Chapter Eight
First Lesson
I awoke the next morning curled in a nest of blankets on a platform set high in a towering mallorn. It took me a moment to remember the waking dream that had been the night before. One of Galadriel's ladies, an ethereal beauty named Eruiel, had roused me from my bench and told me quite kindly that I couldn't sleep there. She'd led me to a secluded grotto nearly filled but a pool whose bottom was flat river stones. The elf-maiden bade me undress and get in, disappearing to return with soap and cloths of various sizes. I tested the water with my hand and, finding it pleasantly warm, stripped and climbed in. After setting down the bathing things within easy reach, Eruiel left me to wash in private.
I'd paddled around for a bit, trying and failing to backstroke in a circle. Flipping over, I swam over to the side, grabbing the soap and a washcloth- sized square. The soap smelled of cedar and newly cut grass. I scrubbed everywhere, and then tugged the braid out and soaped my hair. Wearing nothing but bubbles, I climbed out to attempt a swan dive into the deepest end. It was badly done, but served to rinse me with a minimum of splash.
I was back to languid paddling when Eruiel returned. Reluctantly, I climbed out and toweled off. She had brought me a long lavender nightdress, and by the time I had wrapped its silky folds around me, every other sentence had turned into a yawn. We gathered up my clothes and boots, and my pack from where I'd left it by the bench.
After this, I had occasion to learn how to climb one-handed as we ascended stairs and ladders that spanned the girth of a mallorn's trunk. Saying the tree was tall would have bordered on ironic understatement, and what Eruiel termed the guest talans were nestled in the very top branches.
I picked one out at her behest, and watched her unpack from a chest a variety of furs and blankets. She bid me good night and Namarrie, which my head kept forgetting to translate as 'Farewell'. I fell asleep almost at once, wrapped in the warm whispering wind.
It was a glorious way to awaken, warm, with the light breeze bringing bird song and the scent of flowers. I rolled over, stretched, and went back to sleep.
Or tried to. Boromir's face and his offer of arms training kept running through my head, conviently devoid of the refusal to let me see battle that had followed. I sat up, equal parts annoyed and intrigued. The sight of what had not been on the chest the previous night cheered me considerably, though.
I washed my face in the silver basin with water poured from the silver ewer, though by this time I was very tired of silver, especially in basins. After finishing my ablutions, I peeked under the napkin covering the breakfast tray. My search revealed bread, sliced fruit, and a goblet of iced, orangish tea.
The food disappeared at an impolite speed, because my poor stomach hadn't had any dinner the night before. Sated, I looked around for any elves who might have appeared to show me where I needed to go. There were none, so I dress, feeling extremely sheepish, and descended the tree alone.
If Lorien my moonlight had been magical, Lorien in the morning was not to be believed. Sunlight sparkled off the golden mallorn leaves, reflected in the mirrors of their silver trunks. I looked down at the lush grass beneath my boots and reminded myself to breathe. Thoughts of home were gradually being buried, and I was not at all sorry.
Finding the motley group of which Boromir was apparently part proved harder than I had thought. Caras Galadhon was a big place, even if most of it was above me. None of the other guest talans had been occupied, so I assumed they would be somewhere on the greensward. It was a pleasant search, and I lost track of how long I wandered.
All around me now the air filled with song, light sad music coming from, I supposed, an elven choir hidden in the trees. I could understand the words with a bit of effort: a dirge, I had guessed rightly, for some fellow called the Gray Pilgrim.
The name resonated, as did Boromir's words of the previous day: "Gandalf the Gray, who fell into shadow." I had made a mental note to ask him about this when the object of my thoughts stepped into the path before.
Oh dear. Nice things never happened this neatly. I opened my mouth to give the Middle Earth equivalent of 'How about those lessons, then?', and my ability for high speech deserted me . My mouth pinched stupidly, my eyes fixed on the staff in his right hand and the dirk in his left.
"Firiel. Well met. I have been looking for you," Boromir's mouth quirked, "squire."
Something in my middle succumbed to gymnastics at this last, but my vocal chords continued in their state of paralysis. Finally they managed a squeaky, "On your attendance, my lord, here." I cringed mentally, recognizing the Shakespeare too late.
Boromir passed me the short sword. After a moments puzzling, I unwrapped the belt from the sheath, buckled it about my waist, and settled the weapon on my left hip. With a glance at Boromir's, I pulled the excess leather back from the buckle, knotting it out of the way. Only then did he let me have the staff.
The metal-shod length of wood was taller than I was, but it rode in my hand like I had been born with it there. I experimented with a few Little John- esque feints before attempting to twirl it with my right hand at one end. My wrist sagged.
Sneaking a glance at Boromir found him watching, most likely making notes of things I needed to work on. I switched back to two hands, hold the staff ready.
"The staff," Boromir began, "is a defensive weapon, for though it is possible to kill with one, it is neither easy nor pretty." He caught the gleam in my eye as I hefted it. "Though I see you would learn even that." Boromir unsheathed his sword, and the sound both warmed my heart and frightened me. We stepped off the trail into a sort of grove, and he told me in what I came to recognize as his command voice, "To counter a blow directed at your head, you'd use a high block." Boromir lifted his blade.
High block. I raised the staff, parallel to the ground, over my head and a little in front of it. Boromir gave me a curt nod of approval. "Stand down." I set the tip on the ground, gripping low as if I held a walking stick. He swung, and I had only a moment to get the staff up into the block, or be cleaved from crown to breastbone by the broadsword. It was a near thing, taking all my strength to meet his blade inches from my skull.
I expected the wood to snap, but it held, and the weight lifted as quickly as it had arrived. I lowered the weapon to look at it, and found that the smooth finish had not even been marred.
"Again." I snapped the staff up again. And again, twenty-five blocks in all. At the last, Boromir, still maddeningly fresh, watched me breath hard through my nose. I was acutely aware that I had not done my push-ups this morning.
After a miniscule respite, he revealed, "A middle block deflects a strike that would cleave you in twain, through your chest or belly." Lovely phrasing. I got the staff out at shoulder height. This block required muscles I was used to exercising, which allowed me to push back on the blade a bit. But twenty-five times, and even that grew tedious.
Boromir's announcement that a low block defended one's thighs and knees fell on deaf ears. I knew what was coming next: get the staff, at stomach level, twenty-five times. I did, gritting my teeth and glaring. Boromir appeared not to notice.
When we finished them, I leaned heavily on my staff to keep from toppling over and asked, "What if your opponent sliced lower?"
"You jump, and swing at his feet," another voice answered as Boromir sheathed his sword. Both of us turned to see Strider, seated on a nearby boulder, the stem of a long, curved pipe in his teeth. Boromir scowled, then hid it under his beard. I watched the tension between them, knowing a bit of Boromir's side, but wondering about Aragorn's.
I thought he'd caught the tail end of my scowl, when he got up from the rock and, knocking his pipe out, motioned me over. I sidled left until I faced him, six feet away. Aragorn's hands moved faster than sight, drawing a sword longer and less broad than Boromir's. He reversed the swing to swipe at my shins, and I pushed off with my toes, bending my knees so my heels touched the backs of my thighs.
The longsword disappeared into its scabbard as quickly as it had come forth. Aragorn now regarded me with a mild frown. "Should your opponent swing low, jump," he repeated. "Always pair defensive gestures with offensive." He held out a hand for my staff. Reluctantly, I relinquished it.
Aragorn examined the weapon, his face unreadable. Until, that is, he came to the end caps. "Mithril!" His eyes flew from Boromir to me. "Where did you happen by this?"
I heard Boromir step closer and clear his throat behind me. "I asked it of the armorer, or rather commissioned Legolas to do so in my stead."
Strider's frown deepened, but he handed me back my staff, saying, "This is a worthy, ancient weapon. Bear it well." He looked once more at Boromir and walked back towards the elven path.
I noticed for the first time that my arms were trembling. Cutting my eyes at Boromir, who had taken Aragorn's place on the boulder, I wondered at the chances of another backrub like last night's. "Did I not say I could learn arms, my lord?" I inquired.
Boromir looked up. "You did, but to tell requires more than one lesson."
"Did I not also say that I should prove an apt pupil," I asked.
"You did. But you overstep yourself." His mild frown was quite different from that of the absent Aragorn.
"Your pardon, my lord." I dropped cross-legged on the grass in front of him, which forced me to adjust the short sword I'd forgotten I wore. It was easier just to unsheathe the thing. "But what of this?"
"I would not teach you the sword, Firiel. A staff is a fit weapon for defense, for it is a gruesome thing to kill with, but death is beaten into a blade the day it is forged, death and blood. I said yestereve that you had not the sinews of an archer, but you will need them in some measure for the wielding of the staff. Begin with the sword."
With a little effort I pared that down: my wrists weren't strong enough. I stood with a sigh, and began twirling the thing back and forth, rotating my wrists. Boromir, it seemed, approved. I switched hands and repeated the movements. This method worked well, since neither wrist became too tired. I ventured a question. "Who is this Gray Pilgrim that the songs are made about?"
"You have knowledge of their tongue?" Boromir looked surprised.
"Not as su-" I caught the unfit answer on its way out the door. "Aye, lord."
"How did you come by such knowledge?" Boromir wanted to know. "For you are not, I think, Elfkind."
I had thought that quite obvious, as my braid revealed my ears. Pausing my twirling, I considered the question. "I have a talent for languages, my lord." It was true, as far as it went.
Boromir raised a brow. "You are much traveled, then?" He motioned for me to resume. I did, expecting my hands to snap off at any moment.
"No, lord." If he wanted the truth, he was going to get it bare.
But Boromir seemed content to drop the subject of me. "You asked of Mithrandir, for so we called him in Minas Tirith. There he was accounted a great lore-master, and by some called wizard. Elrond of Imladris chose him to lead our fellowship, and lead he did, though not along paths I would have chosen. The last of these passed through Moria." The name rang no bells. "There Gandalf fell in battle with a demon of the ancient world."
I digested this, giving my wrists a rest. "What paths would you have chosen, my lord?"
"We attempted Caradhras, and the very mountain set itself against us. After that, the Gap of Rohan would have been my choice, and then the road to Minas Tirith, for it seemed to me the Enemy watched all roads equally. But the vote of the company was against me."
"Why, lord?" He glance was sharp enough to make me pick up my exercises.
"Because they thought Gondor not a safe resting place for the Ring of Power, and chose instead to continue towards the heart of the Dark Lands. But I would not speak of this further."
I sensed a dismissal, and asked, "Have I your leave to go, lord?"
A strange look, but a nod. "Return here on the morrow."
I grinned and nodded back, turning to go. "Firiel," he called me back, "you did well." I sketched him a bow, heart glowing, and walked away.
First Lesson
I awoke the next morning curled in a nest of blankets on a platform set high in a towering mallorn. It took me a moment to remember the waking dream that had been the night before. One of Galadriel's ladies, an ethereal beauty named Eruiel, had roused me from my bench and told me quite kindly that I couldn't sleep there. She'd led me to a secluded grotto nearly filled but a pool whose bottom was flat river stones. The elf-maiden bade me undress and get in, disappearing to return with soap and cloths of various sizes. I tested the water with my hand and, finding it pleasantly warm, stripped and climbed in. After setting down the bathing things within easy reach, Eruiel left me to wash in private.
I'd paddled around for a bit, trying and failing to backstroke in a circle. Flipping over, I swam over to the side, grabbing the soap and a washcloth- sized square. The soap smelled of cedar and newly cut grass. I scrubbed everywhere, and then tugged the braid out and soaped my hair. Wearing nothing but bubbles, I climbed out to attempt a swan dive into the deepest end. It was badly done, but served to rinse me with a minimum of splash.
I was back to languid paddling when Eruiel returned. Reluctantly, I climbed out and toweled off. She had brought me a long lavender nightdress, and by the time I had wrapped its silky folds around me, every other sentence had turned into a yawn. We gathered up my clothes and boots, and my pack from where I'd left it by the bench.
After this, I had occasion to learn how to climb one-handed as we ascended stairs and ladders that spanned the girth of a mallorn's trunk. Saying the tree was tall would have bordered on ironic understatement, and what Eruiel termed the guest talans were nestled in the very top branches.
I picked one out at her behest, and watched her unpack from a chest a variety of furs and blankets. She bid me good night and Namarrie, which my head kept forgetting to translate as 'Farewell'. I fell asleep almost at once, wrapped in the warm whispering wind.
It was a glorious way to awaken, warm, with the light breeze bringing bird song and the scent of flowers. I rolled over, stretched, and went back to sleep.
Or tried to. Boromir's face and his offer of arms training kept running through my head, conviently devoid of the refusal to let me see battle that had followed. I sat up, equal parts annoyed and intrigued. The sight of what had not been on the chest the previous night cheered me considerably, though.
I washed my face in the silver basin with water poured from the silver ewer, though by this time I was very tired of silver, especially in basins. After finishing my ablutions, I peeked under the napkin covering the breakfast tray. My search revealed bread, sliced fruit, and a goblet of iced, orangish tea.
The food disappeared at an impolite speed, because my poor stomach hadn't had any dinner the night before. Sated, I looked around for any elves who might have appeared to show me where I needed to go. There were none, so I dress, feeling extremely sheepish, and descended the tree alone.
If Lorien my moonlight had been magical, Lorien in the morning was not to be believed. Sunlight sparkled off the golden mallorn leaves, reflected in the mirrors of their silver trunks. I looked down at the lush grass beneath my boots and reminded myself to breathe. Thoughts of home were gradually being buried, and I was not at all sorry.
Finding the motley group of which Boromir was apparently part proved harder than I had thought. Caras Galadhon was a big place, even if most of it was above me. None of the other guest talans had been occupied, so I assumed they would be somewhere on the greensward. It was a pleasant search, and I lost track of how long I wandered.
All around me now the air filled with song, light sad music coming from, I supposed, an elven choir hidden in the trees. I could understand the words with a bit of effort: a dirge, I had guessed rightly, for some fellow called the Gray Pilgrim.
The name resonated, as did Boromir's words of the previous day: "Gandalf the Gray, who fell into shadow." I had made a mental note to ask him about this when the object of my thoughts stepped into the path before.
Oh dear. Nice things never happened this neatly. I opened my mouth to give the Middle Earth equivalent of 'How about those lessons, then?', and my ability for high speech deserted me . My mouth pinched stupidly, my eyes fixed on the staff in his right hand and the dirk in his left.
"Firiel. Well met. I have been looking for you," Boromir's mouth quirked, "squire."
Something in my middle succumbed to gymnastics at this last, but my vocal chords continued in their state of paralysis. Finally they managed a squeaky, "On your attendance, my lord, here." I cringed mentally, recognizing the Shakespeare too late.
Boromir passed me the short sword. After a moments puzzling, I unwrapped the belt from the sheath, buckled it about my waist, and settled the weapon on my left hip. With a glance at Boromir's, I pulled the excess leather back from the buckle, knotting it out of the way. Only then did he let me have the staff.
The metal-shod length of wood was taller than I was, but it rode in my hand like I had been born with it there. I experimented with a few Little John- esque feints before attempting to twirl it with my right hand at one end. My wrist sagged.
Sneaking a glance at Boromir found him watching, most likely making notes of things I needed to work on. I switched back to two hands, hold the staff ready.
"The staff," Boromir began, "is a defensive weapon, for though it is possible to kill with one, it is neither easy nor pretty." He caught the gleam in my eye as I hefted it. "Though I see you would learn even that." Boromir unsheathed his sword, and the sound both warmed my heart and frightened me. We stepped off the trail into a sort of grove, and he told me in what I came to recognize as his command voice, "To counter a blow directed at your head, you'd use a high block." Boromir lifted his blade.
High block. I raised the staff, parallel to the ground, over my head and a little in front of it. Boromir gave me a curt nod of approval. "Stand down." I set the tip on the ground, gripping low as if I held a walking stick. He swung, and I had only a moment to get the staff up into the block, or be cleaved from crown to breastbone by the broadsword. It was a near thing, taking all my strength to meet his blade inches from my skull.
I expected the wood to snap, but it held, and the weight lifted as quickly as it had arrived. I lowered the weapon to look at it, and found that the smooth finish had not even been marred.
"Again." I snapped the staff up again. And again, twenty-five blocks in all. At the last, Boromir, still maddeningly fresh, watched me breath hard through my nose. I was acutely aware that I had not done my push-ups this morning.
After a miniscule respite, he revealed, "A middle block deflects a strike that would cleave you in twain, through your chest or belly." Lovely phrasing. I got the staff out at shoulder height. This block required muscles I was used to exercising, which allowed me to push back on the blade a bit. But twenty-five times, and even that grew tedious.
Boromir's announcement that a low block defended one's thighs and knees fell on deaf ears. I knew what was coming next: get the staff, at stomach level, twenty-five times. I did, gritting my teeth and glaring. Boromir appeared not to notice.
When we finished them, I leaned heavily on my staff to keep from toppling over and asked, "What if your opponent sliced lower?"
"You jump, and swing at his feet," another voice answered as Boromir sheathed his sword. Both of us turned to see Strider, seated on a nearby boulder, the stem of a long, curved pipe in his teeth. Boromir scowled, then hid it under his beard. I watched the tension between them, knowing a bit of Boromir's side, but wondering about Aragorn's.
I thought he'd caught the tail end of my scowl, when he got up from the rock and, knocking his pipe out, motioned me over. I sidled left until I faced him, six feet away. Aragorn's hands moved faster than sight, drawing a sword longer and less broad than Boromir's. He reversed the swing to swipe at my shins, and I pushed off with my toes, bending my knees so my heels touched the backs of my thighs.
The longsword disappeared into its scabbard as quickly as it had come forth. Aragorn now regarded me with a mild frown. "Should your opponent swing low, jump," he repeated. "Always pair defensive gestures with offensive." He held out a hand for my staff. Reluctantly, I relinquished it.
Aragorn examined the weapon, his face unreadable. Until, that is, he came to the end caps. "Mithril!" His eyes flew from Boromir to me. "Where did you happen by this?"
I heard Boromir step closer and clear his throat behind me. "I asked it of the armorer, or rather commissioned Legolas to do so in my stead."
Strider's frown deepened, but he handed me back my staff, saying, "This is a worthy, ancient weapon. Bear it well." He looked once more at Boromir and walked back towards the elven path.
I noticed for the first time that my arms were trembling. Cutting my eyes at Boromir, who had taken Aragorn's place on the boulder, I wondered at the chances of another backrub like last night's. "Did I not say I could learn arms, my lord?" I inquired.
Boromir looked up. "You did, but to tell requires more than one lesson."
"Did I not also say that I should prove an apt pupil," I asked.
"You did. But you overstep yourself." His mild frown was quite different from that of the absent Aragorn.
"Your pardon, my lord." I dropped cross-legged on the grass in front of him, which forced me to adjust the short sword I'd forgotten I wore. It was easier just to unsheathe the thing. "But what of this?"
"I would not teach you the sword, Firiel. A staff is a fit weapon for defense, for it is a gruesome thing to kill with, but death is beaten into a blade the day it is forged, death and blood. I said yestereve that you had not the sinews of an archer, but you will need them in some measure for the wielding of the staff. Begin with the sword."
With a little effort I pared that down: my wrists weren't strong enough. I stood with a sigh, and began twirling the thing back and forth, rotating my wrists. Boromir, it seemed, approved. I switched hands and repeated the movements. This method worked well, since neither wrist became too tired. I ventured a question. "Who is this Gray Pilgrim that the songs are made about?"
"You have knowledge of their tongue?" Boromir looked surprised.
"Not as su-" I caught the unfit answer on its way out the door. "Aye, lord."
"How did you come by such knowledge?" Boromir wanted to know. "For you are not, I think, Elfkind."
I had thought that quite obvious, as my braid revealed my ears. Pausing my twirling, I considered the question. "I have a talent for languages, my lord." It was true, as far as it went.
Boromir raised a brow. "You are much traveled, then?" He motioned for me to resume. I did, expecting my hands to snap off at any moment.
"No, lord." If he wanted the truth, he was going to get it bare.
But Boromir seemed content to drop the subject of me. "You asked of Mithrandir, for so we called him in Minas Tirith. There he was accounted a great lore-master, and by some called wizard. Elrond of Imladris chose him to lead our fellowship, and lead he did, though not along paths I would have chosen. The last of these passed through Moria." The name rang no bells. "There Gandalf fell in battle with a demon of the ancient world."
I digested this, giving my wrists a rest. "What paths would you have chosen, my lord?"
"We attempted Caradhras, and the very mountain set itself against us. After that, the Gap of Rohan would have been my choice, and then the road to Minas Tirith, for it seemed to me the Enemy watched all roads equally. But the vote of the company was against me."
"Why, lord?" He glance was sharp enough to make me pick up my exercises.
"Because they thought Gondor not a safe resting place for the Ring of Power, and chose instead to continue towards the heart of the Dark Lands. But I would not speak of this further."
I sensed a dismissal, and asked, "Have I your leave to go, lord?"
A strange look, but a nod. "Return here on the morrow."
I grinned and nodded back, turning to go. "Firiel," he called me back, "you did well." I sketched him a bow, heart glowing, and walked away.