AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have no idea why this story was taken down by fanfiction, but it was taken down. I am reposting it, and I will continue writing for it due to my fondness for the characters. Enjoy, and do review!
A peculiar ranger captain, commanding a rowdy garrison of Southwestern Ithilien men, is reassigned to Osgiliath with his subordinates, finding himself serving under Faramir and his elder, Captain-General brother. The man would rather be reading books and harassing Haradrim at his former post than combating orcs from Mordor with the Steward-sons. But as time passes, the Steward-sons begin to question the captain's personal background. Will they come to learn something from this quirky, book-reading man? Is he a man at all?
Chapter One: Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse
3018th Year of the Third Age; Osgiliath, early spring...
He first saw him in Osgiliath.
Faramir and his brother, Boromir, had just returned to the ruin city from Minas Tirith. The Steward had given them his orders, and the usual dose of barely concealed contempt had been shot towards his youngest heir. Boromir, ever the well-meaning elder brother Faramir deserved, had attempted to steer Denethor's attention away from his sibling; little success had been achieved. Faramir took the verbal abuse, much like he had throughout his childhood, with his head bowed slightly and lips kept in a solid line. Thankfully, the two Steward-sons were now miles away from their less-than-stellar parent. Boromir, as soon as he had dismounted from his steed, immediately vanished into the loud bustle of crowding soldiers. Faramir simply stared after him, fondly, shaking his head amusedly. A young man, somewhere around his seventeenth winter, awkwardly held the reins of Boromir's monstrous warhorse.
"Lord Boromir seems rushed today, milord," commented the teen, unbidden words tumbling from his mouth. He was blushing too, most likely embarrassed before the higher-ranked Steward-son. The armor which he wore was badly fitted for his size, the shoulder guards sculpted for a broader set of shoulders. The young man still had short hair too, adding further to the youthful image. Faramir was hit with feelings of pity, but only in passing. Brother and I served at such an age; I cannot criticize him.
"And you cannot blame him," Faramir returned, easily slipping from his equine's saddle. "Even the slightest use of time away from this place is a loss of time that can cost us dearly."
The youngster jerked his head up and down, understanding but uncomfortable. "M-May I take your horse, milord?"
Faramir nodded, throwing a smile, thanking the nervous teenage soldier. He stood watching the lad maneuver the animals off to where the rest of the mounts were housed, thoughtful. He turned thereafter, walking about the broken stone and sloshing water of the ruined city to find his elder sibling. Faramir passed small groups of resting soldiers and Ithilien rangers, most of whom tucked themselves into dry crevices or atop fractured walls fully armored, who greeted the youngest heir to the Steward upon seeing him. The man bowed his head in return repeatedly, but did not loiter, taken with curiosity as to what had transpired while he and Boromir had been in Minas Tirith with their father.
"Hail, Lord Faramir!"
The leader of the Ithilien Rangers swiveled on his wet leathered heels, meeting the sight of his trusted friend and guard briskly moving through the heavy mob of armored Gondorians.
"Ah, Damrod! Well met, my friend. I am searching for my brother, but he seems to elude me."
"He is speaking to a number of the captains, last I saw. Seeing Boromir in Osgiliath oft' means you must be here as well, so I left to seek you out."
"I see. Do you have news of what has occurred during our absence?"
Damrod gave a short nod, gesturing at his charge to walk with him. Without a word, Faramir obeyed, the two swiftly moving through the dilapidation and debris. Soldiers parted for the pair as they rushed.
"Much has happened, Faramir," began Damrod. "A score of orcs ambushed a garrison of rangers stationed on the front lines during the twilight hour, three days after you and your brother had set off for the White City. Somehow the devils managed to sneak across the river, but thankfully Gárwine's soldiers stopped them from getting farther than the riverbank. When we sent a messenger off with the tidings, he returned with new orders from the Steward: to relocate rangers stationed close to the crossings of Poros here to take the place of the men we lost. They have arrived just this morning, and Poros demands the garrison be brought back, or to assign suitable replacements for support. They are appallingly undermanned after Lord Denethor relocated the ranger garrison."
"Relocated?!" cried out Faramir, shocked at his father's decision. The Steward hadn't told either of his heirs anything of such a decision, and the idea his own parent was distrusting of both himself and Boromir greatly troubled him. "The Easterlings still continue to pressure us there, hoping to sneak into lower Ithilien and attack Osgiliath from the south whilst we fend off the darkness of Mordor on the east banks."
Damrod shrugged helplessly, looking less than pleased with the news himself. His dark eyebrows were pinched, grey eyes not very enthused. "What was done is done, milord. I am not the Steward's keeper, and never will. Since they are ranger folk, they fall to your command at this current time. They have been sitting about with their horses for hours, awaiting orders from their commander."
Faramir stared at his comrade, pursing his lips in a frustrated fashion before huffing out an equally frustrated breath. The youngest Steward-son wondered to God how Denethor was his father, though only quietly to himself. Boromir would be slighted if he said such things aloud.
"Where are these new rangers? I wish to meet them, if they are in fact under my direct command now."
"Of course," Damrod said easily as they walked on through the clutter of armed Gondorians, "Where do you believe I have been leading you all this time?"
The corners of Faramir's lips twitched with wry amusement. "I know not how you think, Damrod, contrary to common belief. I am no elf, despite the tall tales that circulate of me."
His personal guard chuckled, "Indeed! Faramir, Captain-Commander of the Ithilien rangers, son of the Steward, would-be prince of Gondor, and so great a warrior, the men can only give the excuse of the possibility that elvish blood must run through your veins!"
The pair laughed, strolling into one of the many debris-ridden courtyards of stone found within the scrawl of the demolished city. It was not as jammed with bodies as other areas inhabited by the forces of Gondor, but soldiers nonetheless loitered in the cool shade of the ruins while trying to keep their feet above water. It seemed as though Osgiliath would always be partially flooded because of the bloated Anduin river, though there were islands of dryness in some more elevated parts of the dead wreckage. The two men wandered past a decimated fountain centered in the middle of the open space, finding themselves standing upon a large dry patch riddled with crumbled rock. Little puddles of filthy water dotted the ground, but most of the rubble kept the water away.
Men, lounging indolently around on the larger stone masses with their horses standing about in huddled groups, immediately stumbled to attention at the sight of Faramir. Pipes were clumsily shuffled away into pockets or jerkins. Carved bone dice and coinage was rapidly hidden under cloaks, a desperate attempt to disguise the fact a few of them had been gambling. Some hurriedly stuffed thin rolls of parchment into their clothes, fingers stained by charcoal dust. The Steward-son's countenance wrinkled in bewilderment at the sight of the motley bunch of hunters before him, as it was the only reasonable action in the face of such a large crew of scoundrels.
There were forty-five odd in number, dressed much like any ranger would be but with obvious discrepancies. A couple of them, beyond their leather jerkins and standard cloaks, wore coats of questionably eastern origin. The fine weave, the intricate patterns, the vibrant colors, and the camel hide-lining made them warm but earnestly not Gondorian. Some of the men simply wore no cloak, draping themselves in wide scarf-shawls or vests made from eastern animal furs. One or two rangers had bandanas wrapped about their heads, by God! Even flashes of eastern jewelry could be seen, such as a ring or an earring. Weapons too, judging by the strange feathers used for arrow fletchings or the curved nature of assorted sword sheaths. It would be wrong to say that Faramir wasn't surprised; the Steward-son was speechless.
But there was one man who stood out amongst the―what could one call them?―misfits. He sat atop the largest boulder in the courtyard, posture straight and attentive. Brunette hair fell in frenzied waves to his shoulders, face surprisingly lacking in facial hair and youthful. If he stood, Faramir reckoned he'd be only two inches or so shorter than he. A thin braid could be seen amidst the man's hair, falling farther down than his shoulder to the bottom edges of his ribcage. The end was secured with a number of beads, some gold and others painted ceramic. The young ranger wore no eastern clothes, showed no sign of wearing eastern finery (not counting the beads in his strange little braid), and did not seem bothered by Faramir's presence. His eyes, which were a startling hazel mixture, met Faramir's calmly. In his hands, a weathered book was open. The cover was strangely designed, with words displayed upon it in a language the Steward-son did not know. The man's horse, a patchy brown mare, stood at the base of the boulder with saddlebags looking ready to burst.
"Who is in charge of this squadron?" called Faramir, glancing around at the rag-tag group of rangers. Awkwardly, they stared at him, not volunteering any viable information as they shifted where they stood.
"That would be me, sir."
The young man the Steward-son had previously noticed raised his arm with book in hand. His voice was at an interim between a somewhat high pitch and boy-like. It was nearly effeminate, yet deep. Very young for his station, this one. Faramir never thought he'd be so continually surprised as much as he was that day.
Blinking his grey eyes, "May I ask for your name?"
The youth smirked, closing his―was that parchment?―bound book. "You may indeed, sir. I am Istuion, son of none. Behind me somewhere is my second, Ohtar, son of Erland."
An older-looking man, wearing a paisley blue scarf-shawl and three golden studs in his right ear, nodded in Faramir's direction. The crows feet about his blue eyes and the weathered creases on his brow showed his late middle age. He had a short peppered beard, and a hint of a tattoo crawled around his neck, shaped like a swallow in mid-flight.
"Istuion? That is an elvish name," commented the Steward-son, glancing away from the strangely tattooed ranger to the young captain.
"That it is, sir. The man who took me in had a fondness for the fair languages. He swears to this day I have slightly poked ears too."
The weak jest went unappreciated by Faramir and Damrod, but the rest of the garrison chuckled at the attempted humor, including Ohtar. Damrod, known for his tempestuous bearing, could not keep himself quiet any longer.
"Why is your garrison dressed like a rabble of Easterlings?"
Somebody choked on their poorly-hidden pipe uncomfortably, and Istuion's lips thinned with an abrupt lack of amusement. His book was stuffed under his jerkin. "Do you have a problem with my men dressing a little warmer than normal?" He challenged. The sarcasm was heavy in his tone.
Damrod huffed, mildly affronted at the retort. Faramir moved in to stop the argument before it started. "I may not have a problem with it," he said, "But the Captain-General will." Boromir had to make sure their father's will was carried out, and the Steward did not support exchanges over enemy lines beyond killing blows. Faramir, by extension, had to do the same.
"Even if the eastern goods are spoils of a successful repelling of enemies?" tried the youth, twisting his face in a childishly pleading fashion. It seemed almost mocking, but the playful glint in Istuion's eyes belied that.
Faramir gave the young captain an unamused look. "Even then."
Istuion heaved a questionably dramatic sigh, his unique muddled eyes yet again giving away his thoughts at the subtle order. The young man wasn't pleased.
He turned his head tiredly towards his men, "Alright, you heard him!" He bellowed, "Stow it all!"
Groans, sighs, and not-so-quiet curses rose up from the misfit garrison. Coats, rings, and other eastern finery were stripped from their bodies and shoved into saddlebags or packs. Istuion's second, Ohtar, reluctantly shed his scarf-shawl. With it removed, the swallow tattoo became more obvious, as well as revealing carefully inked branches just peaking out from his jerkin. Damrod and Faramir exchanged a look before turning their gazes back to Istuion.
"Why did you let your men wear eastern garb?" wondered Faramir.
The young captain hopped off from his perch atop the boulder nimbly, landing before the Steward-son with his cloak flapping wildly behind him. "It's a bit of a tale, sir. Guarding the crossings of Poros is not an average post when compared to the madness that goes on here with the Orcs."
"And how is that outpost any different from any other ranger posting?" Damrod said sternly.
"There are two―no, excuse me, three―types of Haradrim that wish to cross the Poros, sir. The Harad who wish to trade, the Harad who wish to kill, and the Harad who are loyal to the Blue Wizards," explained the youth. The look in his mercurial-colored eyes told them he felt like he was instructing a child.
"Those who sought trade asked for little: meat, oftentimes deer or whatever manner of bird fowl we managed to hunt, greens, such as mint, edible roots, or kingsfoil, and metal, which we usually had in an abundance from the corpses of the Haradrim wishing to kill our garrison. Those who wished to kill… Well, they simply wanted to carry out the will of the Deceiver and end us all. But, those who were loyal to the Blue Wizards… They came with tidings, supplies, and weapons. At sunrise they would approach in white and blue, their heads wrapped in colorful keffiyeh, atop packed camels. Whatever we learned in the initial diplomatic exchange we made sure to send to the Steward, and whatever we had leftover from their offerings of supplies went with the supply train that would come to give us rations. Walda, our garrison's master of tongues, has a habit of recording the goings-on and acting as our representative."
Istuion turned to point towards one of the men in the crowd of loitering rangers, where a scar was prominent over the bridge of his nose and another down his right cheek. He was fumbling with a stack of well-worn parchment, fingers deeply stained from the continuous use of charcoal, which was held loosely in one hand. The man politely looked up at the mention of his name and nodded in their direction.
Faramir and Damrod stared back at the young man, caught somewhere between unspoken uncertainty and silent shock. How did he manage to puzzle out the differences between the peoples who approached their outpost, to have such an intuition? True, those native to Ithilien had, at one point long ago, traded sparsely with easterners. But how did this young man manage to have a comrade able to speak the eastern languages? Was he even from Ithilien, or simply assigned to a squadron of men who were from the locale? Who would be so dedicated, or even caring, to bother figuring out the differences? Was there a motive? To a Gondorian, an Easterling was simply another enemy to kill on sight. The young captain's attentiveness seemed to have a wider scope, beyond an interest in books and conversation, than Faramir first thought. The Steward-son could only feel a sinking sense of worry. If his father was allowing this... was he going against the laws he himself established?
"So you have been conversing with them?" questioned Damrod in disbelief, "Trading with them?"
An emotion flickered briefly across the young captain's face, too fast for either man to interpret. "They are men, sir, not beasts. Fellow men earn to be treated like men, not as orcs." His voice was firm, daring Damrod to challenge his words.
The Steward-son, in his silence, studied Istuion as Damrod prodded further at the youth. Of course, his friend knew the laws as well as he; his grilling would be swift in its judgement. The name Istuion meant "learned" in Elvish, though Faramir could not remember which dialect of the elves it originated from in that moment. He could see now, from what the young man had so far said and displayed, why the youth's caretaker had named him so. Greeting me with a weathered book in his hand? Something about Istuion reminded him of himself. Though, if Boromir were there to offer his opinion, he'd immediately know why. Both were lean, tall, and intellectually inclined.
The young man's eyes were probably the biggest shock to Faramir, compared to his distinct intellectualism. Men of Gondor did not have hazel eyes, nor did men of Rohan. Green eyes were rare enough, grey was common, blue slightly uncommon, brown generic, and a muddled mixture of all four shades completely unheard of! Yet there Istuion stood; calm, obviously not against using his wit, and with a gaze completely his own.
The Steward-son favored the young man already, even if his dealings at the Poros outpost were questionable in the eyes of Gondorian law.
"Am I to follow your orders then, Damrod?" questioned Istuion, "Or is my new commander the man beside you?"
Blinking back into awareness, Faramir spoke. "I am Faramir, Son of the Steward, Captain-Commander of the Ithilien Rangers. It was by my father's orders you were relocated here for me to command."
The young captain eyed the man. "A Captain-Commander, eh? Your brother must be Lord Boromir, then; our Captain-General."
Faramir nodded. "He is. You will come to know him in time, as he meets routinely with the captains of the garrisons."
Istuion grimaced, looking less than eager at the thought of war meetings. "How thrilling."
Ohtar, having not participated in the talk, approached. Istuion looked to his left, nodding politely to his second.
"Ohtar?"
"The men wonder where we are to settle, Captain. They seem to prefer it here, with the dry rubble and higher ground," the man said. His voice was deep and graveled, his significantly dense beard reminding Faramir of a lumberman from Lossarnach.
The young captain shrugged, conveying his unsurety. "I don't know. Do we have a specific place we are assigned to sleep, Commander?" He addressed Faramir.
"Your men were sent here to replace the rangers who had fallen on the front lines. You will most likely be told to settle there," responded the Steward-son.
"The front lines?!" Griped one ranger of the garrison behind them, "That's the damn banks o' the Anduin, 'innit?"
"Oh lord..." Muttered Ohtar, his words reverberating in his throat like a low rumble of thunder.
"Hallam, by God," said Istuion, frustratedly turning on his heels, "Can you ever bother to keep your mouth shut?"
"I'll be keepin' me mouth shut when I'm not drownin' in river water and prayin' fer' Ulmo to 'ave mercy on ma' boots!"
They could already hear the grumbles of the rangers, obviously falling into a depressed state at the thought of camping directly on the riverbanks. No man would be pleased to camp on soggy earth, let alone a place where fellow men had been slaughtered by the enemy. It was a terrifying and discomforting mental image. The more superstitious ones were visibly rattled at the thought of sleeping along banks that could very well be haunted by wraiths, ghosts of the despairing dead.
Istuion's expression changed from frustration to a look stuck between dread and pleading. "You're not truly forcing us to hang around a damp, dreary, and most likely haunted area just for the sake of stopping a few orcs, are you? The wraiths, if they do linger there, will sooner kill those who dared to end them than let another garrison waste their lives on a venture like that."
"Are you saying you are afraid, Istuion?" Prodded Damrod, a mocking glint in his grey eyes. "Do you have a problem with this war, or your duty in protecting Gondor?"
"If you're calling me inadequate, Sir River Dam," he retorted sharply, "I take offense. I care about my men over my own health, thank you very much, and many of them have family to return to. I'm not leaping at the chance to leave their wives widows."
"It's war, Captain. Men have to do horrible things to reach a successful end to a conflict," Damrod declared darkly.
"That does not mean I should simply give in because I'm told to, sir! You do a disservice to your people, treating its citizens so poorly! To act as if their lives are simply expendable! Ha! I will not walk silently into the night with my men prostrated and lifeless at my feet!" Istuion answered vehemently, hazel eyes blazing.
"Enough!" Faramir yelled, silencing them both. He looked to the young captain. "I am sorry, Istuion, that I must ask you to do this. But I cannot allow the enemy to take Osgiliath. If they take this city, they will surely march to the doors of Minas Tirith. Though Damrod's words are harsh, they are the truth. Forgive me and my family for forcing you and your men to suffer," he spoke earnestly.
Istuion's ire dwindled at the Steward-son's small speech, but his displeasure still showed. Murky hazel eyes considered him, until the young captain bowed his head in a gesture that was comparable to hesitant submission.
"As you say, sir," he said, offering no further disagreement. The youth knew when he lost an argument, it seemed. "Will you be so kind as to lead us there?"
Faramir felt a strong rush of guilt and understanding, for the first time in a long time, as he looked upon young Captain Istuion. The youth had the right to express his distaste at the matter, that being the war Gondor never seemed to finish, but orders were orders. There was honor to uphold, loved ones to protect, and a region to keep safe from the horrors of the Enemy. That is why his dealings with the Easterlings is so troubling.
He watched as Istuion rallied his men into attention, grabbing the reins of his mount. The rangers of his small battalion did the same, stumbling over the uneven rubble. Ohtar ordered and poked around at the slowest risers, dragging his charcoal stallion along behind him. The young captain stared on, amused. Damrod simply eyed the garrison from a distance, standing beside Faramir.
"They do know the horses cannot be with them by the riverbanks, right?" Damrod asked.
"Do you believe they would allow their horses out of their sight? Truly, from how they acted and how they had looked?"
The Steward-son's guard grimaced. "No." He glanced ahead of them, then back to Faramir. "They will be a troublesome lot of rangers. Ruffians, I name them! I've never seen such a group of Ithilien men so…" Damrod trailed off, trying to grasp at the right word.
"Dissident?" supplied the captain-commander.
"Yes, dissident! Where do you think they came from? The southwest region, across the river from the bay city of Pelargir? I've heard the towns there are peculiar, and not adverse to trade with anyone who sails into their docks," Damrod remarked. "Either way, I would pay any man five gold to see how Lord Boromir will react to these misfits. He might just revoke your father's orders and send them back to the post at Poros himself. Or better yet, ship them off to the gallows for their illegal dealings!"
"Come now, my friend, you must at least like their captain."
"Istuion? He's a smart young man, I will admit. More than a little callow for his post, perhaps, but he seems fit to hold his station." He looked at Faramir with a grin, "I am sure you favor him. He's a lot like yourself, an almost perfect mirror I'd say."
The Steward-son chuckled. "Now you are being cruel," he stated.
Damrod rolled his eyes. "Let's lead them on; the sun will be slipping away behind the crags of Ephel Dúath sooner than we'd like."
Faramir nodded easily, walking towards his new squadron of misfits with his guard trailing behind. Father's order is turning out to be quite a spectacle. He'll surely regret his decision when he visits in a few months…
"This is the front line?"
Ohtar smirked, regarding his commanding officer with shining blue eyes. "It is the riverbank after all, Captain."
Istuion looked out over the wide expanse of water, framed by crumbling architecture and a dreary sky, sighing. Sh―err, he―had not expected Denethor ordering his garrison to Osgiliath.
Having dealt with bouts of bizarrity and various unexpected events to reach Minas Tirith from the Lebennin fiefdom, Istuion had thought fighting beside the rangers of Ithilien was the right thing to do. The young wom―ehh, man―was a fighter, after all, ever since he was in middle scho―ehm, ever since the midst of his late childhood. Iorlas, a Lebennin scholar with a taste for the fair languages, had been kind enough a soul to take Istuion in when he'd been only eighteen and a wandering alie―ahem, a foreigner to Gondor. The bookish man made sure to thoroughly educate Andre―agh, Istuion―in Westron, Sindarin, and Quenya, while also forcing him to take sword lessons with the local blacksmith. Passing trappers and Northmen taught the youth bits about archery, though they never stayed long. Transitioning between worl―herm, from far Arnor to western Gondor―had been a process Istuion struggled with.
Then, in the blink of an eye, six winters had gone by and the 3015th year of the Third Age was already half over. The knowledge Istuion already possessed suddenly sparked, and the reminder that a war, once thought to be nothing but fiction, was fast approaching on the horizon threw the young wom―err, man―into overdrive. He couldn't stand the thought of sitting around while others would be risking their hide to protect the fiefs. And, choosing to get caught up in the war by choice seemed much better than being caught up in the war by simply living in Gondor. So, packing his caretaker's brown mare, outfitting himself in proper traveling clothes, and wishing everyone in the town by the Sirith River farewell, Istuion had taken the Northmen's road through the Lebennin fiefdom to Lossarnach. From there, the young man had followed the main road between Minas Tirith and Pelargir to the capital.
And, well, the rest of the story was quite easy to infer. Istuion joined the Gondorian army, serving as one of the ranger folk, and was immediately sent with the other recently enlisted men to Osgiliath to be assigned to a post. Upon arrival, the young man had only stayed for barely an hour before being assigned to a garrison of Ithilien rangers commanded by an eccentric man named Duinhir, son of Duilin. The garrison, comprised mainly of men from the Southwest region of Ithilien, had been assigned an outpost close to the Crossings of Poros, a place where many of the Southwestern Ithilien men were quite familiar with defending. Their small battalion had only been placed at Osgiliath for the sake of replacing previous troops, and had already spent more than a few years at the outpost by that time. Barely a month managed to pass since Istuion was assigned to the outpost before Duinhir, son of Duilin, had been stuck down by an arrow from an enemy Easterling. Istuion killed said Easterling in revenge. The curiously strange man who was his commanding officer had been buried underneath a mournful willow. Since Duinhir had nominated Istuion as his second, the youth gained a field promotion to Captain. Three years and numerous exchanges with several Easterlings later, Andr―eh, Istuion―received the fateful orders to pull back and report to Osgiliath for reallocation.
Whoever said a captain should be grateful for his position should be shot. I prefer not to have men I consider my friends and family dead within the week because of a lord's single order. Turning away from the shore, Istuion immediately addressed her―erm, his―commander.
"This is the front line?" repeated the youth, tone close to demanding.
The man standing beside the captain-commander, Damrod, snorted. "What do you think this place is? Farming country?"
Istuion gave the man an unimpressed look. Why the follower of the Steward-son was such a sassy grump, the young man had no idea. "Farming country at least has a fence or barrier to separate plots of land. This is the most vulnerable posting I've ever seen!" He waved his arms about as emphasis, his sword and a flash of pale ivory handles wapping his thighs. Faramir blinked, swearing to himself that the ivory color had to have been a trick of light. He hadn't seen them beforehand, so how could they exist?
"The northeast station at the Poros outpost was nearly this pitiful," Ohtar said offhandedly.
Istuion barked out a sharp laugh. "Ha! At least it was built on the only hill in the area, giving it some kind of advantage."
The other rangers of Istuion's garrison wandered up and down the riverbank, studying the rubble piled about or the broken fragments of fallen statues sitting in the swollen shallows of the Anduin. They called out ideas―ways to defend the area―to each other. Faramir and Damrod were unsure what to make of it; they'd never seen such a determinedly proactive, or extremely cooperative, bunch of rangers. These men could simply hide behind the stone around them, thought the Steward-son, yet they aim to fashion their own system of defense amongst themselves...
"Per'aps we could congr'agate an' move some of these 'ere rocks," declared Hallam, patting his calloused hands against one of the large chunks of rubble. "It'd be tricky, mind you, but I bel'eve it could b' done."
"Moving rocks is one matter, Hallam, but making certain they will stay is another matter entirely," cautioned Walda, his charcoal rushing over a sheet of parchment. "I'm drafting out where we could assemble our defenses, and from where we could procure the resources. Some of these boulders around here look like proper wall material."
Istuion wandered over to his recorder and speaker of tongues. "What could we use to cement them in place? I'm sure your urges for organization will ensure the perfection of the construct. But to further ensure their solidity, I think we will need some kind of clay or natural cement."
Walda pursed his lips in thought, his charcoal stick pausing in motion. "I am no builder or trained architect, despite the fact I am indeed drafting plans, but I believe a large amount of clay, thick stalk hay, and a generous amount of water will create a general cement-able result."
The young captain frowned, shaking his head. "No, that won't stand up. Come heavy rain or damp conditions, that flimsy recipe will be obsolete. The Anduin would wash it clean away. It was wrong of me to mention clay. I am not a builder either, but powdered limestone, gravel, water, thick mud, and sand makes a tougher sealant than hay and watered clay mixed together. That recipe of yours only works in dry plains or deserts that don't receive punishing rain very often."
"You cannot blame me for depending on the information the Easterlings imparted."
"No, but I can correct you. Since, you know, I'm your captain an' all."
Hallam sighed dramatically, flopping his body over a boulder. "Me t'inks y'u all are overthinkin' this too much an' blabbin' too much."
"We are rangers, Hallam," spoke Ohtar, apparently the voice of reason. "A bow comes more naturally to us of Southwest Ithilien than close combat, and you very well know that. It is not to say we cannot cut any opponent down with a dagger or sword, but it is what we are the most skilled in. You are the best shot out of all the garrison; you alone depend more on a ranged weapon than a sword in close-quarters. A well-constructed defense will ensure our bows will not be hindered by melee attack. And, if any of our enemies attempted to beach boats on this shore, they would be unable to do so without dying by our arrowfire."
"If anything," Walda interjected, "Some of the boulders in the area are too heavy and too large to shift after being moved. We can just forgo the cement-"
"The knowledge that I have been listening to you all debate over defenses for a riverbank leaves me to hope that is all you rangers will be doing," commented Damrod. "The Captain-General will not find your independent decisions very amusing. You were simply ordered to come to Osgiliath. Faramir has ordered you to settle here; that is all."
Istuion looked over at him, "Oh, you're still here? You've been so quiet, Sir River Dam, I had not known."
Hallam, from his place on a nearby boulder, snickered out a muffled guffaw. Ohtar smirked. Walda sighed. Any of the rangers wandering close to them forced themselves not to show any reaction.
Damrod glowered at the youth. "Your jests are poor."
"But it riled you nonetheless, eh?"
Faramir quickly stepped in. It felt like he was minding a bunch of bickering children. "Istuion, why do you wish to build a defense along the shore when there are already places for defense?"
"You mean those randomized rock formations clumped around the half-destroyed buildings, sir?" he responded, waving his arm vaguely towards the dilapidated structures rising up from the debris. "Sure, it's a logical and direct resolution, but that will not stop a mob of orcs from attempting to sneak across the river. The squadron before us died using that strategy, yes? Well, when a strategy fails, sir, I believe it's a logical deduction for a captain to change his tactic. If we set up a deterrent, one that can halt the progress of the sneaky orcs long enough for us to shoot them numb, then I think the problem of the orcs can be solved."
The Steward-son slowly exhaled. In a day, Captain Istuion already left an impression on him. For a man so young, the youth had a quick mind that did not falter when faced with obstacles. Building deterrents? Changing tactics? Working with his subordinates to develop a plan? Faramir could see why he earned his rank. And now? The captain-commander could envision how much Boromir would like him, despite the illegal trading. His brother was never one to hesitate; he valued that in his captains and advisors.
"You will have to discuss this with the Captain-General," the Steward-son said at last.
"So tomorrow?" assumed Istuion.
Faramir nodded. "Tomorrow."
The young captain smirked, clapping his hands. "Fantastic! I'm off to read the rest of my book then." Istuion turned to Ohtar, "Tell the men that they may set up camp; the 'line dance' is probably a good choice for this stationing. When you come back, Hallam will most likely have our fire going."
Ohtar smiled, bowing his head. "Do make sure Walda does not burn the rations."
The youth chuckled, while their chronicler huffed at the jest. "Don't worry, Ohtar," said Istuion, "He won't even touch the food. Hallam will make sure of that."
"Dam' righ' I won't," the archer answered gruffly from his boulder. Ohtar walked off, bellowing out orders and sending the rangers scrambling to find burnable materials or a place to nestle their equines for the night. Istuion watched for a few moments, nodding to himself, before turning away.
The book―which was indeed bound with some type of parchment―was eradicated from the young man's jerkin. In seconds it was open to a page bookmarked with a ratty bit of twine, and Istuion had seated himself on a decently-sized decapitated stone head. His braid, when he sat, brushed his thighs. Hallam groaned at the sight, knowing exactly what that meant, sluggishly sliding off his high perch and moving to his horse. The archer rooted around in his pack, tossing dry wads of tinder and willow branches onto the ground. His captain ignored him. Faramir, unsure what else to do but curious about the strange book Istuion was reading, wandered over to the captain. Damrod didn't follow, choosing to place himself atop the boulder Hallam had vacated.
"Won't your brother come looking for you, sir?" Istuion spoke absently, his murky eyes lazily scanning the pages in front of him.
The captain-commander took a seat beside the youth. "Most assuredly. It is the unspoken role of the elder sibling to worry about the younger one."
The bookmark twine was stuffed back into the book, and Istuion looked up. "Let me rephrase: I thought, once you were done leading us here to the river's shore, you'd move on to check the rest of your men."
"Your garrison is a top priority. Most of the rangers are watching the old roads through Ithilien, many of which lead close to the shadowed mountains towards the deeper parts of Northern Ithilien. They harass Easterlings who manage to sneak into Ithilien or orcs who come from the mountains themselves. This squadron had to be taken to Pelargir before it followed the main road towards here, correct?"
"Yes," confirmed Istuion. "It was dangerous to come here any other way. And, as we both know, the eastern banks of Osgiliath are taken by the Enemy."
"Thus your presence here, as you are to help hold the last bank Gondor still has."
The young captain stared at the man for a few moments, then went abruptly deadpan. "Sir, you just wanted to know what I'm reading."
"...Am I that obvious?"
"Verily, sir; verily. As for what I'm reading," spoke Istuion, holding the deep indigo book up for Faramir to see, "It's not a book you'd readily know."
"That I can agree with. The written language on its front is unknown to me."
"I would be extremely surprised if you did know," commented the young man. "It's from a place extremely far over the sea. Their literature is quite good, and I never really tire of it."
"You can read it?"
"I can. My caretaker, the one with a fondness for the fair languages, is a scholar from Lebennin. The bay city is a boat ride away from our town, and he had a love for exotic written works. The merchants of Pelargir always had something new from some sea trader lurking the docks, and my caretaker couldn't help himself." Not that sh―ahem, he―was going to tell him the real truth of how he knew the language or why he actually had these foreign books. He did really like reading, though.
"So, in turn, you gained an appetite for knowledge."
Istuion laughed outright. "Ha-ha, oh! I already was hungry for books. The fact the man who took me in was a scholar made the deal all the more sweet. Anyway, this book here is Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. It's a sort of tale involving the ideas of spiritual journeys and self-discovery. The main character is a man named Siddhartha, which is where the title of the book came from. It's hard to explain the story in simple terms, but it's full of good life lessons and quotes."
"Such as?"
"Well―"
"Oh, by God, ye' shouldn't 'ave said that," remarked Hallam, who had managed to get a fire going and slowly simmer their rations in a cast-iron skillet. "Capp'n can go on fer' hours about his readin' and whatn'ot."
"Not my fault you're a grumpy old miser at your prime age. Go back to skiving around in your boat between Pelargir and that shanty town on the coast like the bum you are," sassed Istuion.
"Captain, please," spoke Walda, looking up from his parchment, "You do not need to stir Hallam into yet another tantrum."
"So his wit runs off with him often?" asked Faramir.
"Probably all too much, I am sure," added Damrod.
"What sort of subordinates and commander do I have?!" squawked Istuion.
"Ones that seem to keep you on your guard, my friend."
"Ohtar!" The youth cried in relief, "The one man who will never drive me to madness."
"He's jus' bootlickin' ya," said Hallam with a grumble, moving the skillet over the fire.
"Hallam, mind your words!" admonished Walda.
"Say that t' someone o' cares, ya' scribblin' fail'ur of a cook!"
"Hallam, by God!" yelled Istuion, "Can you ever bother to keep your mouth shut?!"
"Captain, I think the rations in the skillet are burning―"
"God dammit t'all, you witless Ithilien bowmen! None of you fools can cook for your life!―"
"―I can, actually, Captain―"
"―Except Ohtar, because he seems like the only compentent man in this god-forsaken group!"
These are going to be men who I will always remember, Faramir thought with a smile, watching them squabble heatedly over their burnt food, and Boromir will surely like them as well.
