lapse that I promise you, and all the other men under me, that I will do all in my power not to repeat.  Will you take back your sword from my hands, Cadet Greyvale, and carry it in defense of Gondor?"

Daeron drew himself to attention, met his Captain-General's eyes with confidence and held out his hands for the sword belt.  "Yes, I will, my Lord!"

TBC

<i>Author's Note: All Bandarel's quotations are paraphrases from Lois McMaster Bujold's Vor series (read her books, they're great!) except for the final one.  The final quote of Bandarel's in Daeron's daybook is actually a paraphrase from President Jimmy Carter's farewell address.</i>
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