Author's Note:
Thank you for your reviews! Here is chapter three of my story. Hope you enjoy, and remember to keep reviewing!
Chapter 3: Wicaiven
Aglaron walked brusquely down the street toward the training arena. To be honest, he wasn't overjoyed with his promotion. As much as he loved to fight, he didn't like being away from home for very long, and the Rangers of Ithilien had previously been away for months at a time. It wasn't as though he could decline the position, not with his father and sisters so proud.
Aglaron shook his head, shoving the door to the arena open and stepping in. Brushing his short dark hair out of his face, he drew his sword, scanning the large room for someone to spar with. His eyes came to rest on a tall and burly man named Wicaiven, with black hair and similar eyes.
Strolling over, Aglaron met his eyes, and Wicaiven drew his sword.
"Kinda small, ain'tcha?" Wicaiven taunted, swinging his blade dangerously.
"Hardly," Aglaron retorted, and the fight began.
"Get ready to ride!" someone called. "We make for Minas Tirith!" Faramir listened as his orders were administered. He wandered about the encampment, watching his rangers hastily tossing things into their packs. It seemed that Sauron had no intentions of attacking Gondor any time soon, and Faramir's men needed to rest and spend time with their families back in Minas Tirith.
Faramir went to his horse to prepare her for the journey home. He put a bridle over her head and a saddle on her back, tightening the girth before mounting.
Soon, everything was arranged for travel, and they set off, moving quickly across the plains.
Sulaeke and Sadaeth rushed about the kitchen, removing various ingredients from the cupboards. They planned to bake a treat for their father, who had 'important business to attend to' with his captain, and Aglaron, when they returned.
Sadaeth reached down and yanked open a drawer, taking out a wooden spoon to be used for stirring their concoction.
Sulaeke wobbled over next to Sadaeth, carrying a large bag of flour. She set the bag on the counter, and opened it, using the spoon to measure out a portion of it to dump into a bowl displayed before her.
"Let's get cooking," she said uncertainly, pouring the powder into the bowl.
Aglaron found that Wicaiven was indeed more powerful than he had first expected. Although Aglaron was clearly the smarter of the two, Wicaiven specialized in brute strength, nearly breaking Aglaron's arm with every blow he heaved.
Finally, Wicaiven managed to shove Aglaron up against the wall of the arena, holding his sword to the younger man's throat.
"Surrender yet, pip-squeak?"
"Nope!" Aglaron exclaimed, raising one foot and kicking Wicaiven in the stomach, causing him to fall to the ground. Aglaron darted over to him and held the tip of his sword to Wicaiven's chest.
"Do you surrender?" he said, smirking.
"Why you little -" Wicaiven struggled to rise, but Aglaron did not move his sword.
"Do you surrender?" he repeated.
"Alright, alright, I surrender!" Wicaiven cried. Aglaron removed his blade, allowing his opponent to rise. Aglaron put his sword away and reached to shake hands, but Wicaiven did not return the gesture.
"Cheater."
"What did you call me?" Aglaron said heatedly.
"C–h–e–a–t–e–r. Cheater." Wicaiven grinned broadly, realizing that Aglaron, who had stayed remarkably calm throughout their entire fight, was finally getting riled up.
"I dare you to say that again, big shot," Aglaron said, grabbing the man by the front of the shirt so that they were face to face.
"Cheater," Wicaiven said slowly and tauntingly. Bringing his fist back, Aglaron punched Wicaiven squarely on the jaw.
Wicaiven paused for a moment with his head snapped sideways, stunned and infuriated that Aglaron would have the guts to hit someone so much bigger, stronger, and older than he was. He turned his face back to Aglaron, who met his gaze confidently.
"I'm gonna beat the life out of you, kid," he threatened.
"I'd like to see you try," Aglaron responded boldly. Wicaiven gripped Aglaron's shirt tightly, and, in an instant, had nearly given his adversary a broken nose. Aglaron returned with an attack of his own, kneeing the other man harshly in the stomach, before tackling him and rolling across the ground. Aglaron stood, ready to charge once more, but was shocked when he felt a firm grip on his arm, preventing him from moving forward.
"What -?" he started. He looked up, only to see that Wicaiven was being held back as well.
"What is your name?" The man's grip on Aglaron's arm tightened.
Aglaron paused, gritting his teeth in resentment. "Aglaron. And you are?"
The man ignored his rude comment. "You are one of the Ithilien Rangers, are you not?"
"Yes, I am," Aglaron said, straightening slightly, surprised that someone besides him and his family knew of his promotion.
"Then you are under my brother's command. I hope that you are not as immature on duty as you obviously are on leave, for I fear you will find that Faramir does not tolerate idiocy as well as your former captain apparently did." The man let go of Aglaron's arm and turned to leave. "Oh yes," he remarked. "To answer your question, I am Lord Boromir, son of Lord Denethor, the steward of Gondor. Good day to you." Finally, Boromir left, leaving Aglaron with mixed feelings of confusion, embarrassment, anger and pain from his bleeding nose.