Author's Note: This was inspired by the Boromir's explanation that only he, Faramir and two other men escaped the rout at Osgiliath and a private challenge from a friend to write a story showing an LOTR canon character from the point of view of a silent "spear carrier". I wondered who the other two men were. I've decided that one of these men was his former squire, Daeron (my OC). There are 12 chapters planned but any one of them can stand on it's own and they will be posted as soon as they are edited. Reviews are welcome but not required as I do not think it right to blackmail my readers.
(This story is also posted at the Open Scrolls Archive)
Many thanks to my sister RowanRhys for her encouragement and beta-reading.
Disclaimer:"The Lord of the Rings" and any familiar characters, places and descriptions are copyright to the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien and New Line Cinemas. The original characters Daeron and Halmir are copyright to myself.
Through Daeron's Eyes: First Meeting
by Dancingkatz
I've always wanted to be one of the Tower Guard, like my father. He was tall, and in the sable and silver livery of the Guard, looked to me like one of the statues of the Men that stood along the walls of the Citadel come to life. I longed to be old enough to join the boys who spent the afternoons in the training yards, learning to wield sword and shield, bow and mace. I lived for stories of battles and valor. Many times I'd sneak down from my room at night and sit in the corridor outside my father's study and listen to him and his fellow officers talk of the exploits of the Guard over their wine. I still remember the feeling of the chill of the stone wall against my 5-year old back the first time I dared this. It hadn't taken long before any discomforts were forgotten as my imagination painted glorious pictures from the words I heard.
As soon as I was old enough and clever enough to escape my tutor, I'd sneak off to the practice yards and watch the Guard companies training. In my free time I made a wooden sword and tried to imitate what I'd seen. I must have looked a fool to anyone who might have seen me flailing away at imaginary foes in my mother's garden. But it hadn't mattered then and I suppose it doesn't really matter now. I'm certain I wasn't the only boy in the City enamored of the idea of wearing the winged helm.
After I'd been listening to my father and his companions for some time, I realised that I overheard a particular name over and over again: Lord Boromir, the eldest son of the Steward. The stories mentioning him made even the actions of my brave father seem tame. A wish grew in my heart to one day meet this epitome of a soldier... and to be like him.
The first time I saw him he was riding at the head of his men as they returned from what I now know was a successful sortie against the orcs in Ithilien. At the time I didn't notice the bloodstains, sweat and dirt--much less the bandages--on many of the returning men. Nor did I notice the horses with empty saddles. I could be forgiven this, I suppose; seven year old boys only notice the things they want to. Besides, my eyes were fixed on the Steward's son. Tall, and looking every inch the hero of my daydreams, he rode a dark grey warhorse, and seemed a figure out of legends. If I'd had any doubts about what I wanted my future to be, the sight of Lord Boromir turned them to dust.
I'd like to say that the first time I met him I impressed him with my skill and strength. But it didn't happen that way.
My best friend Halmir had managed to get hold of two long knives that belonged to his elder brother. He had the idea that instead of practicing with our wooden swords we could use the knives, which were more than long enough for us to use as swords. Had I any sense I wouldn't have agreed to the idea, but how many arms-struck 8-year olds have any sense? My tutor was asleep in the coolness of his room and the leaves of the fruit trees my mother loved so much shielded us from the view of anyone in the house.
All went well until Halmir slipped during a lunge and the point of his knife scraped across my lowered makeshift shield and went into my unprotected shoulder.
I don't remember now if I screamed. I don't remember falling to the ground. I do remember that I was surprised how much it hurt.
Halmir gasped, scrambled to his feet and ran yelling towards the house and after that things got noisy and confusing. I remember my mother wailing and someone, I think it might have been my tutor, cursing fluently. Someone else was arguing about whether to pull the knife out or not. Halmir was standing nearby, staring at me and crying. Messengers were sent off…
Hasty footsteps echoed off the walls of the courtyard and the healer arrived accompanied by my father and two other men. I'd never seen my father look the way he did that day. His face was pale and stricken when he knelt by my side and that frightened me more than the pain and blood when the healer removed the knife from my shoulder.
It wasn't until they lifted me to a stretcher to be carried inside that I realized one of the men who had arrived with my father and helped hold me still while the healer stitched up my shoulder was Lord Boromir.
If I could have turned invisible and run away I would have. I was completely mortified and the burgeoning worry about what my father would have to say about the events of that afternoon was as nothing compared to my embarrassment. There's nothing that could be worse to an 8-year old boy than being seen crying his eyes out by his hero.
A little over a week later I was on my feet again with my arm in a sling. Halmir was avoiding me as though I had the plague, and someone had cleaned up the courtyard. The only sign of the event in question was a large darkened patch on the flagstones. I sat on the low wall that separated the western side of the court from the garden, purportedly to do my assigned history reading in the sunshine, and found I couldn't take my eyes off it. The healer hadn't been silent about how close I came to bleeding to death though he may not have realized I was still awake when he said it.
I didn't look up when I heard the footsteps approaching since I thought it was probably one of the people my mother had set to keep watch on me once I was allowed out of bed. So I was startled when an unfamiliar hand squeezed my good shoulder gently.
"I can tell you from experience that it doesn't do to dwell on it."
I tried to stand but he waved me back to my seat. "L-Lord Boromir…"
Some minutes later when he rose and strode down the path that led to the door to the house, and presumably continued out to the street, my eyes and mind weren't on the bloodstained flagstones or on the book that remained unopened on my lap.
He'd told me I'd been brave.