Chapter Seven

The Test

"You have a brother, then, my lord?" I was nearly jogging now, just to keep pace with him.

"Faramir. He is five years my junior, yet I would name him my equal in most things, though he has more love of lore, and less of war-craft than do I. Gondor needs men of both ilk, for if she does not fall, loremasters and craftsmen must take the place of those who wield the sword. It is this that our father will not see, for despair has poisoned his heart." He fell silent, scowling in a frightening way, but not at me.

"But if your brother is not a warrior, what position is he granted?" I asked, to change the subject. "I assume the Steward has work for him also."

"Faramir is not a warrior, but he tries, for it is warriors our land needs now. There are times when it is hard to understand his actions, for I know what he would do, and it is far from what he must do. Yet he perseveres in his duty, captaining the Rangers of Ithilien, that part of Gondor most near to the land of the Enemy, because this duty takes him farthest from Minas Tirith and our father."

"Is his quarrel with the city, my lord, or with your father?" I asked curious about this family dynamic, nearly as dysfunctional as my own.

Boromir shot me a sharp glance, and I thought for a moment that he was going to tell me that it was none of my business, or some courtly variant thereof. But he answered, and then the boot dropped. "His quarrel, if what has always been may be called such, is with our father, the Lord Denethor. But I find it odd, Firiel, that you listen so willingly to my tale, but offer me none of yours."

Oh dear. "Have I asked you anything you did not wish to speak of, my lord?"

He considered a moment. "No," he said. However, looking up at him I could tell that I had, and that talking about his brother brought back feelings he would rather not experience. I decided not to argue or insist upon further talk about Faramir, but before long 'my' thoughts were disturbed by 'Boromir's' words: "But I have asked such things of you, have I not? My lady."

We'd gone from 'Firiel' back to 'my lady', which wasn't good. "You have."

"I would have you answer them," Boromir said quite plainly, stopping stock still before yet another low hedge. Was there nothing of medium height in all this land? Something that made one feel neither dwarf nor giant would have been welcome.

If I was going to tell him anything, it would be circumspect, and on my terms. "As an esquire to his lord?"

He snorted at the question. "Aye, as an esquire who owes all truthfulness to his lord."

"Then so am I to you," I muttered, but if he heard me Boromir gave no sign. "Then, my lord, I shall speak to you as plainly as I may. I am but lately come from another realm to Lothlorien. I now dwell here by the sufferance of the Lady, and it was she who clothed me thus. I am not bound to this place, nor to her, but at present it is my home, for I have no other." He turned wondering eyes upon me, but said nothing in response to my quiet vehemence.

A little encouraged by this, I went on. "But I would go with you to Gondor, lord, for she seems a land in need. And I am told that the Steward's elder son has need of an esquire."

"You?" Boromir said, the incredulity in his tone making my heart sink even as my temper rose. "You would be my esquire?"

I lifted my chin. "Aye, my lord, if you will have me."

He ran his eyes over me skeptically. I straitened my back and fixed my eyes unseeing on a point far away, to keep from quailing under the scrutiny. "Can you ride?"

I thought about this for a moment. The back of my head knew what to do, but the number of times I'd actually been on a horse could be counted on one hand, with fingers left over. "Yes."

Boromir took my hesitation as time needed to concoct a falsehood. "An esquire," he repeated," who owes all truthfulness to his lord. Or her lord, as may be."

"Not well, my lord," I admitted. "But I can run a league without pause, and I am strong." Not Army material, perhaps, but finally those pushups I dragged myself through every morning would serve some good.

"Have you knowledge of weapons?" Boromir asked, encircling my wrist with his thumb and forefinger, while feeling my biceps with his other hand.

I had a strange suspicion that handgun expertise didn't count here. "No, lord, but I swear to you that I shall prove an apt student."

He snorted under his breath, and I cringed. Then, aloud, "A staff would be your weapon, or perhaps a short sword, for you are tall and strong, but without the sinews of an archer or the build to wield a broadsword." His tone and movements were brisk and professional, but I grinned with pleasure at them.

Boromir stepped back and drew his sword with practiced ease. He presented it to me on open palms, and I received it on mine. "Hold it up," he directed. I raised the sword to eye level, which earned me a "Higher." I stretched my arms above my head as far as I could, balancing the broadsword. Boromir stood, watching me lift what felt like twenty pounds of his tempered steel at the extent of my reach, left hand on his hip and right hand stroking his beard.

"May I ask the purpose of this exercise?" I gritted through my teeth, after five minutes dragged by like the same number of hours.

"How long you can hold it up," he answered, his tone both pleasant and patient, as if it should have been obvious. "The battle goes to those who hold out until their opponents falter."

That did it. The test now became a clash of wills. I latched my eyes onto his, set my jaw, and began to count slowly to myself.

Boromir looked away first, but with a small smile that cheapened my victory. By that time, my count had neared an even thousand, but now I had nothing to concentrate upon except the numbers that slunk sullenly by, and the numbness in my arms.

I switched tactics, repeating to myself poems that had caught my fancy over the years: O'Shaughnessy's Ode, Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson and The Highwayman by I didn't remember whom. When fragments of poetry deserted me, I dragged from my memory the verses my mother taught me as a child, letting the prose wash over me. Boromir, I noticed distractedly, had seated himself to watch me. I wondered what we looked like to the Elves who must move through this grove. Wishing I cared, I closed my eyes, pushing back the tremors that surged through my body in the growing twilight. I stopped focusing on anything in particular, simply existing in a world colored with agony. Time ceased, and I remained, frozen uncaring.

The weight lifted, but I needed a moment to realize it. My eyes flew open in time to see Boromir sheath his sword once more. My arms spasmed as he led me to a bench and bade me sit. When I did, he moved behind me, placing large hands on my shoulders. The rough fingers that had held the sword now set to work probing my trembling arms and back, forcing the cramps out of them with a touch both soft and strong. When he had me nearly put to rights, Boromir spoke, and ruined everything.

"I had to take it from Maethor, too, in the end, for he would not let it fall." I slumped, only half listening. "So it was that he, over all the others who coveted the position, came to serve the Captain-General as esquire. I see that same fierce, stubborn courage in you, Firiel, courage that will not let you fail at a task you have been told you cannot do."

"Aye, lord," I mumbled, "I am yours, all my life."

"No, Firiel. You are your own. Stay in the Golden Wood, far from the evil that would do its best to defeat that bright hope."

I sprang out from under his hands, all lethargy gone, panic creeping into my voice. "Please, my lord! It will not defeat me, and I can learn arms-" He interrupted me as I whirled to face him.

"Then I shall teach you, for I have been idle here too long. But I will not send you to battle, though you go at my side. The sight of Gondor's fall will never break your brave heart, Firiel."

In the darkness, as he left me, I slid onto the bench and wept until sleep claimed me, remembering his kind, cruel words and the touch of his hands.