The Captain Athlorn watched as Boromir left from the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Athlorn sighed, and closed his eys. Though, as tired as he was, he could ot find sleep. He never slept well in such beds, so use was he to the ground of the battlefield, hard, cold, and uncomfortable. This is not to say that he slept on the ground his whole life.When he was a child he slept in beds, but that was a luxary soon forgotten when he joined the Hosts.
Again, his eyes fluttered open, but this time it was to the smell of food. Stuggling onto his elbows, he looked about. Beside him, resting upon a small table, was a tray of food, beside that a cooled pot of tea and a mug. Smiling somewhat, he reached over towards the tray. He had moved only a few inches when pain, vast ammounts of it, shot through his side. Giving a shout, he quickly withdrew his arm, which caused him to roll off the bed, hitting the stone with a thud, which gave cause to him to give another cry of pain.
The door was quickly openend, and two sets of footfalls could be heard, one soft, the other boot falls. Quickly rushing to the other side of the bed was Boromir, and a healer. "Friend, you fool, I told you not to move..." Softly spoke the Steward's Heir, jest in his voice. With the help of the healer, how ever small part she played, they lifted him back onto the bed.
The Captain chuckled, though it was with pain. "I choose that time not to listen to you for once..."
"Go back to sleep. When you awake, we will feed you." Spoke the healer, who promptly almost dragged Boromir from the room...with words, of course.
TWO WEEKS LATER...
Athlorn winced slightly as he pulled on his new uniform, the weight of the chainmail felt good, but when it came to rest on his wounds, even though there was a layer of leather, and under that an actual uniform, it still caused a bit of pain. Reaching onto the bed behind him, he grabbed his belt, and placed it upon his waist, fastening it. His sword, all notches and blood removed, rested in its sheath upon the belt. Sitting down for a brief moment, he pulled on his boots, which like the rest of the uniform, were clean and fresh. Standing, he lastly placed his gauntlets, made of stiff, yet supple, black leather. Satisfied, he opened the door, and walked from the room in which his last two weeks were spent, recovering from his wounds. Beside the door stood two soldiers, who stiffly saluted him. He returned the salute, though with caution.
Stepping down the hall, the two soldiers followed quickly behind him, smiles hidden upon their faces. They, of course, had wanted to see their Captain back upon his feet, and two weeks was a sore trial without him, but they had managed to get through.
Athlorn turned the corner, and walked forth from the Houses of Healing, never a happier look upon his face...if you can call the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth a happy look. Waiting there was Boromir, who smiled as he saw his comrade-in-arms approach.
"Ah, its about time you were out of there, you sluggard. I cant have you getting use to being waited on hand and foot, and sleeping on soft beds, now can I?"
The Captain chuckled, shaking his head. "Nay, lord, for I would crawl out of that prison of soft beds and waiting nurses, if it ment to be away from the battles at hand."
"Ah, good news indeed. Now, off to Merethrond, and the feast."
Athlorn and Boromir entered Merethrond, and were greated with the sights and sounds of the feast. Since it was the Hall of Feasts, Merethrond was filled with tables, and hundreds of people. Politicians, nobles, and high ranking officers from the Hosts, Navy, and even the Rangers attended, in their best clothing.
Boromir steered the Captain away from them, and towards the head table. There sat Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and Faramir, Second Son of the Steward, and Captain of the Rangers. Both stood at the approach of Boromir and Athlorn.
"Ah, there is my son with his charge." Spoke the Steward, nodding as both the Captain and his son gave salutes and bows.
"I was wondering when you would return, brother. The wine was getting warm, and the food cold." Jested Faramir as he returned the salute of the Captain.
All but the Steward sat, for he held a goblet of wine in his hand. "We are here today to salute the Man that fought bravely for Osgiliath, and again sent a warning to the Enemy that it shall not fall without costing Him plenty!"
This gave cause to the soldiers in the Hall to shout in agreement, slamming their fists down on the tables to emphisize this point. Even Boromir joined in with it.
Denethor held up his hand, and they all quieted down. "So, we hold this in his honor, and wish him long life, luck, and plenty of battles." All in the Hall stood, and giving salute to the Captain with their glasses, then draining them. The rest of the night was full of songs, food, dances, and joy, save mayhap in the face of Athlorn, who more than anything wanted to be back at Osgiliath.
**********
Winter now held its grip upon Gondor. In the months following that battle for Osgiliath, the navy of Gondor had sailed southwards, towards Umbar, and found a small fleet being built, for an attack on Pelargir. The fleet was quickly scattered, but Gondor's own navy could not spend time hunting them down, and quickly came back. Athlorn, the battle for Osgiliath over, had, with the leave of Boromir, gone to his residence in Anorien, to recoperate more from the wounds he had recieved in the battles. The residence of the Captain rested near the Great Beacon of Erelas, and was constructed of fine stone, from the White Mountains which loomed not but a few lengths away. It's vast tracts of land, indeed there had to be, for Athlorn loved horses, for in his vains ran the blood of Númenor stong, was fenced in by the same white stone that made up the rest of the buildings. Ah, but inside the main residence, it was not stone, but wood, a dark wood, rich in color. From it was hung tapistries of many important battles in the history of Gondor: the Seige of Mordor, various scenes of the Kin-strife, and the Battle of the Camp, some of the more notible ones.
In the main hall of his residence sat Athlorn, thoughtfuly sipping a tankard. Across from him sat his Lieutenant, a man descent from Ithilien. Tall, raven hair down to his shoulders, eyes of gray, and a noble mien, not unlike the Captain himself. In his own hand he held a tankard, from which he took a rathy healthy drink.
"So, you are proposing that we go to North-Ithilien to hunt? Aside from your known love of that land, why do we go thither?" Asked the Captain after what seemed an eternal silence.
"My lord, the best hunting may be found there. If not of animal, than of enemy." Came the low response of the Lieutenant, his eyes locked upon Athlorn's.
"Ah, a man after my own thoughts." A brief smile, and chuckle. "Very well, we shall set forth no later than noon on the morrow. I shall have my squire send word to the Captain-General Boromir."
Author's Note: Hey all. Sorry this got a wee bit long in commin, but work piles upon work. Now, I give thanks to the one person that has reviewed so far, and I will try to mend errors best I may, as I have not yet re-loaded MS Word. I am using WordPad at the moment. Now, as to answer your question, nay, this is not the battle of Osgiliath that happens before Boromir leaves for Rivendell. This is one of the several beforehand. Now, many of you might wonder why time has progressed so fast. That is all part of my plot. I think you might like where this ends up...future chapters will be bloody, as best as I may make them. If you have any ideas to add, compliments, or constructive criticism (note the use of words there...), please feel free to add it into your reviews...oh, and to get more, please do review. It lets me know people actualy care about this...I thank you.
Again, his eyes fluttered open, but this time it was to the smell of food. Stuggling onto his elbows, he looked about. Beside him, resting upon a small table, was a tray of food, beside that a cooled pot of tea and a mug. Smiling somewhat, he reached over towards the tray. He had moved only a few inches when pain, vast ammounts of it, shot through his side. Giving a shout, he quickly withdrew his arm, which caused him to roll off the bed, hitting the stone with a thud, which gave cause to him to give another cry of pain.
The door was quickly openend, and two sets of footfalls could be heard, one soft, the other boot falls. Quickly rushing to the other side of the bed was Boromir, and a healer. "Friend, you fool, I told you not to move..." Softly spoke the Steward's Heir, jest in his voice. With the help of the healer, how ever small part she played, they lifted him back onto the bed.
The Captain chuckled, though it was with pain. "I choose that time not to listen to you for once..."
"Go back to sleep. When you awake, we will feed you." Spoke the healer, who promptly almost dragged Boromir from the room...with words, of course.
TWO WEEKS LATER...
Athlorn winced slightly as he pulled on his new uniform, the weight of the chainmail felt good, but when it came to rest on his wounds, even though there was a layer of leather, and under that an actual uniform, it still caused a bit of pain. Reaching onto the bed behind him, he grabbed his belt, and placed it upon his waist, fastening it. His sword, all notches and blood removed, rested in its sheath upon the belt. Sitting down for a brief moment, he pulled on his boots, which like the rest of the uniform, were clean and fresh. Standing, he lastly placed his gauntlets, made of stiff, yet supple, black leather. Satisfied, he opened the door, and walked from the room in which his last two weeks were spent, recovering from his wounds. Beside the door stood two soldiers, who stiffly saluted him. He returned the salute, though with caution.
Stepping down the hall, the two soldiers followed quickly behind him, smiles hidden upon their faces. They, of course, had wanted to see their Captain back upon his feet, and two weeks was a sore trial without him, but they had managed to get through.
Athlorn turned the corner, and walked forth from the Houses of Healing, never a happier look upon his face...if you can call the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth a happy look. Waiting there was Boromir, who smiled as he saw his comrade-in-arms approach.
"Ah, its about time you were out of there, you sluggard. I cant have you getting use to being waited on hand and foot, and sleeping on soft beds, now can I?"
The Captain chuckled, shaking his head. "Nay, lord, for I would crawl out of that prison of soft beds and waiting nurses, if it ment to be away from the battles at hand."
"Ah, good news indeed. Now, off to Merethrond, and the feast."
Athlorn and Boromir entered Merethrond, and were greated with the sights and sounds of the feast. Since it was the Hall of Feasts, Merethrond was filled with tables, and hundreds of people. Politicians, nobles, and high ranking officers from the Hosts, Navy, and even the Rangers attended, in their best clothing.
Boromir steered the Captain away from them, and towards the head table. There sat Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and Faramir, Second Son of the Steward, and Captain of the Rangers. Both stood at the approach of Boromir and Athlorn.
"Ah, there is my son with his charge." Spoke the Steward, nodding as both the Captain and his son gave salutes and bows.
"I was wondering when you would return, brother. The wine was getting warm, and the food cold." Jested Faramir as he returned the salute of the Captain.
All but the Steward sat, for he held a goblet of wine in his hand. "We are here today to salute the Man that fought bravely for Osgiliath, and again sent a warning to the Enemy that it shall not fall without costing Him plenty!"
This gave cause to the soldiers in the Hall to shout in agreement, slamming their fists down on the tables to emphisize this point. Even Boromir joined in with it.
Denethor held up his hand, and they all quieted down. "So, we hold this in his honor, and wish him long life, luck, and plenty of battles." All in the Hall stood, and giving salute to the Captain with their glasses, then draining them. The rest of the night was full of songs, food, dances, and joy, save mayhap in the face of Athlorn, who more than anything wanted to be back at Osgiliath.
**********
Winter now held its grip upon Gondor. In the months following that battle for Osgiliath, the navy of Gondor had sailed southwards, towards Umbar, and found a small fleet being built, for an attack on Pelargir. The fleet was quickly scattered, but Gondor's own navy could not spend time hunting them down, and quickly came back. Athlorn, the battle for Osgiliath over, had, with the leave of Boromir, gone to his residence in Anorien, to recoperate more from the wounds he had recieved in the battles. The residence of the Captain rested near the Great Beacon of Erelas, and was constructed of fine stone, from the White Mountains which loomed not but a few lengths away. It's vast tracts of land, indeed there had to be, for Athlorn loved horses, for in his vains ran the blood of Númenor stong, was fenced in by the same white stone that made up the rest of the buildings. Ah, but inside the main residence, it was not stone, but wood, a dark wood, rich in color. From it was hung tapistries of many important battles in the history of Gondor: the Seige of Mordor, various scenes of the Kin-strife, and the Battle of the Camp, some of the more notible ones.
In the main hall of his residence sat Athlorn, thoughtfuly sipping a tankard. Across from him sat his Lieutenant, a man descent from Ithilien. Tall, raven hair down to his shoulders, eyes of gray, and a noble mien, not unlike the Captain himself. In his own hand he held a tankard, from which he took a rathy healthy drink.
"So, you are proposing that we go to North-Ithilien to hunt? Aside from your known love of that land, why do we go thither?" Asked the Captain after what seemed an eternal silence.
"My lord, the best hunting may be found there. If not of animal, than of enemy." Came the low response of the Lieutenant, his eyes locked upon Athlorn's.
"Ah, a man after my own thoughts." A brief smile, and chuckle. "Very well, we shall set forth no later than noon on the morrow. I shall have my squire send word to the Captain-General Boromir."
Author's Note: Hey all. Sorry this got a wee bit long in commin, but work piles upon work. Now, I give thanks to the one person that has reviewed so far, and I will try to mend errors best I may, as I have not yet re-loaded MS Word. I am using WordPad at the moment. Now, as to answer your question, nay, this is not the battle of Osgiliath that happens before Boromir leaves for Rivendell. This is one of the several beforehand. Now, many of you might wonder why time has progressed so fast. That is all part of my plot. I think you might like where this ends up...future chapters will be bloody, as best as I may make them. If you have any ideas to add, compliments, or constructive criticism (note the use of words there...), please feel free to add it into your reviews...oh, and to get more, please do review. It lets me know people actualy care about this...I thank you.