Through Daeron's Eyes

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