Chapter Thirty-Seven

Finding a Place

I woke at dawn, a bad habit from too many nights in the wild that I'd not yet managed to shake it. I groaned as I sat up, longing for the few more hours of sleep that my internal clock would not permit me. Muscles in my shoulders and back creaked as I stretched, and my collarbone felt shattered into three pieces. A day of chainmail had not agreed with my body.

I dressed, even in the hated mail, but left my hair in two long plaits, as it was agony to raise my hands above my head. Feeling like a green recruit, I went in search of breakfast, but no sooner had I reached the bottom of the stairs than a servant poked his head in the door. He bore an urgent summons from the Lord Denethor. Sighing, but grateful that at least my legs did not ache, I jogged up to the Citadel once more, wondering what the Steward wanted.

He glowered at me from the black seat as I made my obeisance, and began without preamble: "Word has reached me of your activities yesterday."

Oh Valar, what had I done? Eaten lunch, toasted Boromir, sparred with Ortaine, and- Oh. Ortaine. "My lord, if you will give me leave to explain-"

"I care not for your explanations, only for your actions, and those I know full well."

Denethor's cold wrath was like angry Boromir, squared. I opened my mouth, only to have him cut me off again. "Have you not sworn to speak 'and' to be silent?" I did not need to nod. "Now I would have your silence. You have disgraced the House of him you say you loved!"

I kept my mouth shut. By dint of great force of will, I kept my mouth shut, knelt there, and took it. Self-control did not keep me from thinking at him though, and this I did furiously: 'Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love!'

"No daughter of mine would conduct herself in this unseemly manner. Fraternizing with the common soldiery! Assuming their duties and dress! Deigning to cross arms with them! Are these the actions of a daughter of a House as noble as any in the West? They are not!"

'No,' I thought, 'but they are my actions.' "Was not Boromir beloved of his men for doing just as I have done, my lord?" I tried to keep my voice level, though a white-hot rage had begun to build behind my eyes.

The Steward leaned forward, his gaze as cold and penetrating as an icy dagger. "You are not Boromir. You are not my son, nor my daughter." He had yet to raise his voice, which made his words all the more terrifying. I began to shake silently, though more from suppressed anger than fear.

He was not done. "Get you hence. If you would serve with the Hosts, so be it. Dwell with them, march with them, 'die' with them, for you are no kin of mine, and I care not."

The Steward flicked his fingers at me, as if to dismiss a servant. I stood and made him a final bow, though my fists remained clenched at my sides. I walked backwards all the way out of the hall in a mockery of deference, and then turned and ran.

Pelting through the streets as across the plains of Rohan, my thoughts a roil of confusion, kept me from doing something foolish, like casting myself from the ramparts or denouncing the Steward from the Tower of Ecthelion. It did not, however, answer any of my questions.

If Lord Denethor had taken offense to my activities of yesterday afternoon, why had he not dismissed me last night? Had he not praised my uniform, and even ordered it sent to me himself? Had he not also approved of my desire to serve Gondor and, in an unprecedented action, taken me as his esquire so I could do so? Many questions and no answers.

I cleared all my belongings from my room and with my pack on my back, Celetirmar in my hand, and a leaden heart somewhere in the pit of my stomach, loped down to the fifth level. I could get into neither the barracks nor the mess hall of the First Company because of the black-clad throng in the street. Fighting my way through the press of soldiers, who must have just finished breakfast and now be readying themselves for duty, I searched for Morwen or Silmarien, prepared to yell for them if necessary.

As it was, someone yelled for me. The first "Oy, you!" passed over my head, but as the second was shouted into my ear, I could not very well continue to believe that the summons had not been directed at me. I turned to meet the scowling visage of a soldier at least three inches shorter and two times wider than myself.

The Gondorian equivalent of a drill sergeant, he proceeded to inquire in very pretty language why I wasn't in the jostling line of soldiers behind him. I had no answer for this, of course, so he ordered me into place and led us off jogging. 'He doesn't know who I am,' I thought, trying to find the pace. 'He hasn't gotten the memo yet that I'm Lord Boromir's widow, to be treated like a china doll.' A thrill of mischief at being incognito chased up my spine, and I almost giggled.

Forced quickmarch through the streets of Minas Tirith was nothing compared to running across Rohan with a wounded leg. My shoulders and back still ached from the mail, but my legs were whole and sound, and there were cobbles beneath my boots. I put my head down and worked my stride into the cadence of those before me.

Down we went to the Great Gates and then up to the practice courts on the third circle. Once there, the sergeant, who was actually a Master-at-Arms called Aran, divided his panting and winded charges into pairs and set us to sparring. He moved around, correcting grip and stance, but mostly remained on the sidelines, watching shrewdly and rubbing his grizzled chin.

I found myself opposite a swarthy young man perhaps five years my senior. He was a solid fighter, by-the-book, and not afraid to strike at a girl. Not that many of his blows landed, but at least he gave as good as he got. It was clear that he did not recognize me, and I did not remember him from the mess hall after Boromir's toast. We fell into an easy rhythm, hafts thwacking in time. The exertion helped to release some of the turmoil and frustration inside me, for which I was grateful.

After we had sparred for a time the Master-at-Arms deemed adequate, he organized us into orderly rows for calisthenics. 'Lovely,' I thought, 'pushups in chainmail.' But one who must, can, and I did. The spear-work had been a good warm-up, and I found that my arms could bear the exercise. Although it had been an age since I'd done pushups in the morning, I was not as though I'd gone out of training. Once again, I found a rhythm and then took myself away.

I wondered what Èowyn was doing, and whether she had found her glory in battle. What would she have to say about my predicament? She would probably point out that the First Company offered me more opportunity for valor than being the Steward's esquire did, and in any case, I had fulfilled my oath. I wished she had come with me. The Lady of Rohan could probably do pushups with the best of them, and she would know how to deal with Lord Denethor.

I stifled a laugh at the thought of Èowyn doing pushups, and looked around to see if anyone else had heard. In all likelihood, they had, because every soldier had stopped to stare at me. Aran and Silmarien stood on either side of me, staring as well. Oh dear. Had I been clapping between pushups?

Silmarien dropped into a squat beside me. "My lady, what are you doing?"

"Um. . . ." 'So I had been clapping.' "Am I doing something wrong?"

She shoved a hand back through her hair, making it stand up in soft dun spikes. "I know not, but I shudder to think what the lord Steward would have to say about it."

I shuddered to think, too, and then I remembered that he didn't care. "The lord Steward has dismissed me from his service and told me that if I wish to serve with the Hosts, I may do so."

Taken aback by this, Silmarien still managed to rally. She scowled around at the others and spoke in a husky whisper. "My lady, even if this is so, you do not belong here among these postulants. Your place in the First Company is assured."

I raised my eyebrows at her. "Oh, indeed? Must I not prove myself with the rest?"

Silmarien gritted her teeth. "You have proven yourself in service to Lord Boromir. That is enough, whatever you may think. Will you not come with me now? We have need still of watches on the ramparts." She held out a hand.

I took it, and let her pull me to my feet, though my sensibilities and upper body protested. The Master-at-Arms had dismissed the men around us, and in the throng we slipped away.

"I have no wish to be a mascot, a symbol to the First Company, "I said to Silmarien as we marched down to the next level. "I can fight and ride, and I wish to be useful." I would much rather be useful to the First Company than to Lord Denethor. At least they wanted me.

Silmarien took a moment to answer. "Have you ever thought, my lady, that a symbol may do more in battle than a single woman fighting? For men will rally to a symbol, and be given new strength and hope." She stared unseeing out at the Pelennor, looking past it to I knew not what.

I stood beside her, also thinking. "Boromir was both, wasn't he?"

"Lord Boromir was both," Silmarien confirmed. "A warrior and a symbol, and more than either."

We stood together there for a long time, looking to Osgiliath and wishing for one to return who never would. Then Silmarien squeezed my shoulder. "Oaths matter most when it is hardest to keep them. Come now." I came, and marched beside her.

Noon meal consisted of bread and cheese from Silmarien's pocket, eaten on the ramparts. It was a short respite, so by the time the sun dipped behind the jut of the mountain the parts of my body that did not ache gently hurt actively. Silmarien and I straggled into the mess hall and commandeered the last seats and food. Once again, I put my head down and ate. I do not know what I would have done had anyone tried to toast me, but, fortunately, no one did.

Those not assigned to night watch went directly from the mess hall to the barracks next door. The crowd having pulled me along, I stood inside the door, pack and spear in hand, feeling lost and wondering where I should go.

A row of cots lined each wall, with shelves at their heads and chests at their feet. The beds faced each other, with an aisle between. Decoration was sparse, but the place was clean, if a little smoky from braziers and wall sconces, and I could see small touches of humanity here and there. Battle scenes and painted designs decorated many of the chests, and a few soldiers had replaced their regulation gray blankets with bright patchwork quilts. It was almost homey, as much as a barracks could be.

Aware that the men who filled the room around me would soon be undressing for bed, I looked around desperately for Silmarien, whom I had lost, or Morwen, even Ortaine, any bastion of femininity that I might cling to. Fortunately, Silmarien had not lost me. She appeared at my shoulder, saying, "Morwen has said she will give up her quarters to you, my lady, to give you a bit of privacy."

I turned, wanting to shake her. "Silmarien, if I am to be a symbol, I shall at least be a symbol who sleeps with-" I cleared my throat. "-where the men do." Ignoring the fact that I had completely reversed my position, to screams of "Shut up! Shut up!" from my brain, I glared her down.

"It is unseemly, my lady," she protested.

I rolled my eyes, squashing my sensibility's cries of protest. "Oh? Has Morwen always had her own quarters, and where do you and Ortaine bunk now?" Did I need to remind her of my days in the wild with the Fellowship, all of whom were, gasp and cringe, male? Had she spent so much time dressed as a male that she had picked up chauvinism?

Silmarien's protests were few and ineffectual, and I could see something like respect in her eyes once more. "If there is an empty bed here, then I will take it, and if there is not, then I shall sleep on the floor." I hoped it would not come to this, as sore body plus had boards had never equaled sleep, in my experience.

I had beaten her down, though, and she led me to an unoccupied bunk, where I stowed my things in the chest and set Celetirmar beside it. I doffed my tunic and mail shirt, shook them out and folded them carefully away, then burrowed under the covers to change my shirt. All this Silmarien watched with the air of a doubtful guard dog, but when I retrieved my flute, she smiled and, leaning against the wall to watch me, unsheathed her sword and began to polish it.

The instrument was to my lips before I had thought of something to play, but Silmarien and several others had begun to give me expectant looks, so I began the first thing that came to mind: Boromir's marching song. By the second verse, a dozen more nonchalant figures had made their way over to my bunk, and three of these were singing along. Three more verses, and I finished to a smattering of applause.

As the clapping died away, an appallingly young boy pushed his way forward. "Do you know 'Harvest Time Has Come'?"

I did not, of course, but the stifled laughs and mutters of 'provincial' made me grin at him and say, "If you will sing it for me, I think I may be able to catch the tune."

He grinned back at me, and sang. The reedy tenor was none too true, but it was a simple melody. My playing seemed to please him to no end. It certainly shut up the disparaging voices.

After a couple of Irish reels, I had another request. At Morwen's entrance, everyone had straightened but remained comfortable, but they perked up still further when her sweet alto broke into a song I later learned was called 'Men of Harlond'. Everyone joined in, more or less harmoniously, and I soon added my own descant.

A harp and drum soon joined my flute, also played by ear, and for an orchestra that had never practiced together, I thought we made surprisingly sweet music. The First Company seemed to agree. Songs that I did not know the other two musicians did, and I taught them 'The Water Is Wide' and 'The Sound of Sleat'. The First Company also liked to sing along, which I discovered after I'd admitted there were words to the former tune. After a great deal of friendly bullying from all present, I sang; no one commented on my voice, for which I was grateful.

The sky outside was fully dark and brightly spangled with stars, and the lamps had been lit. I had lost track of the songs I'd played. After a particularly merry jig that Pippin had taught me, I put down my pipe, breathing heavily but grinning from ear to ear. Someone pressed a cup of ale into my hand, and, as I sipped it, I looked out over my audience. They were seated on every free chest and chair, some on the floor, some standing, all of them happy to various degrees. I would much rather play for the First Company than for Lord Denethor, I thought. Their tastes ran to martial airs and marching songs, but they could also soften to a ballad. It was like and yet unlike tuning for the Fellowship on the Great River, so very long ago.

I had just turned my mind to what I might do next, whether I might be able to call it a night, when a figure I had not noticed stepped from the shadows to stand before me. It was Ortaine.

"I would have you play me a song," she said, and as she named it, she met my eyes in challenge. "If you know it."

I did know it, oddly enough. In Lothlorien, I had heard Boromir humming the tune, and had asked him what it was. He had told me and, after much cajoling, sung the ballad for me. The lyrics told of a man who must leave on a long journey, as he farewells a woman whose love he cannot return because his heart is promised to another.

I swallowed hard, kept my eyes on hers, and took up my flute once more. As I began the melody, a gruff baritone whom I could not see began the poignant words. I do not know if I imagined the voice's resemblance to Boromir's, but I think I may be forgiven for doing so if I did. My eyes remained locked on Ortaine's throughout, and by the time the unseen singer and I finished, her gaze was not hard, only sad. Something had passed between us, an understanding or forgiveness, a nameless, intangible knowing that told me I could trust her, and that she did not hate me.

It was a good ending to an otherwise tiring and confusing day, and afterwards everyone blew out the lamps and took themselves to bed. Though sleeping indoors was still a phenomenon, and I was surrounded by strange men, I slept soundly, knowing I was safe and welcome. I dreamed of my mother, and of music.

Ortaine's ballad can be found here: ,and can be sung to the tune of 'Roads Go Ever Ever On', from the animated version of The Return of the King.