Yes, this fic is all about Galad. An experimental character piece, if you will. Trom, in case you don't recall, is his Whitecloak buddy who was first introduced in tFoH.

Oh, and I arbitrarily decided that "shield mates" was the Whitecloack equivalent of the White Tower's term "pillow friends." But there's none of that in this ficlet.

Disclaimer: I own it all. No, really, I do.

Trom was shivering violently as he pulled himself out of the river and back on to (relatively) dry ground. As he hurriedly donned his clothes, he reflected that taking a dip in the River Manertherendrelle at the crack of dawn to wash away several days' worth of dust and sweat may not have been the smartest idea. Still, it was good to be clean again.

It was a good twenty minutes' walk back to camp, since he'd chosen his bathing spot well upriver of where the Children were doing what washing could be done before they broke camp. The sun was barely clear of the horizon in the east, but already the air had warmed considerably, and Trom was very nearly warm by the time he made it back to camp.

As he passed, Children greeted him with casual salutes, not pausing from their tasks. He noted with surprise that several seemed to be mending harnesses.

"Trom!"

He turned with a grin for Sorren Ferral, another officer and fellow Amadician with dark shaggy hair to his shoulders and a ready smile that only the presence of Darkfriends could dampen. As soon as Sorren was close enough, Trom clapped him on the arm. "How goes the day?"

"The captain has ordered a rest day," Sorren replied with a merry twinkle in his brown eyes. "And a meeting with the officers within the hour, so you'd best get yourself presentable." That with a raised brow and pointed glance at his unlaced shirt and unbuttoned coat. Trom just shrugged, unabashed; being presentable was never something that had concerned him overmuch.

He left Sorren with a wave, but let his pace pick up a little as he approached the tent. He was not concerned with his appearance, but the Lord Captain surely was. He was almost hurrying by the time he ducked into the tent he shared with three other officers.

Two of his tent mates had already departed, leaving their bedrolls down and the contents of their saddlebags strewn about. The news had reached all over the camp, it seemed. The remaining officer, however, had neatly rolled his bedding and tucked it into the corner, and his saddlebags were neatly packed, but for a few items.

Galad Damodred knelt on the ground next to his bedroll, a small mirror resting atop the bedding to be peered in to as Galad straightened his collar. The younger man looked up at Trom's entrance, and his reproachful expression was more eloquent than words ever could be.

Trom couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. Galad disliked things that weren't orderly, appearances included. "Morning, Galad."

"Good morning, Trom." Large, cool dark eyes fixed on his own. "I hope you don't intend to go to the officers' meeting like that." Not a hint of disapproval entered his tone, but after almost two months in his company, Trom had gotten quite good (in his opinion, at least) at reading Galad.

"Of course not, my fine young friend." Crossing the tent, he dropped down onto the ground next to Galad, folding his legs beneath him. "I just knew if I waited long enough, you would fix it for me."

That earned him a smile, though a restrained one. Galad's smiles were always restrained. Everything about Galad was restrained. Trom sometimes wondered if the younger man was even capable of doing anything impulsively. Galad made even the stuffiest Cairhien seem loose and easy-going by comparison. Many found his manner off-putting; Galad was a stickler for rules, and would not engage in any behaviors he thought of as "excessive." Still, Trom quite liked the lad.

"Really, Trom, it's ill-mannered of you to expect others to do for you what you're so plainly unwilling to do for yourself." A touch of asperity entered his tone, but his eyes were crinkled in amusement.

Galad's eyes were the most expressive part about him. Even when his face was as expressionless as a stone, Trom found that usually something about his eyes would give his thoughts away. Those eyes had intrigued him right from the start; dark pools that were still on the surface, but ran deep. Trom fancied that sometimes he saw shadows pass across them, some hidden pain that drove Galad to do what he did, and be what he was.

But with Galad, who could tell? The man was about as talkative as Trom's horse. Less so, actually.

"It will be nice to spend the day relaxing," Trom said conversationally. "Although it will delay our arrival to the Fortress of the Light." He couldn't help the awe in his voice when he added, "Wait till you see the Dome of Truth, Galad. It's truly amazing."

"So you've said," Galad replied with a small smile. "Several times, I believe." The younger man unstoppered a small jar and wet one hand lightly with the contents. A thick oil, Trom knew, scented ever so lightly with cinnamon. Galad rubbed it onto both hands, then scrubbed them vigorously through his black hair.

The oil was to weigh down Galad's silken hair and keep it hanging straight. Trom, however, preferred Galad's hair as it was now, in the mornings: entirely unruly, curling at the nape of his neck and around his ears. It fit him better, somehow, though unruly was not a word one would usually associate with Galad.

The dark-haired young man picked up his comb and began pulling it through his hair. Trom couldn't restrain a soft sigh. Silence hung heavily between them for a few moments before Galad spoke.

"It will be nice to have a rest day." He put the comb down, examining himself critically in the small mirror. Their tent mates thought him vain; Trom, however, knew that Galad couldn't care less about how pretty he looked, only that his appearance was neat and orderly. Light, after a day's hard ride in the saddle, Galad still appeared as neat and fresh (or nearly so) as when they had mounted that morning. "All my clothes are in desperate need of a good wash and repair. It's disgraceful."

Trom gave the younger man a wry look; the uniform he wore looked nearly as bright as the day he had received it, and there didn't appear to be so much as a single speck of dust (much less a stain!) on the garment. It was as if the dust itself feared to sully Galad's purity by touching upon the clothes he wore. Trom's own uniform was in a sorry state, in comparison. A man would have to stare long and hard to spot the mends of the cuffs of Galad's coat and along the hem of his trousers. Trom only knew they were there because Galad had been mending them the night before. It was remarkable: as a pampered prince in the Royal Palace of Caemlyn, Galad had never learned to mend his own clothes, yet barely two months with the Children and his stitches were as small and even as any seamstress'. Trom's were clumsy in comparison, for all that he had taught the other man the skill.

Satisfied at last, Galad stoppered the jar and carefully placed his things into the saddlebag, as neatly and precisely as he did everything else. "The tent needs mending, as well," he said softly as he buckled the saddlebag.

Trom cast his eyes about, but could see no tears. "If you say so, Galad." The young Andoran had a way of spotting imperfections that no one else would ever have noticed. Trom sometimes wondered why the men under Galad hadn't rebelled already, the way he was constantly on them to repair and organize things, themselves included. Then again, it wasn't so surprising. Despite having gotten off to a poor start—many of the Children had resented his quick rise through the ranks—Galad had quickly become popular, perhaps more for his fairness than for his sense of duty. The mutterings had quickly ceased, and the slanderous rumors that Galad had used his beauty to gain rank (though it was well known that Lord Captain Daeim had a taste for women: many and often) never truly got a foothold among the Children. Trom himself had seen to that last.

Finished, Galad shifted on his knees until he faced Trom fully. "It really is ill-mannered of you," he murmured, reaching out to grasp the laces of Trom's shirt. He did not look upset about it.

Trom surrendered himself to Galad's ministrations with pleasure. Many of the Children assumed that he and Galad were shieldmates because of Galad's fastidious attention to Trom's appearance. Trom knew that it was just Galad's way: he liked to tidy things, and if you were his friend, he would tidy you, too.

As far as Trom knew, he was the only person Galad ever tidied.

When Trom's shirt and coat were straightened, Galad moved on to his hair. Taking Trom's brush, he worked out the tangles with gentle, firm strokes until Trom's hair lay as flat and orderly as it ever would. Galad had offered the use of his hair oil once, but Trom had no interest in improving his appearance. Although it would be nice to attract more attention from women (an impossibility when Galad was around; the only downside to being his friend).

Scooting back, Galad surveyed his handiwork with a critical eye. "It will do," he said with a small smile. "At least you don't look like a complete savage, now."

"Only half a savage?" Trom queried with a grin.

"Mm-hmm." The humor faded from Galad's eyes. "I wonder what the Lord Captain wants to speak to us about."

"Dragonsworn, probably." They had passed a steady stream of Dragonsworn while coming south, and the further they got, the more there were. They'd had difficulties the previous day with a few bands of them. "It's a pity we're not being sent against that false Dragon in Tear. Althere?"

"Al'Thor," Galad corrected softly, rising. "Rand al'Thor." The younger man remained half bent over, brushing off his trousers. Trom didn't see any dirt. "What makes you think he's a false Dragon?"

Trom was taken aback. Galad was not the credulous sort who would believe in a man who proclaimed himself the Dragon Reborn. "Even if the man can channel--"

"The Prophecies, Trom," Galad interjected. "He's taken the Stone of Tear. Aes Sedai have confirmed it."

"He could be a puppet--"

"Believe what you will about Aes Sedai, but they've been looking forward to the Dragon being reborn about as much as the Children have." Galad straightened, as much as he could in the low tent. A frown marred his features. "I have little love for the White Tower, but I can't believe they would do something so... so..."

"I know what you mean." Trom nearly spat, but clamped his lips shut at the last moment. Galad was death on anyone spitting in his presence. "I don't hold with the witches, but... I doubt all of them could be Darkfriends." That was perilously close to treason, among the Children, but Trom knew he was far from the only one who thought it.

Galad nodded, no longer frowning. "I doubt there are any more Darkfriends among the Aes Sedai than among everyone else. But you don't have to be a Darkfriend to do bad things."

It was Trom's turn to nod. "Still, this Al'Thor..."

"May be the only one who can stand against the Dark One at Tarmon Gai'don. The Light help us all." The younger man shook his dark head. "Unpleasant thoughts. I'm going now, Trom. Are you ready?"

"Ah..." He scrubbed a hand through his dark brown hair, grinning sheepishly. "I still need to change my stockings. I've been wearing them for..." He held up a hand, ticking off fingers. The look of complete disgust on Galad's face before he realized Trom was joking was priceless. The young man shook his head again, ruefully this time, then ducked out of the tent.

Trom stared after him for several long moments before yanking off his boots. Galad was, in Trom's mind, the epitome of everything the Children of the Light should be: he was strong, confident, fair, and determined to do the right thing, no matter if tradition might dictate otherwise. He didn't doubt that Galad would someday claim the title of Lord Captain Commander. Already he stood apart from the other Children, cool and aloof and full of righteousness and and purity and the desire to make the world a better place. He seemed beyond his fellow man, standing within a flawed world, yet apart from it.

Trom was honored to be his friend. And—selfishly—a little grateful that he was Galad's only friend.