The Measure of a Man
Chapter One
The Captain General
"Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trail and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved." Helen Keller
Boromir held his breath as he sunk beneath the surface of his bath in the bathing chamber he shared with his younger brother, Faramir. Each of their apartments opened onto this room from opposite sides. The bath, a huge, sunken affair created for the Númenóreans, was over ten feet long. He surfaced with a sputter, shaking his head like one of Denethor's hounds, and sending water droplets in every direction.
"Whoa brother," laughed sixteen year old Faramir, entering the chamber. "Do you mean to shower me?"
"Good morning, sleepy head," Boromir answered, without missing a beat. "What are you doing awake at such an evil hour. It is not even noon yet. Have you abandoned the academy so soon then?"
"Har, har," snarked the fox-haired sibling. "You know that I would not miss your commissioning. I have been up most of the night completing my assigned tasks so that I might be permitted absence from the troop's company this day."
Boromir caught the unusual tremor in his brother's voice. "What is it, Gingersnap? Something is amiss."
The young man ducked his head, formulating his thoughts as his brother stepped up the three stairs to exit the tub and wrapped a towel around his trim waist.
"You will be Captain General of Gondor's armies and Warden of the White Tower."
"Yes, and…"
"What will it mean between us?" stammered the younger brother. "You shall be my commanding officer."
"Faramir," soothed Boromir, taking the boy into his arms, for since their mother's death when Faramir was but five, Boromir had undertaken to fill the void in the child's life, even though he himself was only ten at the time. "Put away that worry, young one. Nothing shall ever come betwixt us."
"Well, in that case then..." Lightening quick, Faramir pushed his brother backwards. The soon-to-be Captain General did an undignified back flop into the tub, sending a spray of water over both sides.
Faramir was holding his sides laughing when a hand rose from the steamy mist to jerk him, fully clothed, into the tub.
"Now who is caught out?" laughed Boromir, as Faramir resurfaced sputtering and coughing.
"Now what will I do?" lamented Faramir. "My spare uniform is in the barracks! One simply may not attend break of fast with the Steward bare arsed!"
"Ah," considered Boromir. "A valuable lesson you have learned this day, Cadet Faramir. Never begin what you are ill prepared to finish!" Sniggering, Boromir once more emerged from the tub and dropped the now sopping towel onto the edge. "Pull yonder bath stop there, squab."
"If yonder bath stop were only harder, one might find it hitting one in the head!"
"Temper, temper," chided Boromir, still chuckling. "Come, it would not be inappropriate for a cadet to attend a private break of fast with his loving father and brother in his court robes rather than his academy uniform."
O-o-O-o-O
"Get up, you lazy cur!"
The lash landing across his bare back accompanied the customary morning greeting. Hammok, son of Rohan, now a slave of Harad, came quickly to his knees, bowing in acknowledgment of his master's call. Since his thirteenth year, the year of his majority, he had been a slave. Now sixteen, Hamm hated his lot more than ever and dreamed of the day he might once again see freedom. Freedom...how little he had considered the word until it was taken from him.
Hadon used the handle of his whip to lift the boy's face. With white-blonde hair framing cobalt blue eyes that were startling in their clarity, this slave was too valuable to mar. As always, Hadon's groin twitched when he considered his property. That Hammok was his, lifted his status and made him the envy of every man in his tribe.
Shouting from outside his opulent tent rudely interrupted Hadon's baser thoughts. "What now," he growled, striding quickly through the flapped opening. Fights were not uncommon amongst the Haradrim troop led by Hadon. They were a violent lot, fostered in the baking heat of Harad, one of the harshest environments in Middle-earth. They lived hard, and they fought hard. Nomadic by nature, this tribe survived by raiding, stealing and occasionally trading. Rape, murder, and torture were simply the sports that their occupation gifted them. Slaves were their most lucrative trade goods, hence Hadon's ownership of the boy in his tent. What a stroke of genius it was to have increased their range to the lower reaches of Rohan, he mused. Fair hair always brought more coin to his purse from the buyers.
Hamm released the breath he had been holding as soon as the monster left the tent. Mornings too often brought the enforced intimacy that he so dreaded. The lad's only escape was in the dreams of home he kept fostered deep within his breast and in the hatred that fed his spirit. Raised in Rohan, Hamm very carefully reconstructed in his mind the modest home he shared with his parents. His father, a trader from Gondor, had fallen in love with his mother at first sight. Margreta could not bear to leave the Mark, so Andol had chosen to remain in Rohan with her.
For his first thirteen years, Hamm traveled with his parents between Gondor and Rohan as his father peddled his wares. The little family happily spent winters back in their cabin in the Westfold. It was a good life until the day the Haradrim raiders fell upon their small party of four wagons. The men had been burned alive, and the three women - his mother included - had provided sport while the boy was forced to watch. Hamm still had nightmares in which he could hear the screams and smell the charred flesh.
Quickly, he pulled his mind back to his duties before Hadon reappeared. So far his beatings had been short lived, probably because the bully did not wish to scar his skin. Hamm guessed that whether or not Hadon would one day tire of him and sell him in the markets was still up for debate. Hamm hoped and prayed that he would be sold, for being pawed by the man who had murdered his parents was too much to stomach. One day, Béma grant, he would avenge them.
Hamm quickly folded up the blankets to Hadon's bed, and then built a fire in the center of the tent beneath the venting hole. It was his job to cook his master's meal before breaking down the tent and preparing for the day's move. From the sounds without, Hadon had forced an end to whatever fracas his men had been involved in, but now that allowed the moans and cries of the slaves being held in the pen outside to penetrate Hamm's consciousness, no matter how hard he tried to block them out. Savagely, Hadon's tribe typically murdered – in the vilest way possible – all the adults the Haradrim found, preferring the ease of transporting children to the slave market. Comely maidens and lads were his best sellers, but young ones also fetched a good price for the years of service they might offer.
Leaving the tent to gather water, Hamm averted his eyes from the slave pen. He had learned from long experience it did not do to become attached with those poor souls bound for the markets, for when the inevitable parting came, it was all the worse. It broke his heart anew when they cried out to him for aid, especially the little ones. How many children of Rohan and Gondor had this troop stolen? Hamm longed to free them...to hold them and tell them that all would be well, but it was a lie. They were forsaken, as he was forsaken.
O-o-O-o-O
After break-fast with Boromir and his father, Faramir had raced to the Academy barracks on the lower level to retrieve his uniform. He took quite a ribbing from the other cadets when he was seen in the courtly robes. His cheeks still rosy from rushing back up to the Citadel, Faramir stood proudly to the side of the Steward's chair as Boromir knelt before Denethor and the other members of the ruling council. The cadet's eyes stole up to the golden crown suspended over the King's throne. If ever there was one, he mused, this man – his brother – was worthy enough to be a king.
Tall and well-muscled, Boromir was resplendent in his silver armor with the White Tree of Gondor etched on the chest, the perfect compliment to his imposing persona. This was a man that the soldiers of Gondor would follow unquestioningly. His broad sword hung at his side. Three inches wide, it required great strength of arm to wield, and was perfectly crafted for Boromir's might.
As usual, Boromir's bowed head was bare of helm. His green eyes danced with delight as he kissed the hexagonal silver ring set with obsidian and marked with a golden star. With a heart-stopping smile, he favored his father with a wink for his eyes only.
Denethor's noble face reflected the pride he felt for his son. Even on this day of celebration, the Steward wore a full-mail hauberk under his sable robe. Denethor himself had been a fine commander of men. Upon laying down the sword, when he took up the White Scepter of the Stewardship, he none-the-less had an iron will, and forced himself to carry the weight of the hauberk as his own personal statement of fitness. He stood to make the announcement to the gathered nobles. "Rise, newly gazetted Captain General of Gondor."
As the assembled guests applauded, Denethor held up a hand for silence. "Peace." When the guests quieted, he turned loving eyes to his younger son. "Lord Faramir, Cadet of the Academy, bring forth the Standard."
Faramir reached behind him for the poled banner. He carried it forward and, with a bow, offered it to his father.
Denethor took the standard and presented it to Boromir. "From this day forth, this shall be the Standard of the Captain General of Gondor, Warden of the White Tower." The standard, white like all the others of Gondor, displayed the White Tower, quartered with the Horn of Gondor, the White Tree, and the Swan Ship of Dol Amroth.
Speechless, Boromir took the standard. His eyes conveyed to his father and brother the deep message that his lips could not formulate.
Denethor then led his sons out of the Citadel to be met by the people they both had sworn to protect with their lives. As the magnificent carved doors were opened, the gathered assembly broke into thunderous cheers of adoration for their ruling family. Denethor removed himself to stand beside Faramir as Boromir stepped forward to greet the gathered troops and populace. He noted that his personal standard was interspersed with those of the Steward and Gondor's all along the length of the embrasure, snapping crisply in the stout breeze. The sunlit sky was nearly cloudless, for the prevailing winds blew the sludge of Mordor back to its own borders, as though Eru smiled approval upon the happy event.
Boromir embraced his new position with the confidence and leadership that had marked his entire life. "People of Gondor, I shrink not from this appointment; I welcome it. Our land stands between Mordor and all the peoples of Middle-earth. It is our blood that spills upon the ground for all. The light of the White City will shine forth to destroy the darkness. On my strength, my honor, my life, we shall prevail!
TBC
My thanks to Evendim for the use of her world of characters and for her continued encouragement. Boromir's standard is her creation.