Disclaimer: Everything is Tolkien's, not mine (except for Daeron and Laedren)

Another Thing That Didn't Happen To Daeron Greyvale

By Dancingkatz

Daeron looked up at the sword pointed at his heart and sighed. "Why can't I get that counter?" he complained as the weapon was lowered and a strong hand was held out in assistance. He took the offered hand and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet, then ruefully looked round for where his sword had landed after having been knocked out of his hands for what seemed like the fifth time in as many minutes.

"You were closer that time, Daeron, but you're still keeping your wrist too rigid. If you don't relax it, you'll either end up with either a broken wrist or weaponless." His instructor gave him a gentle shove towards the bench at the side of the training ground. "I think that's enough for today. You'll get it eventually."

"Not before I have to leave, no matter how many hours you're willing to work with me in the meantime." Daeron paused to pick up his sword, automatically checked to see that it had taken no harm from its flight and landing, and then slid it home into its scabbard before collapsing onto the bench with a groan, rubbing his right wrist gingerly.

"Let me look at it." The same hands that had just expertly disarmed him gently examined the joint. "I am sorry. It appears to be a sprain but it should be looked at by someone more experienced in the healing arts than I."

"It's not your fault. Adar is always telling me that I need to relax my wrist and let the rest of my arm do the work. It will be fine in a few days," Daeron hissed as his companion's probing fingers touched a particularly tender spot.

"'It will be fine in few weeks' is more like it. This is not a new injury. Come. To the house with you--and don't argue."

Daeron found himself steered out of the training ground and across the courtyard to the main steps of the house and in the hands of the healers despite his insistence that he didn't need anything but some cold water to bathe his wrist and a few days rest from weapons work.

He sat on the bed scowling as his arm was bound, splinted and placed in a sling, completely unappreciative of the scolding parental tone of the healer and the amused expression of his morning's companion when the door to the room opened.

"Daeron? What happened? Erestor brought a message that you were hurt."

"Glorfindel happened," Daeron returned, glaring at the tall golden-haired elf who stood against the wall of the small sunlit room with his arms folded across his chest.

Glorfindel gave a short laugh then sobered and turned stern eyes on the young man. "Had I known that your wrist was injured I would never have invited you to train with me."

At those words, grey eyes narrowed and the newcomer frowned. "Daeron, what did I tell you…"

Immediately, Daeron lost his posture of rigid irritability and his shoulders slumped and his head dropped as he stared at the floor. "I'm sorry. It's just—"

"You couldn't resist the idea of learning from the famous Balrog-slayer could you?"

"No." Daeron sounded more like a child of eleven years than a 20 year old soldier and his listeners had to fight to keep their faces appropriately stern.

The healer poured out a noxious looking cordial into a dosing cup and held it out to his patient. "Drink it, tithen pen."

If Daeron looked irritable before, now his expression was downright hostile but a glance at the other occupants of the room forestalled any intended refusal. He handed the empty cup back to the healer who left the room after warning Daeron that he was not to use the arm at all for at least a fortnight and definitely not until it had been looked over by a healer again.

"I'm sorry," Daeron said again after several long minutes of uncomfortable silence.

"I'm sure you are but you know what I said about hiding injuries," Boromir told him. "Go to your room and stay there until I summon you. And tomorrow," he glanced at Glorfindel. "If Lord Glorfindel is amenable, you will continue having lessons with him… in Quenya."

Both the Captain-General of Gondor and the former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower couldn't help but laugh at Daeron's groan of pure misery at his sentence.