Through Daeron's Eyes

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>