#fotfics

Not ideal when she was meant to be playing the role of perfect daughter, even less ideal since she was meant to be a grateful guest, and especially not ideal when her father was hoping to offer her hand in a bid to sweeten trade deals and give him a foothold into the newly recovering Kingdom of Rohan.

Manwë’s breath her head hurt.

Peering through her lashes, Lhinniel scanned the main hall of the Meduseld, quickly passing over the blonde, gold, and red heads of hair, until she finally found the near-black-brown of her father’s hair. Stood with some of the other lords that had joined their delegation, and was discussing something rather animatedly with… what was his name again? Marshal Ekerend? Erkenbrand?

A high-ranking member of Rohirrim society at any least.

Even as she watched, her father raised his hand, the mug of ale or cider nearly spilled as he gestured in her vague direction. At which point Lord Erkenbrand glanced over, and there was a split second of uncomfortable eye contact.

It was too late to affix a more pleasant expression on her face, as the Marshal quickly turned back to her father and said something to make him laugh. Even from across the room, Drauhir’s laughter was grating, at odds with the lute and the fiddle and the drums and the chatter and the noises and the smell of roast meat spilt ale honeyed mead an—

It was too much.

She needed to get out of this hall. Now.

With a fleeting glance to make sure her father wasn’t watching, Lady Lhinniel gathered her skirts in one hand, and hastily swept through the crowd, eyes locked on the large main doors and promise of fresh air beyond.

It was a testament to the sheer number of bodies within the hall, that even in the dead of winter, the chill of frost and snow barely breached the open doors. It was also a testament to her up bringing that she didn’t just start elbowing people out of her way. The doors were almost in reach, when one Rohir stepped back from the conversation he’d been having, and she all but bounced off his shoulder.

“Apologies, good sir.” The words left her mouth without conscious thought thanks to her lessons in etiquette, eyes too fixed on the great doors to care beyond hasty politeness.

Any response or chiding was lost to the hubbub, as with a last burst of speed, she broke free of the stifling crowds and all but stumbled onto the terrace before the main doors.

The chill was instantaneous, hitting her face and lungs like shards of ice after the stifling heat of the hall. Almost recoiling in shock, it was only the grating laugh of her father that stilled the impulse to retreat. A good thing too, as after a moment or two of breathing, the freezing chill subsided into something far more manageable.

Sadly with the general cacophony of noise at her back, the headache didn’t vanish instantly, but at least the cold air was refreshing after the heat and close packed bodies. Although her gown of green silk and fine white cotton wasn’t exactly suitable for lingering outside for long.

But while it was cold, bitterly cold, it was also fresh.

Moving to one side of the terrace –so not to be visible should her father glance about for her– Lhinniel wrapped her arms about herself and eyed the town below.

It looked homely and comforting, but strange compared to that of her home in Gondor.

Gone were the sturdy stone buildings, gone was the white-grey stone, the columns, the arched open windows, the ornate craftsmanship. She was used to buildings being angular, squared, with practicality and uniformness.

The houses of Rohan were starkly different.

Just in this upper part of the city there were dozens of houses and buildings all clustered together, with their steep thatched rooves, their wooden walls painted in vibrant colours, and many windows lit by a warm light from within. The orange glows reflected on the thick layering of snow that had blanketed the city during the day, turning the place into a beautiful winter vista. Somehow even the skies and stars were clearer and brighter.

It was beautiful and peaceful—

“Lhinniel!”

A very unladylike curse almost slipped out at the sound of Drauhir calling her name, and without a second thought, she snatched up her skirts in both hands, and went trotting down the steps of the Meduseld, aiming to escape detection.

Slippers were not suited for snow.

Thankfully a path had been somewhat cleared, and other than the stray patches of ice, Lhinniel was able to follow its route and vanish into the one building she hoped no one would think to check.

*****

Éomer King blinked after the head of dark hair that hastened away from him.

The impact to his shoulder hadn’t exactly hurt, but it had come as a surprise to realise the daughter of Lord Drauhir had collided with him, even more surprising was that her steps didn’t slow in her haste to leave the hall. Had she not noticed that she’d collided with the King?

Apparently not.

“Tch.” The disapproving click of a tongue came from the man alongside him. “That’s Stáning folk for you.”

“Éothain,” Éomer said quietly but pointedly, using Rohirric much as his Deputy had, least any of the Gondorian’s overhear. “They are our guests.”

There was a quiet grumble that sounded a lot like he was complaining about their manners, but a pointed frown was quick to nip that in the bud. The delegation from Gondor were welcomed guests within the Meduseld, and they held great potential for securing trade deals, lumber, and resources from south of the White Mountains. They deserved respect and civility.

Even if Lord Drauhir had just spilt ale on Erkenbrand’s sleeve.

“—m’daughter’s a fine lass.” The older man was speaking loudly to the Marshal, who’s expression Éomer recognised as ‘reaching the end of his tether’ even if he was still smiling. “Very agreeable, she’s an excellent cook, a good hand at sewing and the arts you know. And, she’s of marrying age.”

The wink and nudge weren’t needed to drive the point home.

“She might get along with my daughter,” Erkenbrand replied, absolutely refusing to rise to the bait. “They’re about the same age, after all.”

“Indeed! We should introduce them,” Lord Drauhir was quick to take the bait, “Lhinniel!”

Béma’s Bow that man had a loud voice.

Éomer glanced away from the beleaguered Marshal and tipsy Lord, towards the great doors of the Meduseld where he’d last seen Lady Lhinniel heading. They’d been left open in a bid to provide the hall with ventilation during the celebration, but even stood scarcely fifteen feet from them, he could barely feel the chill of the winter air.

Someone else, however, could.

A silken dress of emerald green, with white cotton sleeves and lace, abruptly darted down the steps outside the Golden Hall, and vanished from view. Lady Lhinniel had her arms wrapped about herself, and even with his brief glimpse it seemed she was struggling with the chill.

So why on Arda was she leaving the warmth and safety of his hall?

Edoras was safe, much safer now the Dunlendings had been mollified and the orcs were being hunted. But it was still the middle of winter, with snowdrifts reaching five feet deep, and she was wearing a silk gown of Gondorian styling, which certainly wasn’t a practical fashion for Rohirric weather! At best she’d catch a chill, at worse… she could slip and fall, become trapped within a drift of snow, or suffer from exposure and lose her fingers to Frost Blight, or any number of horrific things he’d seen happen to people better prepared for the weather than her.

None of which he could let happen to a guest.

Biting back a sigh of frustration, Éomer set his near empty tankard upon a table, made his excuses to Éothain, and slipped from the hall. The loud voice of Lord Drauhir seemed to follow him, but why had his own daughter fled his call?

Stepping out from the Meduseld, the frosty wind tried to burn his skin and chill his body, but the thick cloak of office with its fur lined collar was more than enough to keep winter at bay.

Pausing atop the terrace, Éomer’s eyes scanned the city below, seeking any flickers of movement. Nothing in the streets, no signs of disturbed snow, and no cries of alarm or panic. But the fact he still couldn’t see Lady Lhinniel was concerning.

He’d have to go find her.

Éomer had taken one step forwards, when a familiar voice to his left spoke up.

“Sir.” Gamling, stood sentry and keeping watch. “The stables.”

“My thanks,” Éomer replied shortly.

Pacing down the steps, eyes locked on the large doors to the stables –now slightly ajar– he had to wonder why this Lords daughter would be sneaking out to the stables in the middle of the festivities. Her father was most keen on trading horses for lumber, and while he’d offered many fine deals, Éomer was reticent to accept so easily. Lord Drauhir simply felt too… eager.

Had he asked Lhinniel to assess their stock?

It was no matter, these were the High Stables, and the horses within belong to the royal family, their kin, or the Marshals –or the delegation from Gondor– and as such were unavailable for sale. Not unless this visit was some great ruse to steal his prized stallions in the depth of midwinter.

Stepping carefully through the snowdrifts and ice patches, Éomer moved on quiet feet towards the stables, pausing at the edge of the doorway to peer within and let his eyes adjust.

Lady Lhinniel was indeed inspecting the horses, but rather than an expression of calculation and cunning, she looked… curious. Dark brown eyes softening as she greeted extended necks with soft touches and quiet words. Perhaps a little nervous, shying away from any curious lipping or nibbles, hastily backing up whenever the horses went to investigate her silken skirts. But she didn’t leave the stables, in fact, she headed deeper in.

Intrigued, Éomer followed.

*****

It was a little warmer in the stables, although not as hot as the Golden Hall had become, and with the scent of horses and hay heavy on the air, but it was still a welcome relief from the crowds, music, alcohol and food. Lhinniel found herself alone, wondering past the stalls, inspecting the occupants as much as they inspected her. The horses of Rohan were indeed impressive, even to her untrained eye they were large and powerful, with strong necks and noble faces.

They were also, a little intimidating.

“That’s not for eating,” she murmured softly, as a brown horse tried to catch a hold of her sleeve. She moved away slightly, and the horse’s ears went back in annoyance. “I know but it’s my best dress.”

With a gentle touch to its nose, she moved on to greet the next stall.

This one was a fearsome looking beast, standing almost a clear foot taller than herself –and Lhinniel prided herself on her noble height– with rich brown eyes, a dark mane and tail, and a dappled grey coat. It was restless, pacing about in its larger stall, turning back and forth, its tail flicking and swatting at its haunches.

Was it lonely? Bored? The stall was a good size but with all the snow outside she couldn’t imagine there was much chance to ride out.

“Hello,” she greeted softly.

The beast’s ears flicked her way, its pacing abruptly turning towards her and approaching eagerly. Its head was almost bigger than her own torso, quickly thrust over the stall door, stretching out towards her with a quiet whicker. Despite how intimidating it was, Lhinniel lifted her hands to pet it, the nose soft and velvety beneath her palm.

“Firefoot likes you.”

A startled noise, half curse half squeak, was pulled from Lhinniel’s throat, as she whirled about to face this intruder. Only to freeze in alarm, blood surging to colour her face and neck.

Éomer King stood scarcely five feet from her.

“M-my lord,” she stammered, and dropped into a hasty curtsy. “I’m so sorry I didn’t realise, had I known—”

The King raised one hand, and her mouth snapped shut.

“Peace, Lady Lhinniel, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said shortly, “I saw you leave the hall, and didn’t wish for you to chill. Although I didn’t expect you to be here.”

In the stables. Petting other people’s horses. Avoiding the celebrations.

If she wasn’t ready blushing, she’d have done so again.

“But Firefoot seems to like you,” the King continued, and Lhinniel realised with a jolt that the large stallion had all but rested his chin on her shoulder. “And he is a good judge of character.”

“He’s… impressive,” she managed to say, hands fisting and scrunching at her skirts.

“I take it you’re not enjoying the celebrations?”

The abrupt shift in topic had her reeling, trying to find her footing within the conversation, and her voice floundered unhelpfully.

“No,” she said, and Éomer King’s brows dropped into a frown, “no! No I mean I am enjoying the celebration,” she hastily continued, “it’s just, I’m not keen on large crowds. I needed to get some air and take a break, and its far more peaceful out here. With weather like this I’d much rather be reading in a quiet corner.”

Apparently her response was something to be puzzled over, as the King’s head tilted to one side in consideration.

But then Firefoot gave a huff and nudged at her. Automatically Lhinniel lifted her hands to the stallion’s nose, smoothing them over the velvety fuzz and soft whiskers. At least it gave her something to do rather than crease and wrinkle her skirts.

“The winter months are harsh here,” Éomer eventually replied, “I’m surprised you joined the delegation, unless you were left with no choice?”

What an odd question.

“I asked to join,” she said carefully, starting to feel as though she was being interviewed. “I’ve never travelled so far north, or left Gondor for that matter, and with the war over… why shouldn’t I try to see a bit more of the world?”

“So you’re not here to seek marriage to one of my Marshals?”

Ah. So he’d heard her father’s plans.

For a moment Lhinniel didn’t answer, keeping her eyes on the dappled grey fur and dark mane of Firefoot. Considering how restless the stallion had been at her arrival, he was surprisingly peaceful now he had attention. She couldn’t say the same for herself. Every appraising glance, every cautious conversation, every awkward introduction had anxiety wrapping tighter about her chest. Like an overdrawn corset, squeezing the breath from her lungs and constricting her heart.

“My father… wishes to strengthen any trade deals,” she said slowly, not meeting the King’s eyes, “and I am of marrying age.”

“There are easier ways to do so without selling off your hand to the highest bidder.” The sharpness of his words had her head lifting, chancing a glance and finding Éomer’s brow set in a frown. But his eyes were on Firefoot, not her. “There’s also easier ways to gain a foothold within Rohan, if that’s what he wishes.”

Too late, a grimace flickered across her face, and was immediately noticed.

“I may be a new King but I’m not oblivious,” Éomer said wryly, a smirk pulling at his lips, as he moved forwards to stand alongside and reached up to pet his steed’s neck. “Lord Drauhir will have to get in line, I have six other Gondorians trying to meddle as it is.”

Despite herself, Lhinniel laughed softly. “We are late to the party, I take it?”

“You waited until we’d at least recovered from the war,” he countered. “The lumber he sent as a coronation gift was sorely needed, and much appreciated. Others have been considerably less generous, which is precisely why I invited your father to visit over midwinter. He’s pushy, but at least he was considerate.”

To Éomer King, maybe. Not everyone was so lucky.

With a quiet exhale, Lhinniel’s hands dropped from Firefoot’s nose, and she took a step back. Putting space between herself, and the King. Hands smoothing over her skirts, eyes down and beating back the frustration in her chest.

“Lady Lhinniel?”

Her father was considerate, he was a good father to her after her mother died, Manwë bless him. But he was pushy. She was accustomed to being Lady of the House, to taking care of their estate, to overseeing the books and managing the accounts, to employing the workers for the lumber, the ordering of supplies, the sending of deliveries. The gift to Rohan’s newly crowned King had been her idea, she’d read of how Rohirric houses were crafted of wood –not stone– and as such they’d be able to help.

But now her father was eager to marry her off to one of these horse-lords, her willingness to help and interest in visiting, had been interpreted as a wish to integrate.

Rohan was beautiful, but it was not her home.

“Lhinniel?”

A warm hand touched her arm, and she jolted back to the present, finding a concerned expression on Éomer King’s face, his brow furrowed, shadowing his eyes, head tilted as he considered her.

“You looked miles away,” he apologised, “do you wish to return to the hall?”

Yes. Maybe. Not really. No.

“I do not wish to marry any of your Marshals,” she said, and Éomer’s head drew back at the way her words shook, “Rohan is beautiful but it’s not my home. I don’t wish to leave my home. In truth I do not wish to marry at all. Is tha—Will that be a problem with negotiations?”

“What? No, no why would that be a problem? Not one of my men would accept a marriage to someone unwilling, no matter how your father may encourage such a thi—” he cut of sharply, almost incredulously. And then his voice hardened alarmingly, eyes darkening so dramatically that Lhinniel’s breath caught in her throat. “Is he making you do this?”

“No. He’s just… encouraging me.”

There was a derisive snort from Éomer, a very unkingly sound. “You can say pressurin—”

“Fine then he’s pressuring me.”

That earnt a laugh, either at her sharp tongue or the swiftness of her response. But the King shook his head in amusement, a rare smile on his face. How often had she seen him smile? A mere handful of times in the weeks they’d been within Edoras, and usually when his sister said something sharp or witty.

And despite the sobriety of the topic, Lhinniel smiled ruefully.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to drop that on you,” she said quietly, “returning to the hall means returning to my father, and the suggestions, and it’s all just a bit much.”

“Honestly if I could get away with it, I’d remain out here too,” Éomer said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, despite the only other ears around being that of horses. “But unfortunately it’s my party and therefore I must play host.”

And with that, the King straightened up, running a hand across his dark gold hair as though to check he’d not ruffled it. She had to admit he was a striking figure, tall and broad shouldered, a neatly trimmed beard and hair pulled back into a half tail. His clothing was fine, and his bearing was regal. And yet… he’d been thrust into this role. He’d not chosen it, he’d found it settling on his shoulders just as the world seemed fit to end.

And yet he bore it well.

“—if you wish to remain out here a while longer, I’ll not take any offense to my hospitality,” he was saying, thankfully oblivious to her studying of him, “likewise if you wish to retire now instead, then you are welcome to do so.”

The night was still young, no matter how dark the skies.

She had the Kings permission to retreat, to hide, to pretend that there wasn’t a celebration happening just outside her chamber door. But to do so…

It wasn’t only the King with responsibilities.

“I’ll return,” Lhinniel said, straightening up and smoothing her hands across her emerald green Dol Amrothian silk. “Although…”

Éomer’s head cocked, waiting for whatever it was she had to say.

“The gift of lumber was sent on my insistence.”

It was rather satisfying to watch the surprise dawn on his features, the slow rise of his brows, the parting of his lips, and then a chastised smile.

“Then perhaps, Lady Lhinniel,” he said slowly, and extended a hand to her, “from now on it should be you I negotiate with.”

Despite the trepidation of returning to the Hall, despite the reluctance to be subjected to her father’s thinly veiled hints and nudges, despite the loudness, the busy atmosphere, the noise, the sounds, the smells…

Located in the sixth level, the recruit barracks were constantly teeming with newcomers, older soldiers training the younger, or curious young men looking to prove their worth. Admittedly the military of Gondor was constantly seeking new hands to assist in battle, but sometimes it felt like there were two dozen new recruits every week.

All of whom, needed assessing.

True it was a task that could have been delegated to another of the Captains under his command, and often was when he was called away for battle. But Boromir like to meet with the newcomers, to welcome them into the army, to assess their skills, and to ensure that each and every man within the chain of command, could trust him.

Before they’d even entered the barracks, Boromir could hear the commotion coming from the training ring in the central courtyard. As expected, two dozen young men of varying heights, builds, and confidence were forming uneven ranks, being corralled into place by Deputies. Keeping to one side for a moment, he watched with a keen eye, assessing them from a distance and trying to gauge just how full he’d have his hands for the rest of the afternoon.

Not too bad, by his guess.

The majority were listening to the commanders, and only a smaller group were proving difficult.

A group of five, with a clear ringleader who was speaking to the others, all but ignoring instructions, standing casually at ease and out of line. He was young, early twenties at the most, dressed well and immaculately groomed. A lord’s son by Boromir’s guess.

“What’s that one’s name?” Boromir asked quietly, head tilting to the guard at his side.

“Magron, sir.”

The fact Lastor answered so quickly and without hesitation, told him that this Magron had already made a name for himself. Only confirmed by the irritation hidden in the guard’s voice.

“Son of a Lord by any chance?”

“Aye, Gledrong of Lossarnach’s youngest.”

The Vale of Flowers? Lord Forlong currently ruled, but his son Gledrong was a fine lord and Boromir counted him amongst friends, so for Gledrong’s son to be acting out already, let alone the fact he’d been assigned to the soldiers of Minas Tirith rather than Forlong’s own men… It spoke volumes.

Just how troublesome had he proved to his own father?

“Well, lets get this over and done with,” Boromir muttered, mostly to himself, but Lastor huffed in mute agreement.

Stepping forwards Boromir strode out from the shadows of the doorway, approaching the ranks of recruits with purpose and confidence. At his abrupt arrival, they snapped to attention, admittedly not forming true ranks and lines but their postures certainly straightened up, that was fine, the uniformity required training just like everything else. His eyes rapidly scanned across the faces of the men before him. Yes, this time around it was all men, and while female soldiers were few and far between, they did occasionally join the ranks.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted, “I appreciate that you’ve all elected to join the ranks of men defending this city and our lands, but I wish to get one thing straight. Those of you who’ve signed up seeking glory, you will not find it here.”

Boromir paced slowly from one end of the lines to the other, letting his eyes rove across their faces and searching for any sign of glory hunters. They were paying rapt attention, a few heads cocked, a few puzzled expressions, but so far nothing that concerned him.

“War isn’t like the stories, it is brutal, it is cruel, and it will break you many times over. Honour and renown are found far from bloodshed and battle, it isn’t found with your blade in the gut of orc or man,” he continued. “True glory and true honour is found in the strength of your shield and your aid to your fellow soldiers.”

Silence, the shift of weight either from discomfort or concern, but no protests.

The Magron lad, however, was barely paying attention. His arms folded and weight settled on one leg, a stark contrast to the upright, hands behind back, steady stances of the other recruits. It took a concentrated effort not to frown at him in admonishment. They weren’t trained soldiers, they weren’t coached in the correct way to stand or how to show their attention was focused.

Not yet anyway.

“If anyone takes issue with this, if anyone wishes to leave, it will not be held against you,” Boromir started to wrap up, “I’d rather those who were unsure stepped aside now, than come to regret it or fall on the battlefield.”

The last lot of recruits had three people choosing to back out, and Boromir had been quick to direct them towards the admins of the barracks. Maybe they’d not be brave enough to battle, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t assist in some other way. But in this group, not one person stepped aside, no one awkwardly cleared their throat or raised their hand.

“No one?” he asked, “I promise not to hold it against you if you can’t stand my face any longer.”

There was a quiet huff of laughter from a few of the men, but they still all held fast.

“Excellent, I’ll start by assessing your skill level with the blade, and then with blade and shield,” he explained, “If everyone could move to the sides, my assistant Lastor, will instruct as to when it’s your turn.”

The scuffing of feet, the shift of bodies, and the quiet murmurs of conversation.

Or mostly quiet conversations.

“Really?” Magron was grumbling rather un-quietly, “I’ve been training with the sword since I was five.”

Oh joy.

Boromir barely managed to school his expression, turning his back to the group and moving towards the centre of the sandy area. His shield was set to one side and drawing his sword he went through a few basic motions to loosen his joints. Ideally, he’d have warmed up first, but this was to be testing the recruits’ abilities, not an actual fight.

Not that true battles would allow chance to warm up.

At Lastor’s instruction, one of the recruits was called forwards, handed a suitable sword, and sent towards Boromir.

The poor lad looked utterly terrified to be facing the Captain so quickly.

With words of encouragement, Boromir coached him through the first few strikes, allowing him to gain some confidence, allowing him to grow accustomed to the weight of the blade. It didn’t take long for the lad to release he wasn’t going to be battered to within an inch of his life, and soon settled into it a little more.

His own arming sword was so familiar that Boromir barely needed to think, he simply moved. But then again, he’d spent close to thirty years training, and then twenty years utilising this sword specifically. Of course it was second nature, but for these new recruits, it could very well be the first time they’d handled a sword for more than a few minutes.

“Good!” Boromir praised at a more powerful strike from the youngster. “You’ve got a knack for this.”

A grin of relief flickered across their face but was quickly snuffed out by a scoff from the sidelines.

It wasn’t hard to guess who from.

Several other recruits stepped up and went through the motions, each of them with skill levels varying from rudimentary, to basic, to intermediate, but none of them stood out as being unsuited for the role of soldiers. It was a group he’d be able to work with, they’d learn quickly and improve even quicker.

“—so basic.” Boromir caught the tail end of Magron’s latest complaint. “I’d mastered this by the time I was eight.”

That was enough.

Glancing across the courtyard, Boromir caught Lastor’s eye, and gave him a nod.

The guard knew him well enough to need no other explanation, no hints or nudges. He simply glanced down at the parchment of names, and as though reading from a list, and called out.

“Magron, you’re up next.”

“Finally.”

The youngster sounded far too eager to show his worth to his gaggle of sycophants, quickly hoping up and moving forwards. And waved off the offered sword. True, one hung from his hip, an elegant weapon with an ornate basket hilt and slender blade.

Ah.

Boromir recognised that make of blade, and knew what style of fighting typically came along with it.

‘Oh this could be interesting.’

Careful to keep his expression impassive, he waited patiently for Magron to trot across the sandy surface and settle to a stop just out of lunging distance. A smart move Boromir had to give him credit, but it wouldn’t do him any good.

“Do you have much experience?” Boromir asked the same question everyone else had been asked, despite the fact he’d spent the better part of an hour listening to this young lord crow about his prowess with a blade.

“I started training with the sword when I was five,” Magron replied, looking pleased with himself. “My grandfather insisted, you see.”

“Ah yes, Lord Forlong of Lossarnach, am I correct?” he asked as though unaware, receiving a nod of confirmation. “Let’s see how well it’s served you then, shall we?”

Settling into a low guard, Boromir watched as Magron did the same. The position of his feet turning his body to the side to narrow his profile, his one-handed grip of the basket hilted blade, the other hand tucked into the small of his back.

Had he really spent all this time watching the others fight and not recognised the vastly different style?

“Ready?” Boromir warned. “Begin!”

Magron lunged, a neat step forwards, his sword arm extending in an elegant thrust.

One that Boromir knocked away with ease. His longsword whipped about towards the lad’s legs, slightly faster than he’d been with the others, and was rewarded with a startled noise and hasty leap back from Magron.

He was quick, Boromir would give him that.

The clash of blades rang out, Magron stood his ground a moment, his blade weaving through the air with a sinuous serpentine grace as he lashed out towards Boromir.

Only to be knocked aside again.

Watching his stance, the way Magron ground his feet into the sand, Boromir could see how he was customed to keeping his footing, short sharp lunges and occasional bursts of speed. Sharper thrusts, swift flicks, graceful slashes, and far too many unnecessary movements thrown into the mix. Magron’s style of fighting was elegant, it was stylish, it was suitable for the lofty lords of Gondor to while away the hours in friendly competition.

And had no place in this training ground.

“Move your feet!” Boromir instructed, “holding your ground is only going to get you killed.”

“That’s not how I was taug—”

Magron got no further as Boromir’s blade whipped about, twisted across the smaller blade, and with a flick of his wrist, the sword was sent flying across the sandy ground.

Before the lad could so much as curse, the longswords point settled at his throat.

For five seconds neither of them moved.

He’d gone rather pale, so Boromir took his cue and backed off, giving Magron breathing room.

“Lastor, a sword please,” Boromir requested.

The guard was only too happy to trot across the ring and press a long sword into the lad’s hands, and on his return trip, was quick to collect the other blade from where it had fallen. Preventing any swapping of blades.

“This isn’t, it’s not my sword.”

“I am aware,” Boromir replied, not bothering to hide the amusement from his voice, “but if you’re to join the military, a uniformed fighting style is required to protect the whole. Ready?”

The expression on Magron’s face could only be described as ‘rabbit who just heard a hawk’. But to give him credit, he gripped the sword, took up position, and tried to ignore how his arm trembled slightly with the weight of the larger blade.

“Begin!”

Magron’s lunge was considerably less elegant and refined, easily countered by Boromir’s own parry. Knocked off balance, the lad hastened to get his feet into position, only to find Boromir raining down blow after blow.

The fight felt slow to Boromir, almost clumsy, but it seemed the strikes were barely deflected in time by Magron. His face had become pale, sweat slid down his brow, but his teeth were gritted and there was a scowl of concentration on his face as he parried again and again and again, as he all but staggered back across the sandy ground from the onslaught. No matter how little chance he had to launch attacks of his own, but at least he was deflecting and parrying, no matter the strain.

A sweep of the longsword, and Boromir’s blade struck Magron’s calf with the flat, flinching to the side

Boromir moved, darting forwards, his longer stride quickly bringing him to bear down on the younger man, one hand seized Magron’s sword wrist, twisting his hip and all but flinging him up and over.

There was a crash, a startled yelp, and the lad went down, landing flat on his back in the sand, staring up in outright alarm as the point of Boromir’s sword once again hovered at his neck.

He looked… cowed.

“Not bad,” Boromir said, sheathing his sword, and extending his hand to the kid, “you’ve got the fundamentals down, it shouldn’t take long for you to improve.”

It was no small amount of reluctance, that Magron reached up, and was hauled to his feet. Face flushed with exertion and embarrassment, he was quick to move to the side of the ring, and retook his place. Head down, tail between his legs, and utterly refusing to meet the eyes of those he’d been gloating with.

No, there’d be no more comments, no more posturing. Magron had just learnt a hard truth and wouldn’t be crowing his virtues any time soon.

“Right, who’s next Lastor?”

*****

“Captain?”

Boromir looked up at the familiar voice. The sky was starting to darken, and after the recruits had been dismissed from their first day of training, he’d hung back with Lastor and the others to discuss their potential. It was looking positive, with only a couple of men with far less experience.

However it was Magron that was loitering in the door to the armoury. His basket hilted sword once more at his hip, even if his eyes were downcast and awkward.

“Magron,” Boromir greeted warmly, despite his initial wariness, setting aside the sword he’d been sharpening. “What can I do for you lad?”

There was an awkward silence, the clearing of a throat, and the shuffling of feet as Magron clearly struggled to find his words.

“My grandfather wants me to become a captain and lead the Rose Knights when I’m older,” he blurted.

Boromir barely had chance to take that it, as it seemed with those words, a dam had been breached and the words kept coming.

“He insisted my brother and I trained from when we could hold a sword and he’s been relentless in our continued training, but while my brother is excelling I’ve always struggled with the larger blades so when I realised I was good at fencing I stuck to it in a bid to show I could do something, but now I’m here on his insistence and I’m not very good with the larger blades and now—”

Boromir held up a hand, and the stream of words came to a halt.

“Living up to a father’s expectation is hard, let alone that of a grandfather,” he said frankly, all too aware of how his own father expected more and more from him and Faramir with every passing day. “Is this something you want to do?”

The genuine question seemed to take the younger man aback, as he rocked onto the heels of his fine leather boots, hands twisting and fidgeting as he considered the question. A serious expression on his face, at odds with his prior smugness and eventual shame.

“I want… to be useful,” Magron admitted honestly, “I can fence, but todays taught me that fencing it very different to the longsword, let alone the shields.”

“It does take practise,” Boromir agreed, “there’s other ways you can assist, administration, recruitment, supply chains, the armoury…”

“None of which will make me a Captain like my grandfather wishes.”

It wasn’t said petulantly, but Magron’s voice was strained regardless.

“If you wish to continue with being a solider, then I’ll not discourage you,” Boromir replied gently, “but even if you did, it doesn’t mean you’ll make it to the rank of Captain, it takes more to command the men than your skill with the sword.”

There was a subtle wince from the lad.

“But, I can see that you’ve got the determination, and you’ve already shown you have the aptitude to preserver with your prior training. With that sort of dedication and focus, you’ll quickly learn to manage the longsword,” Boromir pressed on, the positive reinforcement aimed to encourage the youngster. “Stick it out a little longer with the other men, see how it goes in training, if you still feel this way after a couple of months, come speak with me again, and we’ll see what we can do.”

Even if that was finding him an alternate path within the military.

“Thank you, sir,” Magron relented.

“Alright, now off to the mess hall with you lad.”

Not everyone was cut out for the life of a solider, and there was no shame to it. But would Magron and his grandfather see it that way?