Through Daeron's Eyes

by dancingkatz

Boromir and the rest of the Steward's family as seen through the eyes of the son of one of his officers. AU PreRing War fic. 2007 Middle-Earth Fanfiction Awards nominee.

13. Stength and Hope Part One

Disclaimer: All familiar characters, places and events are copyright to the Tolkien Estate and its licensees. This is a work of fanfiction and not intended to infringe on copyrights held by the above named entities or any other person.

Through Daeron's Eyes: Strength and Hope - Part One

By Dancingkatz and Rhyselle

Daeron stood at attention on the right side of the double doors that led from the Steward's study to the corridor, glad that he had drawn inside duty on this miserably hot and humid day. He heard a soft clink as his compatriot who stood on the other side of the portal adjusted the position of the glaive he held. The ancient weapon wasn't ceremonial in anything save appearance. The steel blade was wickedly sharp and could stab or cut a man down with the ease of a scythe through dry grass. Frankly, he prayed he would never have to use his.

Lord Denethor's secretary appeared around the corner of the corridor, his arms filled with scrolls balanced on top of two large ledgers. The thin greying man looked frazzled and hot, and walked at a fast clip, as if he were late.

He halted at the door and nodded towards Daeron's older companion, then turned curious eyes to the young Lieutenant. "Good morrow, Caerthan. Who is this?"

"Good morning Master Ovan. This is Lieutenant Daeron Greyvale. It's his first day of duty. Lieutenant, this is Master Ovan, Lord Denethor's secretary."

Ovan smiled at Daeron, his light blue eyes taking in the perfectly arrayed uniform. "Congratulations on your new posting. Now if you would knock for me and open the door when Lord Denethor bids entrance?" He glanced down at the unstable pile of scrolls.

"Yes, sir," Daeron answered then turned and knocked on the door, three short raps as he'd been instructed by the duty officer in this morning's briefing.

"Enter!" Denethor's strong voice penetrated the thick iron-bound wood.

Daeron shifted the glaive to his right hand and opened the door with his left, holding it open for the secretary.

"Thank you." Ovan entered, kicking his heel back to push the door closed again.

Caerthan said quietly, "Master Ovan's polite, and always thanks us. Not all of the staff is that kind, I'm afraid."

Daeron returned his weapon to his left hand and nodded before returning to attention. So far this duty wasn't that different from standing watch in the commandant's offices at the academy, save for the uniform worn.

Caerthan's lips quirked in a smile as he watched the new officer from the corner of his eye. "Did you get the short list of those people authorized to disturb the Steward when he is working in here?"

"Lord Boromir, Lord Faramir, Lord Laedren, and the Chancellor."

"Add Master Ovan and Seneschal Cai to that list as well."

"Yes, sir."

Not long after the secretary had entered the study, the door suddenly opened.

Daeron was already at attention but he found himself straightening even further.

"Ovan, sort out the pages listing the levies from Morthond and Lebennin. I will want to look at them when I get back from the Council meeting." Denethor swept from the room, clad in his usual black, fur-trimmed robes in spite of the heat of the day, the White Rod cradled in his left elbow.

"Yes, my lord." The secretary's voice followed the Steward into the hallway.

Daeron glanced quickly at Caerthan and returned his gaze forward at the other man's slight nod. The other part of this duty was to accompany the Steward to wherever he needed to go around the Citadel. He just needed an idea of which direction Lord Denethor was going!

The Steward paused and took note of his door wardens. "Lieutenant Greyvale, I see that the Healers have finally allowed you to take up your duty, so I assume your leg is properly healed?"

"Yes, my Lord," Daeron answered, grateful that his voice stayed steady and even.

"Good, then you will have no trouble keeping up with me." Denethor turned to the right, heading towards the stairs that would take him to the Council chamber. The Steward did not offer converse as he strode just ahead of Daeron's escort.

Daeron discovered that the Steward had a stride as long and quick as his eldest son's, and found he had to stretch his legs to keep up. He was now very glad of the exercises that Adoan had bullied him into doing while his leg was healing, otherwise he'd be puffing like a smith's bellows.

The route Denethor took kept them within the cooling stone walls of the Steward's House. When they got to the Council chamber door, the Steward paused, smoothing his robes for a moment and taking a deep breath as if bracing himself for a battle of some sort.

Lieutenants Frewen and Deleth, who Daeron had met in the Guards' barracks the evening before, stood at attention on either side of the Council Chamber entrance. When the Steward gave a minute nod to them, Deleth opened the door and Denethor proceeded in.

Frewen gave Daeron a quickly hidden smile as the young man followed the Steward, but Deleth, who Daeron had been told was one of Chancellor Maedreth's nephews, shot a scowl at him before closing the door once more.

There were a half dozen men waiting in the chamber, some few of them in quiet but intense conversation. Daeron went to his prescribed place two steps behind and to the side of the Steward's chair and tapped the butt of the glaive twice on the floor, which in spite of being polished daily bore a wear mark on the marble from centuries of repetition of the action.

The room fell silent and all six men present rose, turned and bowed towards the Steward who stood in front of his chair, the White Rod in his hand. Denethor eyed the attending council members who had come to their feet at his arrival. "May Eru grant us wisdom and guide us in our decisions this day," he said and took his seat.

The councilors took their seats except for Chancellor Maedreth, who fussily smoothed his over-decorated robes and nodded his head twice before speaking. "My Lord Steward, there are certainly more pressing matters in need of discussion than this wasteful aqueduct project."

"And what, in your opinion, Lord Maedreth, is more pressing than ensuring that the poorer elements of the city do not become the source of plague and disease from befouled water?" Denethor inquired in a smooth voice.

"There are plenty of wells in the lower levels..."

"Wells which go dry in the summer heat," pointed out one of the other councilors.

"Wells that have regularly found themselves contaminated, Maedreth," Lord Jhelen interrupted, "Your pardon, Lord Denethor, but this matter has been discussed a ridiculous number of times already and I am beginning to wonder if the Chancellor may have drunk from one of said wells and become brain damaged!"

The Chancellor gobbled inarticulately for a moment at the insult, and Denethor hid a smile with his hand as the Chancellor's supporters began to protest. The steward sat back in his chair and let the two sides argue for a bit.

Daeron stood with his eyes focused on a point halfway between himself and the far wall, listening to the arguments. He personally thought repairing the aqueduct would be a good investment but, Valar willing, it would be many years before he'd have to worry about making these kinds of decisions. He knew that if his father were present he would argue for the repair, but it seemed the rest of the senior council members were split in their opinions.

Denethor finally seemed to weary of the noise and rapped the White Rod sharply on the table top. "We shall poll the Council. But, I remind you, the final decision will be mine." He gave them his trademark "Ruling Steward" look and faced the Chancellor.

Maedreth glanced at the other councilors and then turned towards the Steward. "My vote is 'nay,' my Lord. There is no need for the expense."

"Lord Jhelen."

The Lord of Nimrais Vale bowed his head and said, "My lord I vote 'yea.' The aqueduct needs to be repaired else, we will face plague and possibly worse should the lower wells become contaminated."

Denethor nodded. "As Lord Greyvale isn't present, who has his proxy?"

"I do, my Lord," Jhelen answered. "I have been instructed to vote 'yea' on his behalf."

Daeron kept his face expressionless but was surprised to find out that it was Lord Jhelen who spoke for his father. It had been his understanding that Halmir's father held Laedren's proxy.

"Lord Formail."

Halmir's father rose to his feet and bowed. "I vote 'yea' my Lord." He said nothing more but returned to his seat. He'd been the least vocal of the lords during the discussion.

Lord Erethil, the eldest son of the ailing lord of Morthond, who also held Lossarnach's proxy, voted 'yea' and reported a 'yea' vote for Lord Forlong.

Lord Breslin of Edhellond, who held Lebennin's proxy, voted 'nay' for himself and also for the absent Lord Cesrith of Lebennin.

The last councilor to be polled, Lord Erllech of Anfalas, voted 'nay' without providing a reason, leaving the vote tied.

Denethor surveyed the six nobles and sat forward. "Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth has given me his proxy of 'yea'." He kept his face straight despite the sight of the outraged expression that crossed the Chancellor's face. Lord Maedreth had apparently forgotten that Imrahil had a vote on the matter as well as the rest of the Council even though he was rarely in the City. "Lord Formail, I am putting you in charge of seeing this project completed. The City Engineer will be most pleased to speak you this afternoon."

The matter of the aqueduct apparently settled, much to Maedreth's irritation, Lord Erllech brought up the issue of the ever increasing trade tariffs on imported goods, particularly those out of Umbar and Harad, which started a rather heated debate that ended up tabled without resolution. The next item on the agenda was the military budget and conscription requirements which somehow changed to a discussion of Lord Boromir's lack of a wife and heir, said discussion which Denethor halted by rapping the White Rod on the table top. Once he had everyone's attention he folded his hands together and raised an eyebrow. "Is there any further business that must be attended to by this council today?" It was obvious to all that particular subject was now closed.

Lord Maedreth looked as though he were going to speak but thought better of it, turning his head so his eyes didn't meet Denethor's but fell instead on the silent guard that stood behind and to the side the Steward's chair. A speculative look crossed his face for a few moments and then was quickly replaced by his usual supercilious expression.

The Steward took the silence as a negative answer and said, "Then this council meeting stands adjourned. Lord Formail, please remain."

Once the other councilors left the room Denethor stood and gestured for Lord Formail to accompany him to the far end of the room where three large windows looked out over the city.

Daeron kept his position but followed the Steward with his eyes, ready to move if necessary, but certain that Halmir's father was no threat.

The two nobles spoke quietly, their backs to the room, gazing out over the lawn before the Citadel at the White Tree. After about ten minutes Lord Formail bowed to Denethor and left the room. The Steward continued to look out of the window for a few moments, and then raised his voice, "Lieutenant Greyvale, to me."

Daeron blinked in surprise but immediately crossed the room to join the Steward. "My, lord?"

"Is your leg paining you at all?"

"No, my lord."

"Good. If you start to have trouble with it, request a relief and go directly to the healers."

"I will, my lord."

"Very well." The midday bells began to ring, their sounds deadened slightly by the thick walls of the council chamber. "Midday. Escort me to the Merethrond, and then go to your own midday meal." He turned and headed towards the door.

Daeron followed the Steward from the council chamber and found that the guard on the outside of the door had been changed. It took only a few minutes to escort the Steward to the Merethrond, even with two pauses for Denethor to exchange greetings along the way.

Once the Steward had entered the feasting hall, Daeron turned and made his way across the Citadel level to the Guard's mess near the buttery. He secured his glaive in the rack provided and removed his helmet as he stepped through the door. Appetizing smells wafted through the air of the mess from an open hatch and several men wearing the livery of the Citadel were carrying trays to the dozen tables that filled the majority of the room.

Like the Citadel corridors and the council chamber, the mess was blessedly cool and the dim lighting was soothing after the brilliant sunlight that flooded the courtyard from a cloudless sky, which was for once free of the smoke and fug of Mordor. After pausing to let his vision adjust Daeron looked round and saw Caerthan sitting at a table near the kitchen door.

The older guardsman grinned at Daeron. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to make it. Was it horribly boring?"

Daeron set his helmet down on the table and took the seat next to Caerthan. "Actually, it wasn't. The arguments were sort of amusing in a way. But I can see how it could be boring if there weren't any disagreements."

"As long as Maedreth is Chancellor, I'm sure that there's always going to be disagreements. Better get your tray, lad, we'll be wanted again shortly."

Daeron nodded and did so.

One thing he'd happily discovered about the Guard's mess was that the food was usually excellent. He had just turned to rejoin Caerthan when he was suddenly jostled and an elbow was planted hard into his back. The blow came just below the lower edge of his cuirass and, despite the padded gambeson and mail he wore, hurt. He managed to keep the tray from flying out of his hands as he caught his balance but the tankard of small ale fell to the floor. Luckily, the contents of the pewter vessel didn't splash anyone.

"I'm amazed that someone so clumsy would be assigned to the Steward's personal Guard," a voice said just loud enough to be heard over the conversations that filled the mess.

Daeron turned far enough to see that the speaker none other than Lieutenant Deleth and bit back what he was initially going to say. Instead he responded in an equally loud voice, "So am I, actually. Do you always have such trouble keeping on your feet? But no harm done; I'll just get another ale."

Caerthan and a few of the more veteran Guardsmen snickered as Deleth's face reddened with anger and embarrassment and he turned away from Daeron, sitting down at the far end of the table where he was joined by a handful of his cronies.

Daeron crossed the remaining steps to his chosen seat, set the tray down then retrieved his fallen tankard. The man who refilled it gave him a thumbs-up gesture and a friendly grin. Then he took his seat next to Caerthan, ignoring the nearby presence of Deleth. The man was a lot like Rolin had been and the best way to deal with him at this point was to ignore him.

The senior officer present then rapped on his table with the butt of his knife and rose to his feet, turning to face West. Daeron and Caerthan immediately stood and did likewise.

As Daeron turned back to take his seat at the conclusion of the Standing Grace he noticed that Deleth and most of the men seated at the far end of the table hadn't risen and, in fact, had started eating. Participation in the Standing Grace wasn't required in the mess but to talk and begin eating during it was most certainly rude. Deleth noted Daeron's look and sneered, muttering audibly to his companions, "The guard's always been selected from proven warriors. Greenie there had to have gotten in only because of who his father is."

Daeron heard the comment but fought to keep his face neutral. He reminded himself that any reaction would make the listeners believe whatever was being said. Deleth had obviously made up his mind about the matter and nothing Daeron could say or do (at least nothing that wouldn't land him in hot water) was going to change that. Instead he took his seat and asked Caerthan to pass the vinegar and oil.

The older officer grabbed the cruets from the middle of the table and handed them to Daeron, quietly murmuring, "Good, lad."

Daeron gave a little shrug, he apparently managed to mask his feelings successfully. "He reminds me of a couple of cadets who were in my class. Do we go back to guard the Steward's study this afternoon?" he asked, accepting the cruets from the older officer.

"Aye. And I hope you can ride well. Master Ovan told me that the Steward is scheduled to ride this afternoon, and that old war horse of his doesn't seem to remember that he's retired."

Daeron set the vinegar cruet down. "I can ride but--I don't have a horse." He took a deep breath and shoved the ache in his heart for Ruinanor down. "I had to put my mare down due to laminitis back in June."

He and Laedren had been to the horse sales several times before the Captain- General's adjutant had to leave for assignment but they hadn't yet found a suitable mount to replace the mare.

Caerthan paused, his beaker halfway to his lips. "Ah, I'm sorry to hear that. A hard thing to have to do, as I can attest from experience." He took a sip of his ale and added, "You'll be given a mount from the Guard's stables then until you can be found suitable by your next horse."

"That's exactly the problem; so far none of them I've met seem to think I'm the right rider for them."

"He or she will find you, Greyvale. Believe me." He began to spoon up the stew which had cooled enough to eat.

Daeron turned his attention to his own meal and listened as the man sitting across from Caerthan asked the older Lieutenant if he'd heard any word regarding the promotion boards, which question generated an energetic, if not necessarily polite, discussion that eventually included most of the nearby tables.

Deleth made a pointed comment about undue influence being put on the members of the selection board.

"Not if Lord Boromir has anything to say about it," the man sitting opposite Caerthan said. "You're just sore because you didn't make First Lieutenant the last time. Besides I don't know anyone who's made promotion his first time before the boards, except for Lord Boromir, and I dare you to tell him he got it because of who his father is."

Deleth subsided, hiding behind his beaker, still scowling.

"Of course, it helped that he led a successful expeditionary force into Harad right before the board met," added another man.

Another second lieutenant said, "I wish there were more opportunities for advancement, but there aren't enough slots for everyone."

"It's more than likely that each opening these days is likely because of an officer's death in action rather than cascading appointments due to someone retiring." Caerthan said. "I hope we never have enough slots for everyone to be advanced the first time around."

Daeron looked up at that and debated whether to say anything. Deciding to keep his thoughts to himself he shook his head slightly and turned his attention back on the remains of his meal.

Shortly thereafter the tocsin rang, announcing the beginning of the next hour and most of the men stood up, reaching for their helmets and weapons.

Caerthan remained seated. "The Steward will be at his meal for another half hour. We needn't to rush back to our post quite yet."

Daeron was glad to hear that because the food in the officers' mess was very good and a welcome change to what he'd grown used to calling food over most of the past five years.

Caerthan rummaged in his belt pouch for his short stemmed pipe, and thus didn't see Deleth tilt his tray as he passed behind them en route to the scullery. The beaker tipped and the unfinished ale poured out, going right down the back of Daeron's uniform. Deleth then straightened his tray, grabbed the beaker and continued towards the scullery hatch as if nothing had happened.

""Wha---?" Daeron jumped as the ale soaked his neck and back and shot to his feet, spinning to see who had dumped the liquid on him. As quick as he was, he couldn't tell who might have done it. "Oh, great. This is just what I need," Daeron muttered as he wrung ale out of his hair. "Do I have enough time to go back to barracks and get changed before we have to be back on duty?"

Caerthan looked at the time candle that burned steadily behind its glass shield on the shelf near the food hatch. "Aye, if you hurry. You've got twenty five minutes before you need to go back to the Merethrond. I'll have my smoke and wait for you." He had his own suspicions about who had done the deed, but since there was no proof, he kept his thoughts to himself. There was usually a bit of good natured ribbing and teasing of new members of the unit for the first few days but it was understood that certain things, like ruining a uniform before the victim had to return to duty, wasn't acceptable. He'd keep his eyes open and see if he could sort out who the disgruntled individual with the apparent grudge against young Greyvale was.

Daeron thanked him, picked up his helmet and decided to leave the glaive in the rack since he'd be coming back to meet Caerthan. He was glad the barracks assigned to the members of the Steward's personal Guard were in the Citadel grounds themselves. If he'd have had to go down to one of the lower level barracks the rest of the Tower Guard were billeted in he'd never get back to duty on time. As it was, he was able to hastily wash the ale from his hair and skin before donning a clean uniform. He also mentally thanked Grethen who'd come up with a way to get into and out of the cuirass without completely undoing all the straps and buckles so he didn't need to seek out anyone else to assist him back into the armor. He arrived at the mess again with three minutes to spare.

Caerthan was standing by the weapons rack and handed Daeron the glaive, giving him a visual once over. "Take a deep breath and calm down, you're not late yet."

Daeron did so with a crooked smile at his companion. "I knew something had to go wrong today. It could have been worse, I suppose."

"Ah, at least you didn't catch your heel on the doorsill of the Hall of Kings and land on top of the Old Steward, Lord Ecthelion." Caerthan saluted the White Tree as they passed it en route to the Merethrond.

"That certainly proves that you can't die of embarrassment, doesn't it?" Daeron couldn't resist asking.

"No, you just wish you would." The senior Lieutenant silently approved of Daeron's correct salute, and turned his attention to the building they were approaching. "Wait right outside this portal," he said, "until the Lord Steward comes out, and then go where he does."

"Yes, sir. And thank you." Daeron took his place and came to attention.

Caerthan nodded and marched off to the corridor that would take him back to the study.

Later that afternoon Daeron followed the Steward and Master Ovan through the tunnel from the Citadel to the Sixth level where Denethor turned towards the stables. He'd been informed that a mount would be waiting there for his use as he and five other guards would be accompanying the Steward as he exercised his warhorse.

Caerthan had warned Daeron that nothing short of open war at the gates of the city prevented the Steward from riding out each day, regardless of the weather. Given that the Steward wasn't permitted by law to leave the City save for such small excursions as this or a visit of state to a nearby friendly ally, Daeron could understand him not wanting to give up the small taste of freedom.

Finishing his conversation with his secretary, the Steward strode slightly ahead of his escort through the arched gateway of the stables, pleased to see Thoronnaur already tacked and eagerly awaiting his escape from the stone confines of the City. Denethor moved to Thoronnaur's head and spoke quietly to him, reaching up to rub the chestnut stallion's favorite spot behind his ears as he greeted his mount.

Thoronnaur was a King's Line Rohirric stallion, affectionate and loving to his rider, death on four hooves to any that dared accost him, and beautifully conformed; strongly muscled, his red-gold coat still glossy and bright even as he neared the age of twenty-five. Ovan nodded as Denethor turned towards him one last time then stepped back out of the way.

Daeron followed the other guards' lead and placed his glaive in the rack that stood by the stable doors. Grooms and stable boys were leading out the guardsmen's horses, or in some cases, running alongside as the horse headed unerringly to his or her rider.

Deleth took the reins of a grey gelding that looked to have Dol Amroth bloodlines, turned his back on the stable lad without giving him any thanks, and mounted up. He sat stiffly in the saddle, and the grey sidled as he took up the slack on the reins far harder than he needed to.

None of the Guards' mounts were anything near poor specimens, but the last horse being led from the stable outshone them like the sun outshone the moon. The stallion was a glossy black with four white socks and a star on his brow. He was tall, about eighteen hands at the shoulder, with a finely arched neck and elegant top line, solidly built and well muscled, and obviously of the same bloodline as the Steward's own mount. Daeron barely remembered that he needed to breathe as the stable master himself led the stallion to the newest member of the Steward's Guard.

"His name is Beleg-Mor," the grizzled man said placing the reins in Daeron's hand with a smile.

Deleth's eyes narrowed beneath his helm as he took in the magnificence of the stallion. He hauled on the grey's mouth as his sudden tension communicated itself to the gelding causing the beast to sidle nervously. He didn't miss the fact that, save for colour, the Steward's mount and Beleg-Mor could have been brothers. The black was fit for the absent king to ride, he thought. So why was he being given to the youngster?

Daeron couldn't believe his eyes. This gorgeous animal was his to ride today? He offered the flat of his hand to introduce himself and was stunned when the stallion ignored it and placed his chin on Daeron's shoulder, to snuffle at his ear before lifting it with a look that said quite plainly, "What are you still doing down there?"

Denethor paused a moment before swinging himself up onto the chestnut's back, a quickly hidden smile quirking the corner of his mouth as he watched the expression on his newest guard's face.

Daeron suddenly realized that he was keeping the Steward waiting, blushed, apologized and mounted. Beleg-mor was a much more massive animal than Ruinanor had been. Had Daeron been riding this horse that final day of the senior practicals the runaway gelding would have most certainly have bounced off the stallion instead of knocking him down.

Denethor took his time settling in the saddle, adjusting his riding gloves, and flicking a stray piece of Thoronnaur's mane back to the correct side of his neck. But he watched Daeron closely as the young man spoke quietly to Beleg-Mor as he set his stirrups to the proper length and checked his girth before gathering the reins up and asking the stallion to bring his head in and collect his quarters beneath him. All the while Beleg-Mor's elegant ears flicked back and forth, listening and learning his rider's voice. He'd been most carefully trained and already trusted and liked Daeron. The black had apparently decided within moments of meeting the Lieutenant that this particular young human was an acceptable rider.

Denethor finally gave Thoronnaur his office and headed out of the stable yard at a dignified walk. Daeron followed, delighting in Beleg-Mor's easy action. He could feel the power the stallion held in reserve and wondered if he'd get a chance to find out what a full out run felt like.

Deleth immediately yanked his grey's head round and kicked the gelding so that he took the position to the right and a bit behind the Steward, cutting in front of the other horses without paying attention to anything save what was in front of him. The other guards grumbled under their breath at Deleth's arrogant action, but fell into the usual doubled line and followed the Steward through the Sixth level towards the gate to the Fifth level.

Even with the excitement of riding such a wonderful horse Daeron didn't forget his duty and kept his eye on the people that filled the street at this time of the afternoon. He heard Lt. Bedreth's lecture on awareness replay in his head and his constant reminders that an enemy could be anyone, anywhere.

Deleth's grey suddenly threw its head back to relieve the pressure on his mouth, and broke gait, startling Thoronnaur.

"If you cannot control your mount, Lieutenant, withdraw to the rear of the formation until you can," Denethor snapped over his shoulder as he easily brought Thoronnaur under control.

The grey sidestepped nearly knocking into the guard at his side, and Deleth bit off a curse as he was forced to obey the Steward's command.

Daeron didn't miss the unsettled dancing and head tossing that the unhappy grey was doing at the head of the column and his sudden alertness communicated itself to Beleg-mor. The line rearranged itself to fill in the gap that Deleth had left, which put Daeron in the middle of the line, with Lt. Gelim's easygoing roan behind him. He felt sorry for Deleth's grey. The gelding was well-trained but his rider left much to be desired.

At the main gate, the Steward paused to inform the watch officer, "We are riding along the Anorien Road." It was a habit he'd maintained since his youth, as his father Ecthelion had been adamant that his heir not go anywhere without someone knowing the destination, just in case a rescue might be required.

"I will note it in the log for my relief, my Lord," the officer replied with a sharp salute.

Thoronnaur tossed his head impatiently and neighed his displeasure at being so close to the green edged road and still having to remain within the walls. Beleg-Mor's ears went forward as he recognized the scent of the greensward beyond the gates but he remembered his manners and waited quietly save for pawing the cobbles once or twice with a forefoot.

"Anon, anon, Thoronnaur." Denethor returned the salute then, barely touching the stallion with his heels, set him into a quick walk; warming him up slowly as they headed north.

Daeron gave Beleg-mor his office and the black stepped out neatly to follow Malden's mount.

As the Thoronnaur warmed up, Denethor urged him into a faster gait until the dust of the Anorien road became a thick cloud arising from beneath the horses' hooves. The Steward relaxed, the tensions of the day beginning to melt away as he moved along with his mount.

Beleg-Mor went into a smooth as silk trot and mouthed the bit, asking Daeron to let him extend it, but he listened and settled back into collection again when his head was gently brought back in. The youngest Guard was reveling in being on the back of such a responsive horse and whispered praise as the group moved from the trot into a canter. If Beleg-Mor's trot was smooth, his canter was a delight to sit. Daeron wondered to whom the stallion belonged, because he definitely wanted to thank whoever it was for the privilege of riding such a wonderful horse. It would be years before he could afford to purchase a horse of even half the quality of Beleg-Mor, assuming he even find one.

Gelim's roan came up along side of Beleg-mor, and the older guard nodded to Daeron as the gelding paced the stallion. Deleth's grey then drew up on Gelim's right, still fighting his rider's too hard pull on his mouth.

Daeron nodded back and adjusted his helmet strap. If it wasn't for the breeze created by the horses' movements he'd be sweltering. As it was the helmet was almost but not quite uncomfortably warm.

Thoronnaur made it plain to Denethor that he'd cantered long enough, thank you very much, and wanted to gallop now. The Steward leaned over the chestnut's neck and signaled with hands and heels permission to change gaits, and the stallion eagerly complied. The other horses, particularly Deleth's grey, were beginning to show dark patches of sweat on their chests and flanks, while Thoronnaur and Beleg-mor still looked as if they'd just come from a show ring.

Daeron saw the Steward pull away from the guards and, following Malden, lifted the black stallion into a gallop, The other guards following suit. Their mounts' hooves thundered along the grassy verge of the Anorien road, with the exception of Deleth who kept the grey on the dry and hard-packed roadbed. The group galloped on for some time then suddenly the grey stumbled. Deleth cursed loud enough for Daeron to hear him as the second lieutenant pulled the grey's head sharply up.

The confusion that followed set the guards and their mounts in disarray while Thoronnaur continued carrying the Steward further away at speed. Daeron signaled for Beleg-mor to slow and managed to not be in the way when the grey reared, his eyes white rimmed with distress. The grey came down, only to blunder into Gelim's roan. He saw Malden and Vorlas glance back as he guided Beleg-mor around the pile-up and urged the horse back into the ground eating gallop.

Ahead of them, Thoronnaur was stretching out into an outright run, and behind him Gelim's roan screamed as one of the grey's steel-shod hooves sliced along the cannon of the near foreleg, adding to the confusion.

Haron managed to detangle his mount from the pile up, apparently uninjured, but by then, the other three were already away in pursuit of the Steward, with the black easily outdistancing the other two guards.

Daeron winced at the sound of the distressed horses behind him but Vorlas and Malden's mounts were obviously not capable of keeping up with Thoronnaur. Daeron moved his hands forward and let Beleg-mor run full out, attempting to reach Denethor before the chestnut got too much more of a lead.

Denethor glanced back over his shoulder and saw Daeron closing in. Beyond the young lieutenant, he could see three of his guard in a blur of horses and dust, one of them downed. He began to collect Thoronnaur, drawing him back from the fantastic charge that had, for a few minutes at least, made the steward forget about the burdens of state.

Beleg-Mor's strides covered the distance between himself and the older stallion with ease. His ears were fully forward and he showed no sign of wanting to stop. However, when Daeron asked him to return to a more reasonable gait, he did so with only a discontented snort to indicate that he would have liked to run much further. He guided the black to a position just behind and to the right of the Steward's mount and transferred his reins to his left hand and loosened his sword in his scabbard, being that he was now Denethor's only guard. The run had been glorious but he still had his duty to perform.

Denethor coaxed Thoronnaur back down into a canter and turned him back towards the City. "Ride next to me, Lieutenant Greyvale," he ordered. "We'd best see what the damage is."

Beleg-mor was breathing a bit fast but not blowing, and feeling a change in the balance of his rider, stopped playing and concentrated on business. He was a warhorse after all, and knew just what that slight settling in the saddle meant. Daeron brought Beleg-mor up alongside the Steward and the two stallions cantered on, their steps nearly synchronized.

"Did you see what happened?"

They had traveled nearly a mile beyond the kerfluffle, and were only now coming up on Malden and Vorlas, who wheeled and fell in behind Daeron and the Steward.

"Yes, my lord. Lieutenant Deleth's grey stumbled, then reared soon after the lieutenant brought his head back up. I think he lost a shoe."

Deleth was cursing at his grey who was dancing around, his off forefoot held off the ground and his eyes still white rimmed. Haron, who had dismounted to check Gelim's downed mount, tossed his reins to Gelim and finally grabbed the grey's bridle. "Dismount, you idiot! Can't you tell Cein lost a shoe, for Valar's sake?"

"Unfortunately, it looks as if losing a shoe is the least of the problems." Denethor slowed Thoronnaur further, finally halting as they approached the downed roan. He leaned on the pommel of his saddle, and looked to Gelim. "Are you all right Lieutenant Gelim?"

Gelim had Haron's mount's reins looped over his arm while he held his cloak against the gash on his own mount's leg. Haron's bay was making no attempt to pull away but seemed to be comforting the injured sorrel.

"Aye, my lord, just bruised, but Menefil's leg is gashed."

Deleth had finally dismounted and was obviously furious as he moved to look at the hoof that had thrown the shoe. Cein protested, sidling away with a limp.

Menefil lay on his side panting, but obeying Gelim's command to be still. A number of the horses in the Citadel stables had been trained to provide heat and shelter for a downed rider and that was the command that Gelim had used when he realized the gelding would injure himself further by trying to rise.

Haron pulled Cein's head down, murmuring soothingly at him before sharply telling Deleth to leave off since he was only making matters worse.

Denethor's sharp eyes and ears did not miss the quietly spoken reprimand.

Cein hung his head and shuddered, the panic in his eyes decreasing as he listened to Haron.

"Malden, you stitched Obsidian's flank that time we were caught on the edge of that rock fall," the Steward said. "See what you can do for Menefil."

Malden nodded and dismounted, handing his reins to Vorlas, and pulled a packet from the small bag attached to his saddle as Daeron kept half an eye on the men and horses but most of his attention on the land around them. Though they weren't all that far from the City, and were still well within the bounds of the Rammas Echor, it was still possible that either orcs or men of foul intent could be hidden out of sight. Vorlas was doing likewise, holding both Haron's and his own reins in his left hand.

Thoronnaur swung his head around and made a mock bite at the water skin that hung from the front of Denethor's saddle. The Steward laughed, "Thirsty, Thor?" He dismounted and took the water skin and poured some water into his hand for the stallion to drink. "Only a bit now. The rest when you've cooled down properly."

Thoronnaur drank all that was offered and then snorted into Denethor's hand.

A fragment of sugarloaf found its way from Denethor's pocket to Thor's whiskered mouth. "There's your treat, old man." The Steward patted Thoronnaur's neck then turned his attention back to Malden's first aid treatment.

Haron continued whispering to Cein until the animal quieted, then gently lifted the damaged foot. He frowned when he saw the damage to the hoof. "Deleth, how could you have missed the fact that Cein's shoe was loose? He's going to have to go out to grass until the hoof grows back."

"There was nothing wrong with the shoe when we left the City," Deleth said defensively.

"That may well be, but he didn't stumble from losing the shoe. He stumbled because his unprotected hoof broke down when you took him onto on the hard roadbed--where you shouldn't have been in the first place! You should have felt the change in gait long before that happened." Haron was well and truly angry in spite of his relatively quiet tone. This wasn't the first horse the Chancellor's nephew had lamed or injured.

"Greyvale, take Thoronnaur's reins." Denethor handed them up to Daeron, his eyes narrowing as he overheard Haron's words. Daeron obeyed and shot a glance towards the officer in question before returning his attention back to watching for further trouble. The chestnut stallion arched his neck and pawed the ground once, turning his head towards Beleg-Mor's neck. Daeron felt the tension in the younger stallion's body but the horse didn't respond to Thoronnaur's challenge. He hid a smile as he translated the black's action; Challenges were for the paddock, Beleg-Mor was on duty and surely a warhorse of Thoronnaur's experience should know that.

Denethor strode over to the grey and patted its neck gently as he stared at Lieutenant Deleth in silence for a moment before turning to Haron. "How bad is it, Lieutenant Haron?" He bent to look at the hoof in question.

"As you can see one of the nails punctured the frog, my lord. And a goodly portion of the hoof wall is broken away. He needs to be seen by a farrier as soon as possible," Haron answered then returned to soothing the gelding.

"Aye." Denethor's expression was grim as he straightened and turned towards Deleth. "Remove your right boot, Lieutenant."

Deleth stared at the Steward in confusion. But he hastened to obey when he saw the Steward's jaw tightening. Haron hid a satisfied grin as he poured water from his canteen so that Cein could drink.

Denethor took the polished boot from Deleth and handed it to Haron once Cein had taken some water. "You will walk your mount back to the city. Only when Cein is safely with the farrier on the Sixth circle, will Lieutenant Haron return your boot to you. At that point, you will report to the Watch Commander for further orders. Lieutenant Haron, you and Malden will escort the lamed mounts back."

Malden straightened up and returned his needle to his kit. "Good lad. All right, Gelim. Tell him he can get up." He then turned towards Denethor. "Yes, my Lord."

Haron bowed, "Yes, my lord." He then turned back to Cein, dropping the bit from the gelding's mouth before handing the grey's reins to Deleth. "You'll walk at his pace, Deleth."

The man took the reins with bad grace, but said nothing, seeing the Steward's disapproving gaze still on him.

Satisfied that the injured animals would be carefully returned home, Denethor returned to Thoronnaur and retrieved the reins from Daeron's hand. Having done so, Daeron told Beleg-mor to step away from the chestnut so that Denethor would be able to mount without interference.

Thoronnaur snorted at the half-shod Deleth and stepped off as soon as Denethor gave him his office. Daeron followed, riding next to Vorlas, still alert for danger. His first excursion guarding the Steward certainly hadn't been boring!

Fortunately, the remainder of the ride back to the City gates was uneventful, although when the commander of the Gate guard saw only two guards returning with the Steward instead of six, he nearly panicked.

"Peace, Captain," Denethor told him. "One of the horses threw a shoe and in the process another was injured. The remainder of my escort are returning to the City at a pace to accommodate the injured animals."

"I'm sorry to hear that, my Lord. I'll have the watch keep an eye out for them."

"Send a message up to the Watch Commander at the Citadel that I wish to speak with him immediately. He is to meet me in the stables."

"Yes, my Lord. I'll send the runner immediately." The guard saluted and stepped back as the Steward and his two guards rode on. He then called for the runner and sent him on his way with the message, thinking that people were wrong about gate duty being boring. In his personal experience there was never a dull moment.

Denethor guided Thoronnaur up through the levels, drawing him to one side as the runner raced past him, saluting, on his way up to the Citadel's Watch Commander.

The stable master emerged from the barn as the party entered the yard and he called for the stable lads to come and see to the horses.

Denethor dismounted and went around to Thoronnaur's head, another piece of sugarloaf having already migrated from pocket to his hand. "Tomorrow we'll have a proper run, Thor," he promised in a whisper. As the aging chestnut crunched the treat, the Steward waved away the stable lad who usually dealt with the stallion. "I will tend to him today, Rhys. And when the Watch Commander arrives, send him to me."

"Aye, my lord," The tow-headed teenager said as he bowed, then went to assist elsewhere.

As he led Thoronnaur towards his spacious loose box, Denethor cast a glance at Daeron, who had halted Beleg-Mor and patted his neck, quietly praising him before dismounting, approving of his careful handling of the magnificent black.

Vorlas interrupted Daeron before he had a chance to run up his stirrup irons. "Go ahead and tend your mount. I'll stand watch this time."

The stable master had arrived on the scene in tie to hear Vorlas' words and snorted as he glanced at the sweat-streaked and dusty blue-eyed, white mare the Lieutenant had ridden. "You just don't want to go to all the trouble of giving Celeloth a bath." The other lieutenant cheerfully agreed and handed over his reins to one of the stable lads.

Daeron grinned and ran up his irons before catching the stablemaster's eye. "Which box is Beleg-Mor's?" he asked.

Stable Master Alaric led the way down the aisle and gestured towards a roomy but sturdily built box stall across the aisle from Thoronnaur's. "Here it is, Lieutenant. I can have one of the lads take care of him for you."

"No, thank you. I'll take care of him." Daeron led Beleg-Mor into the indicated box and untacked him as the black started pulling hay from the net that hung in the corner of the stall. He wanted to spend as much time as possible with the stallion before he had to leave him. When he stepped out of the box to put the saddle and bridle away, he found that someone had brought buckets of water and brushes.

"Thank you," he told the stable lad who was lugging a third bucket down the aisle as he turned back towards the box after putting the tack away. Then he stripped off his armor and gambeson and rolled up his sleeves.

Before entering Beleg-mor's stall, he noticed that Denethor had shed the outermost layers of his clothing, leaving a black linen tunic over a gauze shirt and sueded leather leggings, looking very unlike the dignified Ruling Steward as he collected a brush and began to sweep the dust from Thoronnaur's coat. Lieutenant Vorlas had taken up a position of attention where he could see the Steward and the entrance to the stable.

Beleg-Mor had excellent stable manners and stood quietly as Daeron began to groom him, only shifting his weight and turning his head to watch the stable lad set a fourth bucket of water down right outside the box door. "You'll get your drink in a few minutes," Daeron promised the stallion as he reached for a hoof pick. As soon as the tool was in his hand Beleg-Mor's near forefoot was lifted up. Daeron couldn't help being envious of the owner of this wonderful horse. It obviously took longer to groom a horse the size of Beleg-Mor than it had Ruinanor but it actually ended up being an easier job as the black wasn't as skittish as the mare had been.

Shortly thereafter, while Denethor was brushing Thoronnaur's off side, the Watch Commander arrived.

Captain Verandel reporting as ordered, my lord," the Watch Commander said with a salute.

Denethor gave Thoronnaur a pat on the neck and came to the entrance of the loose box. "Lieutenant Deleth will be reporting to you upon his return to the City."

"Yes, my Lord. I understand there was an accident?"

"Aye. I did not see exactly what happened. However, Lieutenant Greyvale did." Denethor indicated Daeron with a nod of his head. He raised his voice. "Lieutenant Greyvale, to me."

Daeron straightened up, gave Beleg-mor a quick pat and exited the box, securing the door latch and dropping the hoof pick and brushes in one of the now empty buckets. He approached the Steward and despite being out of uniform, saluted. "Yes, my lord?"

"Tell Captain Verandel what occurred which caused the injuries to Cein and Menefil."

"Yes, my lord." Daeron turned towards the Watch Commander and succinctly described what happened. "I think the initial stumble was an accident caused by the lost shoe but the rest of the situation was caused by Lieutenant Deleth's treatment of his mount."

Stable Master Alaric was passing by, leading another horse to an inner stall and paused long enough to ask, "Deleth? Has he damaged another horse?" His expression was angry and he appeared to be looking forward to having words with the Lieutenant once he got back to the stables; words and maybe more than words. Daeron found himself fervently hoping he was never the recipient of such a look.

"Apparently so," the Watch Commander said. "Since the man doesn't know how to treat his mount, I'm sure there are other duties that he can perform where he needn't be near a horse. Of course, a good number of those duties are rather unpleasant."

"Good," Denethor stated before turning to the Stable Master. "How many animals has he been responsible for injuring?"

"This is the fifth animal he's injured in the past year."

Denethor's eyes narrowed. "Five... Captain, Lieutenant Deleth is to be immediately removed from the rolls of my personal Guard and transferred to the regular army--after he has served whatever you think to be an adequate punishment detail for his actions."

"Yes, my lord. I'll see to it at once."

"Thank you, Captain. I'll let you get back to your duties." Denethor accepted the man's salute and the Watch Commander left.

At this point Thoronnaur had had enough of being ignored and reached over the stall's half door to snatch the brush that Denethor had stuffed halfway into a pocket when the Watch Commander had arrived. Denethor turned towards his own stallion just in time for Thoronnaur, holding the brush bristle side out, to bob his head and catch the Steward's long, greying locks with it.

Suddenly the sound of splashing water, followed by a thud, was heard from Beleg-Mor's box. Daeron spun round and found that a stable lad was standing in front of the door alternately staring down at his soaked boots and breeches and looking up at Beleg-Mor who had his head over the door and a 'who me?' expression on his face. The bucket which the young man had apparently just hung on the hook provided for that purpose, now lay on its side in the aisle way.

Master Alaric emerged from the box where he'd secured the horse he'd been leading, and sighed when he saw the soaked lad and dropped bucket. He crossed his arms and frowned at Beleg-Mor. "Again? Gavin makes that the sixth time this week. You know better than to do that." The black actually looked shame-faced and dropped his head to gently nudge the young man in an obvious apology.

Gavin laughed and scratched the black chin. "It's all right. You've done it to all the other lads. I was beginning to feel left out. Truce?"

Beleg-Mor snorted in agreement and picked up the bucket again.

"He's done this how many times?" Daeron asked as Gavin took the bucket from Beleg-Mor and went to refill it.

"As many times as I have lads. It's just a game. There's not a speck of malice in this fellow." The stable master said with a smile.

"Who does he belong to?" Daeron asked, reaching up to rub the glossy black neck. "He was wonderful to ride today and I want to thank them for letting me do so." His eyes were on the stallion so he missed the Stable Master's surprised look and quick glance towards the Steward.

"Why, he belongs to you, my lord," The stable master said. "As does the tack you used today."

Denethor was detangling the brush from his hair, gently scolding Thoronnaur, but he glanced at Daeron from the corner of his eye to see his reaction.

Stunned, Daeron was speechless, continuing to rub Beleg-Mor's neck as the stallion happily leaned into the attention. Finally, he managed to say, "He's mine?"

"That's what my Book says, my lord. Ride him in health." The stable master gave a small bow to Daeron and a much deeper one to Denethor before heading down the aisle. Still stunned, Daeron re-entered Beleg-Mor's box and finished grooming him, which at this point consisted mainly of detangling his mane and tail.

"Do not be teaching that young one your tricks, Thor," Denethor warned as he recommenced brushing his steed. "It looks as if he has tricks enough of his own."

The Steward finished up with the brush, and put it out of Thoronnaur's reach. "Daeron, please hand me a hoof pick."

Daeron, who had just closed the door to Beleg-Mor's box, grabbed up the one he'd been using previously and handed to the Steward. "Is there anything else you need, my lord?"

Denethor tugged at his still disarrayed hair. "Thanks to this old reprobate," he said fondly, slapping Thoronnaur's neck, "a comb would not go amiss."

Thoronnaur's sheepish apologetic look was a mirror for that which Beleg-mor had given the stable lad.

"I'll get you one, my lord."

Denethor nodded and turned his attention to Thor's feet, smiling as he listened to Daeron's retreating footsteps.

Daeron suspected that this was a trick that the Steward's mount had pulled quite frequently and therefore went to the stablemaster's office. He'd barely stepped in the doorway when Master Alaric held out a comb. "I was expecting someone to come for this any time now. If I'm not here, it will be in the top left drawer of my desk."

"Thank you." Daeron smiled, taking the comb and returning to the stallion boxes.

As Daeron returned, the Steward straightened from cleaning out Thoronnaur's off hind hoof.

"Here's a comb, my lord." Daeron offered it towards Denethor and received the hoof pick in exchange.

"So, what do you think of your new horse?" Denethor asked as he stepped from the stall and began to quickly groom his own hair.

"He's wonderful. I've dreamed of having a horse like him, but never expected..." Daeron turned his head to look at the black stallion, who was once again lipping hay from the hanging net in the corner of the box.

Gavin whistled cheerfully has he returned down the aisle lugging the refilled bucket. Apparently, he'd taken the time to change to dry breeches though his boots were still wet. It was with an expression of relief that he hung the bucket on its hook and stepped away from the box. It might be just a game to the stallion but getting drenched twice in one day was two times too many in his opinion.

The steward handed the comb back to Daeron as he replaced his overtunic and the lightweight black robe he'd worn over his riding leathers. He looked from Beleg-mor to Thoronnaur and gave the elder stallion one last pat before walking toward Beleg-Mor's stall to let the younger horse snuffle his hand. "I advise that you do not allow him to develop a taste for sugarloaf, or you will risk him learning to extort it from you like Gyldenlac does from my son."

"Thank you for the advice, my lord. Ruinanor had a taste for it as well. I think that carrots and apples will be enough treats for Beleg-mor."

The sound of the Citadel tocsin rang out.

"That is a wise idea. And, it seems that you have survived your first duty shift as a member of my guard, Lieutenant Greyvale." Denethor put his hand on Daeron's shoulder, just as the uneven sound of halting hooves came to them; the injured mounts were being led in from the stable entrance; grey Cein first, led by a limping Deleth.

"Is your leg bothering you, Daeron? It has been quite a strenuous day."

"No, my lord. It's given me no trouble at all." Daeron didn't notice the glowering look Deleth had shot at him as he'd led Cein to one of the boxes reserved for injured horses.

"Good, then you will be fit for taking up your duty on the morrow. Finish up here and report to the Watch Commander that you are off duty. Lieutenant Vorlas, you will be my escort to my quarters and then are dismissed."

"Yes, my lord," the other guard, who had continued to stand at attention (hiding his amusement at the shenanigans of the horses) while the Steward tended his mount, answered.

"Thank you, my lord," Daeron said. He stepped back as Menefil was led past by Gelim.

Denethor adjusted his robe and strode for the door, Vorlas in his wake.

Daeron gave Beleg-mor a last pat and promised to come back after he was off duty then began gathering up the grooming supplies, only to have them taken out of his hands along with the comb by Gavin. "I'll put these away, sir. Master Alaric is very strict about what goes where."

"Thank you." Daeron unrolled his sleeves and donned his gambeson and armour. He would have to return the glaive to the armoury as well, before reporting to the Watch Commander's office to sign off duty.

Daeron heard someone hail him as he was about to enter the armoury. He turned and discovered that Caerthan was striding across the courtyard in his direction.

"So, I'm hearing you had a bit of an adventure this afternoon after all." The older officer slid his glaive into its spot on the rack and grinned at Daeron.

"You could say that. What is it with Deleth? I couldn't believe it when the Stable Master said he'd lamed five horses in the past year."

"That many? I knew that his last mount foundered, but I'd not heard more than that." He turned towards the door that led towards the Watch Commanders office. "You'll need to write up a report on what happened today, but you can wait until after the evening meal to do it."

"I will. I have my daybook to write up as well."

"We all know that rumors aren't always accurate. What exactly happened?"

As the two guards headed for the watch commander's office, Daeron explained what had happened to Cein. "His hoof is a wreck and if the puncture gets infected..." he shook his head, remembering his mare.

Daeron let Caerthan precede him into the outer office.

The Watch Commander was standing in the doorway of his office, obviously waiting for someone.

"Good even, Captain Verandel," Caerthan greeted the officer as he came to attention.

"Good even, Lieutenant," Verandel said after returning the salute. "How did our newest member handle his first day of duty?" he asked as if he hadn't spoken to Daeron regarding the incident with the horses only a short time before.

"He's a credit to the Guard, sir." Caerthan replied, dropping his salute and bending over the logbook. "I'll get him started on his shift report after the meal."

Daeron remained at attention though he knew he was blushing. The sergeant seated at the other desk grinned at Daeron and turned his attention back to the paperwork in front of him.

The Watch Commander turned towards Daeron, who immediately saluted. "Congratulations on surviving your first day, Lieutenant."

Daeron waited until the commander returned his salute before replying, "Thank you, sir." Then as Caerthan had finished making his entry, he picked up the pen and dipped it in the waiting inkwell before signing off duty himself.

Halting footsteps on the stone floor outside the door stopped then got louder as Lieutenant Deleth stepped over the threshold and came into the office. He barely had a chance to come to attention, when Captain Verandel snapped out, "Deleth, my office. Now."

He turned and stalked through the inner door, obviously expecting the officer to follow him.

Daeron returned the pen to the holder and straightened up only to meet the eyes of the limping man. He was surprised at the expression on Deleth's face. The brown eyes were filled with spite and dislike and a flash of an emotion that Daeron wasn't able to define before Deleth followed the Watch Commander.

The inner door did not slam as it closed, but it was a near thing.

Daeron glanced at Caerthan but said nothing.

The older officer shook his head and nodded towards the outer door. "Let's stow our armor and see what they are feeding us tonight."

"If it's as good as lunch was I don't care what they give me, so long as there aren't any mushrooms in it."

Caerthan laughed and when they were outside, he asked Daeron, "What horse did they lend to you today?"

"I wasn't lent a horse. I rode my own. I suppose my father must have purchased him before he left for Cair Andros. His name is Beleg-Mor. Would you like to meet him?"

"Of course. Before or after we eat?"

"Your choice. I was planning on returning to the stable once I write up my report."

"Food first then," Caerthan decided. "And we can beg some apples or carrots as a treat for your new mount."

Daeron smiled and told Caerthan what Denethor had said regarding sugarloaf. "I'm never giving sugarloaf to another horse as long as I live. Ruinanor got to like it so much, she broke out of her stall at the academy stables once and was found in the pantries eating two month's supply of the stuff."

His companion chortled at the mental image. "I'm certain the mess cooks were less than pleased."

"So was Sergeant Ferris who got hauled out of bed to deal with the situation," Daeron added, surprised that he could talk about his lost mare with such equanimity when it hadn't been that long ago that even thinking of her had effectively choked him to the point of not being able to speak.

"Ferris? He's still at the Academy?" Caerthan held open the door to the mess hall for Daeron.

"Oh, yes. He's a fixture. I doubt he'll ever retire."

"Does he still carry that bloody swagger stick? We used to say that the Dark Lord could suddenly appear in front of him and he wouldn't drop the damned thing."

"I think it's glued to his hand, personally." Daeron snickered at the idea of the Dark Lord appearing before Ferris. "He'd probably use it on the Enemy!"

"Had a close encounter or two with it, lad?" Caerthan asked and then leant into the hatch to see what was being served.

Daeron grimaced and picked up an empty tray. "Several times in my first year, unfortunately."

"Lamb stew," Caerthan reported as he withdrew his head from the kitchen hatch. "Only your first year? He let that thing fly at me three times that I recall in my senior year alone."

"I think I finally grew enough brains to realize that no matter what he was going to win. My friend Halmir, however, is another story. We stopped counting halfway through first year on him."

"Halmir? Why does that name sound familiar?" Caerthan led the way to his usual table, a bowl of lamb stew on his tray.

"He was assigned directly to the Rangers at Henneth Annun after graduation. You might have heard about his outshooting all of a squad of rangers except for Lord Faramir." Daeron set his tray down and continued, "I suspect he might even have beaten Lord Faramir if his bowstring hadn't snapped."

"Ah... that's it. Remarkable. I wondered if it were apocryphal, since no one ever gets taken into the Rangers right out of the Academy."

"No one ever gets into the Steward's personal Guard right out of the Academy either," Daeron said with a grimace, "but here I am, and I haven't any idea of why."

"Times change, lad. I wouldn't worry much about it. Just keep doing what you're supposed to and it won't matter that most of the other officers have more years of service than you have on Arda. Actually, I'm glad you're here. Now I won't be teased about being in the youngest half dozen officers anymore."

"Glad to be of service, Caerthan," Daeron retorted as he drew his beaker of ale.

Caerthan handed Daeron his empty beaker and took the full one. "Seniority has its privileges," he teased.

"Ha, ha. I'll keep that in mind for when I finally have some."

"You'll get older every day, lad." They settled down, good-naturedly teasing back and forth at each other as they ate.

Once they finished dinner the two guards wrote up their reports and dropped them off at the Watch Commander's office. The sergeant took their reports and wished them a good night.

"All right, time to introduce me to your new steed."

Daeron recognised Gavin, the stable lad who'd been soaked by Beleg-Mor's prank and gave the young man a wave as they entered the stable. The lad was with two others who were good-naturedly arguing over where to get supper.

"Have a good night, my lord," Gavin called before his friends dragged him out of the yard.

"I'd forgotten you've your own title. Forgive me, my lord," Caerthan said as he followed Daeron along the passageway.

"I keep forgetting I have my own title. And I'm still looking around to see who they're asking for when they call me Lieutenant. I'd honestly prefer it if you just call me Daeron when we're not on duty."

"All right... Daeron." Caerthan stopped dead when he saw the black stallion, stunned at the horse's magnificence.

Having recognized Daeron's voice, Beleg-Mor put his head over the door of the loose box and made an inquiring whinny. Daeron greeted his horse and laughed as Beleg-Mor snuffled over his tunic and shirt, obviously having smelled the presence of the two store apples that Daeron had tucked in his pocket while still in the officer's mess.

Thoronnaur put his head over the gate to his box and whickered at Daeron as well.

"No, I don't have sugarloaf, and you know it," Daeron told the Steward's mount. At what was obviously a disappointed look, he laughed again and asked, "Will you accept an apple, if Beleg-mor doesn't mind sharing?"

At that the two stallions looked at each other and after a moment of two, Beleg-Mor snorted once and dropped his head.

Caerthan raised his eyebrows at the stallions' antics, a bit surprised by Daeron's familiar manner towards the Steward's horse. "He's beautiful."

Daeron didn't answer, having pulled out the two apples and offered them to the two stallions. Luckily, the aisle was not so wide that he had to make one wait for the other to receive his treat. "It's obvious that Beleg-mor is from Rohan, but his name is Sindarin. I would have thought that he would have had a Rohirric name."

Caerthan moved closer to Beleg-mor and ran his eyes over the stallion's superb conformation. The only other beast currently in the stables that compared to him was Thoronnaur, the Steward's mount. "I recall almost nothing of the Sindarin my tutor tried to pound into my head. Maybe your father re-named him when he purchased him. Rohirric seems unpronounceable to me most of the time anyway"

"Perhaps. I only know a little Rohirric and that from one of the stablemen at Greyvale who married one of the maids after a midsummer fair."

"Words you can't use in polite company?" Caerthan grinned and then stood still as Beleg-Mor snuffled at his chest, investigating him.

Daeron smirked, "My mother is fortunately not aware of my Rohirric vocabulary. It's a little less than polite. At least I'll know when some drunk Rohirrim is denigrating me."

"Always good to know when you're being sworn at. I wonder how on Arda your father managed to talk the Rohirrim into selling Beleg-mor to him. He's of the King's Line, you know. Just like Thoronnaur. In fact," Caerthan caught Beleg-Mor's head gently between his hands and gazed at the bright eyes and the line of the head and arch of the neck. "If his colour was changed, you wouldn't be able to tell the two of them apart, save for Thoronnaur's white whiskers."

Daeron looked startled and looked from the black to the chestnut and back. "I didn't notice."

Caerthan slid his hands to the horse's neck and he looked through the lower bars of the box at the sleekly muscled black body. His eyes widened as he realized that the horse was intact. The Rohirrim never sold stallions from the King's line, and had only occasionally gifted geldings and mares. They weren't Mearas, but in some ways were even more valuable than those mounts descended from the Lord of Horses. Lord Denethor's Thoronnaur was an exception of course. "He's a war horse fit for a prince. Your father must love you very much."

"I know my father loves me. It didn't take the gift of a horse, no matter how grand, to tell me that," Daeron said. "But I'm very grateful for the gift nevertheless." He stroked Beleg-Mor's neck and bid him a good night. "I'll be back tomorrow," he promised.

Caerthan scratched the black's neck just behind the ears for a moment and then stepped back and bowed to the stallion. "Bear him safely," he said to the horse.

Beleg-mor raised his head and give Caerthan a look that distinctly said "As if I would do otherwise" then dipped his nose once before turning to investigate the contents of his feed bin.

Thoronnaur, realizing there were no more apples in the offing, ignored the humans and turned his attention to his own feed.

Daeron paused outside the stall where the grey, Cein, had been put. The farrier was in the next stall with Menefil, applying a new poultice to the gash on his foreleg.

"Good e'en, sirs," the old man said, glancing up at them.

The grey looked up at Daeron, initially skittish, but when he saw that it wasn't Deleth, the horse settled down. The damaged hoof had been shoed with a special shoe that would hopefully keep the rest of the hoof from breaking down while the damaged area grew out.

"Good evening. How are they doing?"

"Menefil will be all right. It's just a surface wound, and all stitched up nice. This is just to ease the pain and itching of the stitches, right boy?" He reached up and patted the roan's flank.

The roan dipped his head to snuffle the farrier's thinning hair then turned his attention back to his hay net.

"What about Cein?" Daeron glanced back at the unhappy grey.

The farrier got to his feet and his expression darkened as he looked over the partition. "I've put special shoe on him to support the broken hoof until it grows out again. If I get my hands on the fool who..." He remembered to whom he was talking and the mutter grew indistinct.

"I think you'll have to stand in line," Daeron said, "behind the Steward, the Watch Commander and Lieutenant Haron. I did hear that he will never work with horses again."

"Good!" The Farrier reached over the stall wall and patted Cein. "Did you hear that, boy? You're safe from him now."

The farrier continued to make much of the grey, reassuring the horse as Caerthan grinned and then indicated the door to Daeron. Resuming their stroll, they strolled down the aisleway of the barn, their boots ringing off the slate floor until they stepped out into the yard. The sun had not yet set but was thinking about doing so in an hour or two and the heat of the day was beginning to diminish.

"I think I'll make my daybook entry and go down to see how my mother and little sister are doing, if it's not too late when I get that done," Daeron decided, "but only after I change out of this uniform. Thanks for the help today. I really appreciate it."

"No, problem," Caerthan responded with a smile. "I remember my first day of duty. It wasn't that long ago you know. Good night."

The Broken Barrel wasn't the only drinking establishment in the second circle frequented by the Guard, but it certainly seemed to be the most popular. Of course, some of the popularity came from the not-so-hidden fact that it was the front for a brothel of some repute.

Of course the quality of the ale sold by the owner had something to do with it as well, and the fact that the place was off limits to the academy cadets. So when Deleth and a half dozen of his cronies came in and commandeered a large table no one looked askance at the men, even though two still wore their uniforms.

At the table behind the one commandeered by the guardsmen, a good half dozen young men were congregated over mugs of ale; all of them smelling at least faintly of horse, and chattering about their day in the Citadel stables.

The two women who stood next to the end of the bar closest to the kitchen doors exchanged a long suffering look and did a "rock-scissors-paper" exchange to see which one of them would serve the Guard's table. The plump redhead lost, gave a huge sigh, and reluctantly headed over to the guardsmen's table while the other, who must have had some Rohirric blood in her family given her golden blonde hair and blue eyes and tall stature, gave a grin of relief as she went to refill the mugs of the stable lads.

The red-head took the guardsmen's orders and, for once, Deleth didn't try to make a grab at her. Instead he seemed to be angry and his friends were trying to cheer him up by commiserating with him. She gratefully headed back to the bar and started drawing mugs of ale.

Of course, she reflected as she closed the tap and set the last mug on a tray, the night was still very young and once Deleth got whatever was on his mind off of it, he'd certainly be back to his obnoxious self. If he weren't the Chancellor's nephew, she knew that the innkeeper would have refused to allow him in the place.

"Middens and gate duty, like some ignorant, illiterate buck private!" Deleth ranted, tossing back the first mug of ale.

"That's not fair!" one of his friends said. "The farrier mucks up a shoe and you take the fall for it."

"What? They can't do that!" his friend, Urias, sputtered. "You're an officer!"

"Not to mention in the Steward's personal Guard!"

"Greyvale should have been given Cein to ride and not that showy black! I'd like to see him on middens duty, the stuck up, spoiled brat!" Deleth grumbled, not correcting his friends comment about him being in the Steward's Guard. He'd been embarrassed enough without making that bit of information public. It would be common knowledge soon enough…

"What's he doing in the Steward's personal Guard, anyway?" another man asked. "He's only just out of the Academy."

"His father probably bought him the assignment," Urias said cynically, having finished off his ale and waving towards the red haired bar maid for a refill.

The hilarity at the stable hands' table increased, almost drowning out Urias' words.

"Gavin, I knew you couldn't escape forever. He's gotten all the rest of us!"

Another added, "And be glad it was only water on your boots. Gyldenlac would have pissed on them!"

"And taken a bite out of my arm for good measure," Gavin agreed, taking his friends' teasing in good part. "I'd give my soul to own a horse like Beleg-Mor. Lord Daeron is lucky to have him."

"I thought that Beleg-Mor belonged to the Steward. He's belongs to Lord Daeron?" Dieslin, one of the other lads asked.

Rhys nodded, "Lord Laedren must have half beggared himself to buy him. Did you see his bloodlines in the Stable Master's Book?"

Deleth's glower darkened as he heard that the black actually belonged to Greyvale.

"Well, he is Lord Laedren's only son and was the honour graduate of the academy class this year," Gavin said.

One of the guards at the next table snorted into his mug, and audibly said, "His father probably bought that for him as well."

Gavin glared at the guard and snapped, "Mind your own business."

Before the guardsmen could do anything in response to the stable lad's words, a shadow fell over both tables. Keris, the owner of the Broken Barrel (which had been named for the fact that he'd literally broken an ale barrel over the head of a thief who had intended on taking the first night's proceeds when he opened the place) was facetiously rumoured to be a half-giant. He wasn't, but was plenty large enough for the claim to have some merit. "Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

The occupants of both tables immediately quieted and agreed there was no problem, not wanting to be expelled from the place; as those that were usually ended up in the hands of the healers for some days.

Gavin pointedly turned his back on the guards and called for the blond barmaid to bring them another round.

As the mugs arrived, Faril commented, "Whatever Lord Laedren paid for that horse, Lord Daeron will get it all back and more in stud fees!"

Once the mugs were refilled and Gavin handed over the money for the drinks, telling the girl to keep the change, he grinned. "I can hardly wait to see Prince Imrahil's expression the first time he sees Beleg-Mor. He's been dying to get some Rohirric blood into his herds."

"I also want to know who trained the black. I've never know a better tempered or better behaved—well, with the exception of the water buckets--stallion. I'd love to apprentice under that trainer," Dieslin said.

Rhys nodded. "According to the Stable Master's Book, Beleg-mor is of the King's Line. I didn't think that they allowed them out of Rohan except to the Steward's family."

"They don't, or at least they never have before," Gavin told him.

"And I heard that Prince Theodred himself trained him!" Rhys added excitedly. "He and Lord Boromir are best friends, you know."

"Isn't Lord Daeron part of the Steward's family? A cousin or something?" asked one of the lads, who had just listened to most of the exchange.

Faril finished his mug and set it down on the table. "Not that I know of... but you never know how all the noble families are all intertwined."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I have to be up two hours before dawn to head out to the breeding farm with Master Alaric. Obsidian's last get is due to drop any day now." Gavin finished off his ale and bid his fellows a good night.

Deleth frowned as he listened to the stable lads' conversation, remembering the glimpse of the Steward with his hand on the brat's shoulder; a far too familiar position for two men who were merely superior and vassal. And Daeron looked very like the Captain General, even to the width of his shoulders and height. The only difference was in the colour of their eyes; but Lady Meriel was reported to have green eyes, wasn't she?

He remembered the rumours that had flown around three years previously, before Lieutenant Kergil had been executed for attempting to murder Lord Boromir. Laedren's wife had been courted by the Steward's Heir when she first came to the City and, from all accounts, the marriage between her and Laedren of Greyvale had occurred with almost unseemly haste...

With Gavin's departure, the younger stable lads' conversation turned to the quality of the ale and they began to tease Dieslin about his admiration for the blonde barmaid.

Deleth ignored his fellows' conversation as his mind sorted through the various rumours and facts, and put together a picture that made him smile ferally. If he was going to be dishonored, he'd make sure to bring dishonor on the brat and the Steward's family as well.

"Hey, Deleth, did you hear me?" the man to his left nudged him again. "We're going in back. Want to come along?"

Deleth scowled. He was essentially broke, having been told his pay was going to be docked for the replacement cost of Cein. "No, I need to go speak to my uncle." Uncle Maedreth had been generous in the past. Hopefully he would continue to be so because Deleth had more debts in the City than just a round of ale and the price of a whore that needed to be paid.

He watched his friends disappear down the corridor that led to the brothel, drained his mug and rose to leave, tossing down a coin as he did so. It was his last one but he'd have plenty more by the time he left his uncle's house.

Daeron stepped from the tunnel onto the cobbles of the main road that ran through the Sixth Level of the City, blinking as his eyes got used once more to the brighter light. Being summer, the sun set late and the difference between the torch lit tunnel and daylight was significant. He automatically stepped to the side so as to not block the passage or be in the way of passing traffic.

After two weeks he was still getting used to being able to do as he pleased when not on duty after five years of being restricted to the Academy grounds unless he was granted a pass. It was only the matter of a few minutes brisk walk to reach the front steps of the Greyvale townhouse once he could see without being blinded by glare. With his usual precognition, Bendrel opened the front door just as Daeron's foot reached the top step.

"Good evening, Bendrel."

Before Daeron could say another word, the elderly butler had gestured towards the passage that led to the garden door. "Your lady mother is in the garden, young lord. I will bring refreshments momentarily."

Daeron rolled his eyes at the butler's use of the honorific, grinned, and turned to make his way down the corridor. He opened the door to the garden and his grin widened to see his mother and his baby sister. "Good evening, mother, Fin-lass."

Meriel was bouncing the five month old on her knee, and looked up with a smile. "Daeron. I didn't know if you were going to be able to come home tonight or not. How was your first day on guard duty instead of training?"

Fin squealed with delight and reached for her big brother, straining against Meriel's hands.

"Interesting to say the least. Well, standing guard at doorways is dull, but I went out with five other guards as the Steward's escort when he went riding this afternoon. It was certainly better than the past two weeks going through orientation." Daeron crossed the flagstones and held out his hands to his little sister. "Who are you? I'm sure that Fin wasn't this big when I saw her two weeks ago."

He lifted her up and swung her round before drawing her close and planting a kiss on her black curls. She giggled and grabbed at his tunic.

Meriel smiled. "She's been growing overnight, just like you did. Sit down and cool off. The peach tree's shade has been a real relief today."

Daeron leaned forward and kissed his mother and then did as she suggested. It was distinctly cooler under the shade of the peach tree and the air was redolent with the rich scent of the ripening fruit. Finduilas grabbed at the fastenings on Daeron's tunic, babbling a bit of nonsense as she did so. It was almost as if she were trying to comment about them to him.

"I'm sorry Fin. but I don't speak your language yet." Daeron reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a strand of silver beads that he'd purchased with his first pay packet. He'd spied the bauble while walking through one of the City markets on his way back home from one of the horse fairs, but had forgotten to give it to his sister. He hoped that it would distract her from his tunic fastenings. He could sew but preferred not to have to reattach loose buttons every time he saw his baby sister. "Here, Fin. This is yours."

Her eyes widened at the shiny string of beads and she immediately grabbed for it.

Since Fin was happily playing with her bauble, Daeron sat her down on the blanket that Meriel had placed on the flagstones next to the chairs and small table.

"So," Meriel asked, reaching up above her head to pluck a ripe peach that was in reach. "If standing guard is dull, what made the day interesting?"

"My new horse."

In act of handing the peach to Daeron, his mother stilled, a puzzled look on her face. "A new horse?" She dropped the fruit into his hand, picked another one for herself, and reached for the paring knife that lay on the low table.

Daeron blinked at his mother's puzzlement. He would have thought that his father would have mentioned buying Beleg-Mor to her. "Yes, I expected to have to use one of the horses from the cavalry pool but when we got to the stables, Master Alaric led out Beleg-Mor. I thought I was just being allowed to ride him because he needed exercise."

He paused, his mind back in the stable yard when he first laid eyes on the magnificent animal. "He's the most beautiful stallion I've ever seen."

Meriel began to pare her peach and nodded. Laedren had been in the field pretty much constantly since the night that Halmir had left to go to Ithilien with the Rangers. It was likely that he'd just not had a chance to say anything to her about it before he and the Captain-General had left the townhouse that night.

"When we got back from the ride, I asked Master Alaric who owned Beleg-Mor so I could thank him for the privilege of riding him, and he said that he belonged to me."

Daeron turned his attention back to the peach in his hand and took a bite out of it, hastily licking the juice that threatened to run down his chin before continuing. "Beleg-Mor can even keep up with Thoronnaur; which turned out to be a very good thing. Two of the escort's horses were hurt while we were outside the gates."

Meriel almost dropped the knife, a flash of worry in her face. "Were you attacked?" Her Godfather's daily rides were reasonably predictable, she knew. With the need to return to the Citadel before dark, there were only so many routes or miles he could ride. Her blood chilled at the thought that some enemy might take advantage of Denethor being with out the walls.

"No," Daeron reassured her. "One of the horses lost a shoe and when he stumbled and shied, he knocked another off his feet." He looked at his partially eaten peach in silence for a few moments before raising his head and catching Meriel's eyes. "Cein's hoof is all torn up and Menefil had to have his foreleg stitched but they'll both be fine in time. Luckily, neither of their riders were hurt."

"That's good to hear. For a moment..." She sighed. "You'd think after all these years of your father's military service; I wouldn't automatically jump to terrifying conclusions."

"Honestly, mother, now that I've been to the Academy and gone through those exercises and read all that military history, I don't understand how you always stayed so serene when Father was out in the field. I think you've got to be braver than any of the members of the Guard or the Army." He absently took another bite of the peach and glanced over at Finduilas who was happily waving her bauble about and giggling.

"It's an acquired skill, Daeron. The first few times, I cried my eyes out. But then I realized how much that upset your father--and I knew that if he were upset, he wouldn't be able to keep himself safe as well as I needed him to. So I learned to put on my serene mask." She looked at the peach and began slicing it into wedges, releasing the pit. "Inside, though, I still worry and there are many nights that I lay awake, praying for your father's and your safety."

"As I pray for you and Fin and father," Daeron told her. "And Lord Boromir and his family as well."

Suddenly Fin gave a loud shriek, drawing Meriel and Daeron's attention. The silver bead necklace lay two feet out of her reach where she'd apparently thrown it. She had flopped forward onto her hands in trying to get to it and was loudly voicing her frustration.

Daeron grinned and left his chair to get it for her. He picked it up and knelt next to her, intending on dropping it around her neck. Before he could do that, Fin pushed up on her hands and, finding her balance, sat up and reached for the necklace, babbling something that had all the imperativeness of "Give it to me!"

Daeron laughed and handed her the necklace and looked up at his mother. "I didn't know she was able to sit up."

Meriel laughed, "I didn't either! It's the first time she's managed it by herself."

Daeron looked back at his baby sister feeling inordinately proud of her then he reached over and tickled her ribs for a moment before giving her a hug and a kiss. She gurgled and grabbed at his hair without dropping the necklace, and leaned into his face, pressing her mouth against his cheek in a sloppy attempt at a kiss.

"Ouch!" Daeron carefully removed his hair from her grip. "Thank you, Fin-lass, but you have to stop pulling hair. Ladies don't do that, you know."

"Here, let her chew on this for a bit." Meriel handed a slice of peach to Daeron. "And tell me more about--Beleg-mor?"

Daeron handed the peach slice to Finduilas and returned to his chair, wiping his face with his pocket handkerchief. "Yes, Beleg-Mor. 'The strong black one' if I remember my Sindarin. He's from Rohan, black with a white star and four white socks, and whoever trained him did a phenomenal job."

He continued to describe the stallion with great enthusiasm. Sometime during the recitation Bendrel brought out a light supper and chilled wine. "Master Alaric told me that he's from the King's Line, and Caerthan noticed that he looks like he could be related to Thoronnaur when we went to the stable after we got off duty."

Meriel never lost her expression of interest, despite the disquiet that arose as she heard more details about the stallion. The estates had done quite well and the family coffers were more than adequate to keep them in comfort for the next several years, but how had Laedren managed to pay for such an animal?

Fin had abruptly dropped in her tracks, as many babies do, and was asleep, her fists still clenched around the silver bead necklace. Meriel smiled as she noticed that her daughter had finally succumbed to sleep, and leaned forward to pick her up to carry her into the house.

Daeron got out of his chair. "I'll take her in." He scooped up his baby sister and smiled at Meriel. "After all, you get to do it every day."

He still couldn't believe how beautiful Finduilas was or how small she seemed, even though she had obviously been growing since he was last home two weeks ago. He had memories of seeing a cousin or two of Fin's age but he was certain they hadn't been like his little sister.

Meriel got to her feet. "Thank you, Daeron." She leaned up and kissed his cheek and then kissed Fin on top of her black curls. As she walked with her children into the house, she mentioned, "By the way, I just received an invitation from the Citadel to attend a reception in honor of Prince Imrahil and his wife in a fortnight. Do you know if you will be on duty at that time? If your father is not back from his duty, I'd like you to be my escort."

"I can check when I sign back in and send a message tomorrow letting you know. Honestly, I had so much to remember about who was permitted to interrupt the Steward and who was allowed to go where, that things like off-duty sort of slipped my mind." Daeron shifted Finduilas to one arm and opened the garden door for his mother. "I'd be very happy to escort you if father isn't back."

Meriel led the way upstairs to Fin's nursery, and drew the light summer blanket down so Daeron could lay his sister down in her cradle.

Daeron paused and looked at Finduilas' sleeping face for a long moment before kissing her and laying her down in the cradle on her tummy. "Sweet dreams, Fin. Eru and the Valar keep you."

Meriel reached into the cradle to remove the beads from her daughter's fingers, not wanting Fin to accidentally turn in her sleep and wrap them about herself. Fin didn't rouse but her fingers migrated to her mouth and she sighed happily in her sleep.

Daeron chuckled and pulled the light blanket up over her before looking back at Meriel. "Did I do that?" he whispered.

She smiled at him, gathering up the beads in her left hand as her right transferred a kiss from her lips to Fin's cheek. "Yes," she said softly. "Although you preferred your thumb to your fingers. Your father would bless you every night, the way you just did for Fin." Meriel turned towards the door after blowing out all but the shielded night light.

"I didn't know where the words came from. They just seemed right." Daeron looked back down at his baby sister, smiling as he did so. From the very first moment he held her, a place in his heart that he hadn't realised was empty had filled.

Daeron followed his mother from the room and into the hallway, oddly reluctant to leave his sibling. "What have you been doing, mother? I think I've told you all my news."

"Missing your father, missing you." She glanced up at him. "I'd gotten used to your being home during your recuperation." She added, "I've been busy in the still room of course."

"I miss being home as well. I know I'm only up a level in the Guard's barracks but sometimes it seems as though I'm on the other side of Arda," he told her as he took her arm before they went down the stairs. He made a face at the mention of the still room. "You're still making those awful draughts, I suppose," he said, remembering the bitter taste of willow bark and slippery elm among other unpleasant things. "Have you ever thought about making them actually taste good?"

"If they tasted good, there would be no incentive to get better," she teased. "I've also been working on the bases of some fruit meads this year, since the peaches and plums have grown in such abundance."

"Are you going to use all the fruit? I was thinking it would be nice to take some back to the barracks," he asked, ignoring what Meriel said regarding incentive to get better.

"There's plenty. The kitchen boy collected a large basketful today, so help yourself before you go back."

"Thank you. I'm sure Caerthan and the other guards in my corridor will be very appreciative." He paused at the entrance to her sitting room.

"Will you stay a bit longer, or do you need to be back soon?"

Daeron looked at the time candle in the hallway and answered, "I can stay another hour; then I really ought to get back."

Bendrel appeared from further down the hallway, a small tray holding a teapot, cups and a plate of cakes.

"Ah, thank you, Bendrel. In the sitting room, if you please."

The sitting room had acquired a few new cushions but otherwise was much the same as it had been the afternoon Daeron and his friends had spent in it shortly after he'd broken his leg. The fireplace, not being in use due to the summer heat had been filled with a large arrangement of flowers in shades of yellow, orange and red, and the windows had been opened to take advantage of whatever breeze might happen by.

Meriel sat down in a gilded chair behind the embroidery frame near the window and picked up a needle from the edge of the tapestry work.

Bendrel set the tray on the low table by the sofa and withdrew.

Daeron waited until Bendrel had left and crossed to the tea tray. He poured out a cup for his mother of the fragrant beverage, added a small amount of cream and took it and the plate of cakes over to where she sat. "Here, mother."

"Thank you, dear." She began to draw the silver thread through the linen in neat, even stitches.

"What are you making?" Daeron asked as he got his own tea.

"Your father's new dress tunic arrived from the tailor, but I didn't care much for the quality of the embroidery they did on the last one. So I'm stitching our House's device for it. When I'm done this, I'll be starting on one for you."

Daeron sat down in a nearby chair and took a sip of tea before fingering the embroidered cuff of his shirt. "I remember when you made this. It still amazes me to see what you do with just a needle and thread."

"Have you done any more leatherworking?" Meriel looked over the embroidery frame at him, her expression sober.

"No. But I woke up the first night in barracks and filled about ten pages of my daybook with sketches." Daeron's face became pensive and his eyes got a faraway look.

She was silent. If he didn't wish to describe them, she wouldn't push.

"It was odd," he finally said. "I drew what looked like three different battles but the rest of the drawings were of people." He blinked and looked at Meriel. "One of them was a dark-haired man, very noble and wise looking; he was wearing the Winged Crown. He looked a lot like the statue of Isildur that's in the Hall of Kings but I don't think he was Isildur."

"Maybe you dreamed about the day when the King comes back," she said lightly, referring to the expression used by both common and noble folk to indicate that something happening was either a long time in the coming or not likely to happen at all.

Daeron seemed to realise he still held his cup of tea and drank from it absently, his mind on the other things he'd dreamed. "Perhaps. Wouldn't that be a wonderful thing if it actually happened?"

"It would. Although it would certainly change things! Did you recognize any of the other people you drew?"

He had no intention of telling his mother about the last of the drawings. She didn't need to know that he'd dreamed of Laedren and Boromir besieged on all sides by Mordor's forces.

"Yes. One of them was Lord Denethor. He looked exhausted and worn. The others, I don't know who any of them are. One was a dwarf of all things!" He'd seen a grand total of two dwarves in his life, and that had been whilst on the road between Minas Tirith and Greyvale when he was nine years old.

"A dwarf? Did it look like the ones we met all those years ago when we were going to the Manor for Midsummer?"

"Yes, but it wasn't either of them. I've never forgotten their faces. After all, I'd never seen anything like them before." Daeron grinned, remembering his wonder at the luxuriously braided beards and the idea that not every grown-up was as tall as his father.

Meriel chuckled. "I still remember the astounded expression on your face."

He set down his teacup and stretched, noticing that night had fallen when he glanced out the nearest window. "Maybe they're people I'll meet one day. I'd better be getting back to the barracks. I'll send you a message tomorrow letting you know when I'll be off-duty."

She lifted her face for his kiss, her fingers still working on the head of the silver rose. "Good night, darling son. May Eru bless you and the Valar guard your sleep this night."

Daeron bent down and kissed his mother. "Good night, mother. May you likewise be blessed and dream of nothing by good things. I love you." When he straightened up he found that Bendrel had appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, a basket containing peaches in his hands.

"I'd love to know how you do that, Bendrel," Daeron said shaking his head, looking to Meriel's eyes very much like his father in that instant.

"Practice, young lord. Merely practice." The elderly butler smiled and handed the basket to Daeron. "Have a good night."

Daeron turned back towards Meriel and bowed before leaving and starting back to the barracks, the basket held under one arm.

Chancellor Maedreth looked askance at his nephew who was presently making heavy inroads into his supply of brandy. "I think you've had more than enough to drink, Deleth," he said, indicating to the waiting servant to remove the decanter and glasses from the room. "You may go. I will ring if I need any thing else." Once he was certain the man was out of earshot he let his irritation show "Why on Arda did you decide to assault Greyvale's heir in the Mess today? I told you to make friends with him."

"Me make friends with that spoiled brat? The only reason he got the assignment is because of who his father is."

"Regardless, you disobeyed me and now I'm going to have to grease some palms to keep you in the City, not to mention your idiocy in regards to that horse. Tell, me Deleth, did my sister drop you on your head as an infant?"

Deleth didn't reply but scowled at his propped up foot. He'd gone to see a healer after the Watch Commander had finished reaming him out and had gotten no sympathy and frankly little aid. The man hadn't even provided a pain killer, for Eru's sake! However, his uncle's next words brought his attention back to the conversation in a hurry.

Maedreth seated himself in his favorite chair and stated in a clear, hard voice. "One more gaffe like today's and you are on your own, boy. I have no intention of wasting any more money on a broken tool."

"But, uncle--!"

"But me no buts. I'm going to give you a sufficient amount of money to keep you solvent for the next month but you will follow the instructions I give to you to the letter, or you'll have to explain to your creditors just why you can't pay them. Understand?"

"Yes, uncle." The younger man's tone was anything but polite but Maedreth knew he had his attention now.

"Good." He withdrew a heavy pouch from his robe and tossed it at his nephew. "I want you to spread some rumours for me and ask some questions in certain quarters. You don't need to get answers. I just want people to start thinking about some things."

"Do you still want me to make friends with the brat?" Deleth asked sullenly. If he did he wouldn't be able to fulfill the plans he'd made on his way from the Broken Barrell.

"No. It's too late for that now. Instead I want you to…" Maedreth proceeded to give Deleth his instructions, none of which the younger man found he was loathe to do.

A few hours later the Chancellor sat alone in the room, his now sober nephew having left, primed with the information that would ensure Maedreth's plans were set in motion. Now he needed to write a letter and send it north. It was too bad that he hadn't remembered that Meriel had thrown over the Steward's heir for Greyvale the last time he was out of the city visiting his holdings in the Upper Vales. It was much easier to send the messages from Valecroft than Minas Tirith and he had a feeling that bit of old scandal could prove useful to his correspondent.

Tomorrow he would bring up the issue of the need to know what was going on in the far parts of the realm to Denethor again. Perhaps if he blew the results of a minor skirmish out of proportion he could make the man feel some urgency about the matter and he'd use that Stone that was sitting there gathering dust up in the Tower…

"Swithin, bring me some of that brandy and my writing box," he called. If his correspondent could be patient for say a year or two, then everything would fall nicely into place and he, currently the Chancellor of Gondor, might find himself in an even more powerful position.

Halfway back to the entrance of the tunnel up to the Citadel level Daeron was almost run into by someone who cursed and shoved him away after stumbling down the steps of the Chancellor's townhouse. The basket slipped from his grasp and fell, scattering the fruit over the roadway. When the man stepped back into the pool of light created by the torches that were set to each side of the ornate doors Daeron recognized Deleth.

Deleth sneered at Daeron, after glaring down at his own boots, having stepped on one of the fallen peaches as he stumbled back. "Watch where you are going, Lieutenant." The emphasis he put on the rank made it an insult.

"I was. You're the one who ran into me," Daeron answered evenly, stooping down to retrieve the basket. It's not worth getting into a fight with him, he reminded himself as he picked it up. Most of the peaches were now smashed against the cobblestones but a fair half dozen had managed to remain in the basket in the nest of straw that Bendrel had placed them in.

The older officer scraped the remains of the peach from the bottom of his boot on the cobblestones and spat, "I'm surprised you don't have a servant to carry that for you and clean up your messes." He stepped past Daeron and kicked another spoiled peach towards the younger man before disappearing up the darkened street towards the torches that marched the entrance to the tunnel leading to the seventh level.

Daeron stood up and sighed with a combination of exasperation and disgust. Whatever did I do to him? The peaches on the roadway would be gone by morning, courtesy of the feral cats and dogs that roamed even this level of the City. At least he had enough left to share out with Caerthan and whoever was on Charge of Quarters tonight.

It was only as he opened the door to his room that it occurred to him to wonder what Deleth had been doing at the Chancellor's townhouse at such a late hour.

Laedren came into the office that Boromir always used when he was operating out of Cair Andros, carrying a dispatch case that was covered in road dust. "The mail is in," he said, dropping the sealed bag onto the desk in front of the Captain General. "The courier is down in the kitchens, getting his midday meal."

Boromir coughed and waved away the cloud of dust that puffed up when the case hit the desk. "Gah! 'Dren! Couldn't you have knocked the dust off before you brought it in?"

"I did."

Boromir eyed his friend and adjutant askance and turned the bag so that he could inspect the seal. It was cracked. "Remind me to have the quartermaster find another source for seal discs. The latest ones have too much lead in them." However, the cords that held the bag closed were still affixed and it was obvious that no one had gotten at the contents of the bag.

Boromir emptied bag on his desk then dropped the empty satchel on the floor. "Drag over a chair and help me go through this."

Laedren did so and picked up a handful of sealed parchments and began to sort them.

"Hmmm. Orders transferring the surgeon to Osgiliath and informing us that someone named Stichel will be coming to take his place," Ori said, scanning the first document he came to before setting it aside. "About time, too. The man is a menace."

"I feel for the poor souls in Osgiliath who will be at his mercy, but it's a relief that we won't lose any more of these troops to his incompetence." Laedren said, "The quartermaster is sending the next supply train a week early. That's more good news."

"If I have my way, the butcher won't be at Osgiliath very long. And what have we here? Lovely; a notice that the inspector general has found 'significant ambiguities' with the inventories of weapons and uniforms. That's a job for you." Ori shoved the paper across to Laedren with an evil grin.

Laedren shook his head. "If an inventory is only one item off, he considers it 'significant'. This looks like a personal letter for you." He handed the missive to Boromir without looking at the content, when a waft of rather strong perfume drifted from the parchment when he broke the seal.

"Ha! It's from cousin Lothiriel, of course. I'd know her perfume anywhere." Boromir immediately shoved all the other items in Laedren's direction, unfolded the papers and settled back in his chair to read the letter from his olfactorily-challenged cousin.

The office was quiet for some time except for the sound of rustling paper and the cracking of seals.

"Ori," Laedren eventually said after ignoring several snickers from his Captain-General. "I don't appear to have been losing my mind lately, have I?"

"No, not that I've noticed. Why?" Boromir looked up from his cousin's letter, which was full of the gossip from Dol Amroth as well as several biting (and likely accurate) commentaries on the local political scene.

"Then I'd surely remember purchasing a stallion of the King's Line from Rohan for my son, wouldn't I?" Laedren looked up at Boromir over the page of folded parchment he held, a disturbed expression on his face.

"What?" Boromir looked up from his letter. "A stallion of the King's Line? The only stallion of the King's Line ever permitted to leave Rohan in its entire history was Thoronnaur."

"Daeron has sent me a letter thanking me for the gift of his new mount; Ruinanor's successor. Named Beleg-mor; it's a black stallion of the King's Line." He handed the letter over to Boromir. "I'd been negotiating with the breeder from whom I'd gotten Ruinanor, but then we were summoned into the field."

Boromir let the remaining pages of Lothiriel's letter flutter to the floor as he took the neatly written sheet from his adjutant. Frowning, he skimmed over Daeron's greeting and offering of filial duty to Laedren, as well as the detailed description of Daeron's first day of duty in the Steward's guard. Then, reaching where Daeron thanked Laedren for the mount, read more carefully. "Not only is the animal from the King's Line, he's one of Thoronnaur's grandsons," he said as he deciphered Daeron's excited sentences. He looked back at Laedren. "'Dren, Thoronnaur has only covered one mare, and that was Eanfled, Theoden's senior King's Line mare. None of their get were ever to leave the Mark."

"Ori, what if the animal was stolen? And sold to a breeder who wasn't scrupulous about where he got his stock? But one thing hasn't changed; I never purchased Daeron a new mount."

"It's been unusually hot this summer; do you think Daeron might have suffered heat stroke from standing too long in the sun wearing his helm?" Boromir handed the letter back to his adjutant.

"From reading that, I think anything is possible," Laedren responded. "I'd have to sell three-quarters of my family lands to even approach the purchase price of an 'ordinary' Rohirric stallion and my younger brothers and in-laws would certainly have much to say about that! Not to mention Meriel."

"Well, we are due some leave at the end of next month, unless my father finds some reason to recall me sooner. The mystery will be solved then."

"There shouldn't be a mystery." Laedren rose and started pacing around the office. "Who would give my son a horse that is worth more than my entire patrimony? Who could afford it? And why?"

Boromir sighed. When Laedren got like this all one could do was wait him out. Eventually, his adjutant would calm down and be back to his usual efficient self. He reached over and poured himself some wine from the nearby decanter. It was a hellaciously hot summer, one of the hottest in his memory, and even in the stone walled administration block of the Cair Andros garrison it was warm. "'Dren, sit down before you collapse from heat stroke yourself. You're making me hot just watching you." He poured out another cup of wine and held it out to his adjutant.

Sighing, Laedren stopped pacing, accepted the drink and took a seat. "This makes no sense, Ori."

"There's no way that any horse of King's Line breeding would be able to be stolen. They're too well guarded. The only way one would be able leave Edoras would be by order of King Theoden." The Steward's Heir paused, thinking about the possibilities that would lead to the stallion being in Minas Tirith.

"What do I write back to Daeron? He's obviously in love with the horse already."

"Respond to his other news but don't mention the horse. I want to get a few questions answered before you do and luckily, Theodred's errand rider is still here."

Ori wasn't going to say anything to Laedren at this point, but he strongly suspected that his own father had a hand in the matter. Theodred was usually at Helm's Deep but had his own spies in Edoras and should be able to ascertain by what means the stallion left Rohan and who was its original recipient.

Laedren set his cup down and nodded. "Then I'll get back to sorting the dispatches." He made an effort of will and put his son's letter out of his thoughts, but the confusion about the regal stallion left a crease between his eyebrows as he began to take notes about the documents he reviewed for the Captain-General.

TBC