This is a not for profit work of fan fiction using characters and places belonging to JRR Tolkien plus original characters.
Title - The Morning Muster
Chapter 2: Fedren
There is a heartfelt embrace for each of his six children in turn. Taking his farewell from them never gets any easier; as his three daughters cling onto him, he is almost unbalanced. With a lump in his throat, he kisses each fair head before gently prising himself free. His youngest daughter is sobbing now so he kneels to wipe her tears away, soothing her fears with well-practised words of reassurance and, as a distraction, a request that she draws him a picture for his return. He has many such in a box under the bed. Summoning his eldest girl to take the child, he hugs his two younger sons, gaining a promise from them that they will keep up their arms practice and take care of his womenfolk.
Fedren at last reaches his eldest son, standing by the door. He takes his hand in a firm grasp then leans forward to place a tender kiss on his brow. "You know what I expect of you, Lornian." He says quietly, his words for his son's ears only. "And well do I know the burden I place on you is a heavy one."
"I shall do my best never to fail you, father. I promise."
"Good lad." Fedren cups his son's cheek gently, nodding his gratitude. Then he bends to pick up his cloak and throws it over his shoulders before turning to embrace his wife one last time, taking a long moment to bid her farewell. As he steps to the door, Lornian keeps his hand on the latch.
"Please, may I walk with you to the muster, father? Just this once?" the boy asks.
Fedren likes to say his farewells inside his home. It is not his way to be emotional in public so none of his family have ever accompanied him to the muster square. But he sees the plea in his son's eyes and weakens. After all, he is training to be a soldier of Gondor himself. "Aye," he says, "come on then. Just this once."
Down through the quiet streets they go, a quick pace, their boot heels pounding the stone together in perfect time, no words spoken. Lornian's excitement grows as they near the first level, for it will not be long before his turn to serve his country arrives and he is keen to feel a part of her army, albeit on this occasion he is on the sidelines.
At the square it is all noisy chaos; soldiers milling together, telling jokes and swapping tales, greeting friends, checking their gear. Three sergeants stand in a group to one side, keeping a close eye on their men while the Captain, Lornian sees him almost immediately, is standing alone, idly pulling at a strand of his hair as he studies a map, his Lieutenants deep in discussion not far away.
Lornian follows his father, pushing through the throngs of men to the far side of the square where Fedren has orders to oversee the packing of the Company's supply carts. There are also many supplies waiting to be loaded for the Rangers. Men from the bowyers are helping to load boxes of arrows and bowstrings, arrowheads and polished yew staffs onto the carts, while apprentices from the armoury stand guard over boxes of daggers and swords. One lad holds a package of whetstones and phials of oil to his chest as though it were precious treasure.
Amongst the crates of fresh victuals, candles, lamp oil and blankets are two large containers from the healers; one holds essential distillations, powders, oils and salves while the other is packed with numerous rolls of linen bandages and swabs. Stowed carefully inside the latter is a flat wooden box containing finely sharpened blades, needles and reels of thread.
On the Captains own order, a small cart has been provided to take personal packages from the Rangers families to the men who guard Ithilien. It has been a welcome and appreciated gesture; many wives and parents have come by the gatehouse to leave letters, packets of favourite foodstuffs and fresh clothing for their menfolk, while children shyly handed over smudgy charcoal drawings to be given to their fathers. Notes from sweethearts are easily recognised. By tradition, they are sweetly scented and sealed for they will contain small tokens of affection; maybe a dried flower or a sprig of herbs, a ribbon to fasten through a belt buckle or a small silver charm, for many of Gondor's soldiers pin these under their tunics. Amongst the many packages, and also awaiting loading, is a large leather bag, battered from years of use for it has made many journeys between the city and the forest. The embossed emblem of the White Tree it bears shows it to be the Captain's property.
Fedren is soon busy talking to the orderlies and supervising their work so Lornian retreats to one side to absorb the disorganized scene of which he is now part. The men seem on the whole cheerful with little trace of anxiety on their faces. He thinks that must be due to the Captain's air of complete calm. Lornian sees him now laughing with one of his officers; he appears to be as at ease as if he were preparing for an afternoon stroll, not going forth to engage in battle with the enemy.
Lornian paces up and down to steady his churning stomach, though he is not the one marching to war. He reaches out to stroke the carthorses, restlessly waiting to haul their burdens eastwards, and he acknowledges cheery greetings from men he recognises. He worries that even when he has completed his training, he shall never feel as calm as these soldiers appear to be.
But he knows fear for himself is not the same as this dreadful apprehension which has haunted him all his life; the fear that his father may one day not return home. Should that day dawn, Lornian knows his father trusts him to take his place as provider for the family. They have talked about it at length, the possibilities of this event, but, although he has vowed to accept the responsibility his father desires of him, Lornian tries not to think too hard upon it. He has friends who have had to face that challenge and has no desire to join their number.
"Fine morning, eh, Fedren?" Lornian hears a deep, pleasant voice and turns to see the Captain has appeared suddenly by his father's side. "Excellent hunting weather, is it not?"
"Aye, 'tis indeed, and a hunt we shall have, my lord," Fedren answers with an eager grin of anticipation, "with many a kill to boast of." He raises a hand to beckon his son to come forward.
"Let us hope so. Is this Lornian?" Boromir greets the lad with a friendly smile though nervous shyness grips Lornian to render him momentarily mute. "He is dwarfing you by a head, I reckon."
"Aye, that he is, sir. Eats more than the rest of us put together he does, though for all that there's no muscle on his bones. His mother reckons he has hollow legs."
At Fedren's words there is good-natured laughter from the soldiers gathered around them. To his horror Lornian feels a blush warming his face. "Father..." he attempts a protest.
"My brother was just the same at your age. He was so skinny, I used to threaten to jam a helm on his head and use him as a spear." Boromir's joke causes more laughter to ring out. Though Fedren chuckles, his son looks at the ground, praying his long hair will cover the red flares in his cheeks, his discomfiture complete. He wishes fervently now he had stayed at home.
Boromir sees the bowed head and puts out his hand to raise the lad's chin up. He notices the high colour in his face and the same hurt in the lad's eyes as once he saw in Faramir's. "But it was a cruel jest then as now." His smile becomes gentle and he says in a quieter voice, "Forgive me, Lornian, it was unkind of me to tease you."
"But 'tis true, my lord. I am a beanpole." He mutters.
"Yet the Lord Faramir is surely proof enough that it will not always be so." He places his hand on the boy's bony shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "I believe I recall your father telling me you have a mind to join the Mountain Rangers."
"I do, my lord." Having his favourite subject suddenly gifted to him, Lornian quickly forgets his embarrassment. "I have always loved the mountains. My grandfather has taken me climbing since I was four years old."
"To get him out from under his mother's feet. He was a right lively little rascal." Fedren interjects.
Another blush reddens Lornian's face. "Aye, but it was no punishment. I loved it."
"You have been climbing with the cadets?" Boromir asks.
Lornian's back straightens; his eyes begin to sparkle. "I have, my lord. I spent a month with the Rangers on exercises and received a good report. From the city we climbed Mindolluin then onwards to call at all the beacons till we reached Halifirien."
"They said he was a natural born climber, sir, and well skilled as a hunter." His father pauses in the loading of the cart to speak.
The Captain nods with approval and Lornian takes the chance to continue. "Our task was to check all the passes were open and stock up the bothies with firewood and blankets. We also had to help repair the Erelas beacon, which was damaged by high winds and the Rangers made us camp out in the open every night though there was snow on the ground."
"Then not a posting for the faint hearted, eh?"
"I suppose not, sir, but it is what I wish to do, more than anything. In three months, when I have completed my cadet training, the Rangers have offered me a place." He adds proudly.
"Well done. That is excellent news. Too few choose that course yet 'tis a vital part of our defences. So you prefer the mountains to the forests of Ithilien?"
"Oh yes, sir. The forests are too dark and enclosed for my taste. I like to see the land spread out before me and watch the changes in the sky. From the peaks 'tis a wonderful sight, so vast it seems it goes on forever. I like to watch storm clouds rolling in and sunsets and at night, with just the stars above..." as he speaks he suddenly remembers the Captain's brother holds command in the forests and, fearing he has given offence, stutters, "But I… I would serve there gladly, sir, in the forest I mean, under Captain Faramir, if so ordered. I know holding Ithilien is vital, sir, and if need be…"
"But the mountains get into your blood like nothing else, do they not?" Boromir interrupts, sparing him further awkwardness. "My brother may prefer his canopy of trees but, alike to you, I want to see naught but the stars above me of a night." Suddenly he looks almost wistful. "'Tis far too long since I had a sojourn up in the mountains. I was sent once to the outpost at Min-rimmon and recall being loath to return home. I can yet bring to mind the peace and silence of being above the clouds, watching eagles soaring high above me."
"Huh. That's all well and good, but we need you down here with your sword at the ready, my lord, not idly watching eagles from the mountain tops like a star gazing poet." Fedren says sourly.
It is Boromir's turn to chuckle. "And yet I would enjoy a chance to repeat such an indulgence. Maybe one day I shall pay you a visit, Lornian. And I will bring your father along; let him see what he has been missing."
"Oh no, Captain, oh, no. Begging your pardon, sir, but you must take another or go alone, for I find the mountains not to my liking at all." Fedren shudders in protest.
"Some folk have no sense of adventure." Boromir grins at the boy and hears the man snort with disapproval.
"Young Lornian gets his climbing abilities from his mother's side of the family, sir, not mine." Fedren says in his own defence.
"Father gets dizzy walking up to the fifth level, sir." The boy takes a chance to tease his father and is rewarded with an even wider grin from the Captain.
"Then it is the Ranger's good fortune that you take after your mother." Boromir says. "Who will be your Captain, Lornian?"
"Captain Calmeral has asked for me, sir."
"Has he indeed? Then your family need have no cause for concern for you will be in excellent hands. I know him as a most competent Captain and a very reasonable man. And should you look out for him as well as your father does for me, then he will be a fortunate man also. I wish you good luck, lad."
"Thank you, my lord." Lornian's blush is caused by pleasure now as he watches the Captain stride away to speak to others.
"Come on, boy." his father's voice breaks into his reverie. "You can help me load these last few boxes. Bring them over here. And mind you take care with that bag; it's the Captain's for his brother. Be a few special treats in there, I shouldn't wonder." But the hand that is tugging his arm is gentle and the look of pride on his father's face is clear. "You handled yourself well." Fedren says softly. "Some folk just gawp at him and say nothing."
"I like him." Lornian replies, bending to the task he has been allotted. "But I was surprised he knew my name; I did not know you had talked of me to him."
"Well, I'm not a man given to boasting, but I'm proud of you and of what you've achieved, son." It is his father's turn to redden. He sees his son's eyes fill with appreciation for this rare compliment. "And the Captain always takes an interest in our families. 'Tis a shame he's not got one of his own."
"He's easy to talk to; I almost forgot who he was. He just seems, well ... normal, not like some of those Lord's I've seen riding through the city, all finery and looking down on us."
"He wouldn't know how to look down on anyone," Fedren places the Captain's bag safely on the cart, "and that's the mark of an honourable man, whatever the manner of his birth. With Lord Boromir, he's a soldier first and foremost, just like us."
"I hope Captain Calmeral is the same."
"No doubt he's a good man and very able, and it pleases me to know the Captain rates him highly. But there's no-one like Captain Boromir, my lad. No-one." Fedren replies firmly. "As I've told you many times, there's no man finer in all of Gondor and never will there be. Just you remember that."
