This is a not for profit work of fan fiction using characters and places belonging to JRR Tolkien plus original characters.
Title - The Morning Muster
Chapter 3: Tregoron
"You're getting too old for all this nonsense." She chides, tidying away the breakfast bread and fruit, collecting the platters into a pile. He watches as her cloth sweeps the crumbs off the polished oak table, sees them settle onto the tiled floor by his feet. "Far too old and well you know it. You've done more than your fair share for this country. 'Tis long past time you retired and looked to your family. The Valar knows there's plenty of grandchildren who would love to see more of you."
"Peace, woman." It comes out as a growl, but he is not really angry. They are covering old ground and he is close to admitting defeat for, in truth, he realises he agrees with her. To his chagrin his age is telling on him. Old wounds taunt him when he is tired and the sword cut he took to his left leg nigh on twelve years past aches constantly. He finds himself limping some days, which brings on bad temper; that he has not the speed nor agility he once had irritates him further. Draining the last of his tea, he places the empty mug down with a dull thud on the table. "Hold your tongue."
"I will not." Undaunted, she stands before him as he rises, fingers reaching to flick breadcrumbs off the front of his tunic. She tucks her cloth into the deep pockets of her apron, saying, "I am quite serious, Tregoron. We've talked of this often enough and it's about time you took note of what I want for once. Promise me you'll tell the Captain this will be your last mission and that afterwards you want to come home for good."
"Look, lass..."
"Face it, man." She won't let him finish. "You know as well as I that you've neither the energy nor the health to ply your trade any longer. Besides, you're a grandfather now. Let younger men take your place while you take a hard earned rest."
Her words sting and he reacts instinctively. "Grandfather I may be, but I can yet wield a sword better than most! And I know I can still be of some use despite the many years behind me!"
"And that pride of yours will have you dead!"
He has no answer to that. She is right. It is only pride that keeps him going now, that and a desperate need to feel he is not so old, is not useless, still has a place with his Company and is valuable there. She does not know it, but Captain Boromir has already spoken to him of lessening his duties, that perhaps staying garrison based would suit Tregoron better, rather than going on campaign. It was an awkward interview for them both; Boromir was clearly ill at ease suggesting such a thing to one who had trained him and covered his back in many a fight. In the end, one more tour of duty had been granted, but it was a reluctant commander who signed the papers.
Tregoron knows there will be no more chances to bluff the Captain he is well enough to keep up with men half his age and he does not want to hear Boromir order him into retirement. He also knows friendship takes second place to duty and that the Captain has only allowed him to stay on so far out of friendship. Duty will soon make his decision for him and that will hurt them both. But he does not want to place Boromir into that uncomfortable position. It would be best all round if he took his destiny in his own hands and surrendered to the inevitable. But surrender comes hard to an old soldier. Into the awkward silence, he manages to say only, "Oh lass, my sweet lass…"
Swallowing her anger, she puts her arms around him, sharing his pain. "Tregoron, do you forget Gondor has already taken from me a father, a brother and an uncle." One hand reaches up to touch his cheek. "And… and a son." She sees his jaw clench and his eyes close in painful remembrance. Tears fill her eyes as she asks in a whisper, "Have I not suffered enough? Must I give a husband also?"
He takes her hands in his own and looks into her eyes. It is still there, the anxiety he first saw when she bade him farewell over thirty years ago. Standing so close to her, in his mind the years roll back and she is one and twenty again, slender as a reed, long black hair framing her sweet face and tumbling down to cover her breasts, her skin soft from their morning lovemaking.
But today her hair is streaked with grey, worn for the most part fastened up and tucked beneath a scarf. After bearing five children she is no longer the slender maiden. Though her body is soft and plump to his touch, her hands sit hard and dry in his, a legacy of years of hard work as a housewife. In her still sweet face she bears the evidence of her years spent as a mother and a soldier's wife, but the lines etched there are not those of a life lived in sorrow; for all the heartache she has borne, they show there has also been much joy and laughter. He feels suddenly very grateful to have had her love and unflinching support for so many years.
"I will talk to the lad," he concedes, "but I can't just sit at home and play with children. I'm not yet ready for that. But I suppose I could ask if he will give me a post with the youngsters here at the barracks, then at least I'd be on hand and home each night. How does that sound?" As he pulls her to him, he feels her relax.
"If you are home each night, then it will content me. Lord Boromir will find you a good position, I am sure of it." She nestles against him, her head tucked into his shoulder. Eager to steer their last few moments together to safer ground, she says, "remember when he first came here with young Faramir to see your grandfather's sword? Just a boy he was then."
"Aye, he was. That was some time back, eh, lass?" His eyes travel to the weapon, lovingly polished and mounted in pride of place on the wall above the fire. It is no sword of great lineage, but a quite ordinary infantryman's sword, just one of thousands made by the smiths of Minas Tirith for the soldier's of Gondor's army. But it is special for, long ago, it had been wielded by Tregoron's grandfather with great courage. It had slain an orc gleefully poised to deliver a killing blow to a soldier of Gondor, a young warrior who, though wounded, had valiantly continued to fight until, in the deep mud of the battlefield, he had lost his footing. As he fell, his sword flew from his hand. Sprawled on his back and with the battle cry of Gondor still on his lips, he lay facing his enemy completely defenceless.
Tregoron's grandfather had shown no hesitation. Hurling himself between the two adversaries, he took the full force of the orc's axe onto his shoulder. Though the armour he wore saved his life, it was a fiercesome blow, which shattered his collarbone and brought him to his knees. But before the orc could strike again, he found the strength to force his sword upwards and into the fell creatures body. Then, roaring his defiance at more advancing orcs, he had somehow held a defensive position before his stricken comrade until others came to their aid and were able to drag them both to safety.
That courageous deed had entered the history books and earned Tregoron's grandfather much praise and honour. His gallantry that day ensured the Steward's heir, Ecthelion, would live to fight many more battles for Gondor. And the sword with which he had performed that brave feat had been passed down the family to hold pride of place in Tregoron's home.
Tregoron remembered how one sunny afternoon he had opened his door to find two boys standing in the street, how the elder had bowed politely and explained that he had heard from his tutor about Tregoron's grandfather and his own, the late Steward Ecthelion, and that a sword was here that had saved his grandfather's life and 'please sir, was it true?'
He had been most amused to be called 'sir' by the Steward's young son, had told him it was indeed true and invited them both inside. The elder beamed in anticipation of a good tale; the younger held tight onto his big brother's hand and said not a word.
And how reverently had an eleven-year-old Boromir held the sword, tested its sharpness, weighed it in his hands before passing it to his young brother who had shyly copied his actions before carefully handing it back. Tregoron showed them to a bench by the fire and his wife had brought them a glass of milk and a piece of shortbread each. While Boromir sat with the sword across his knees, opening and closing his fingers around the hilt, Tregoron proceeded to tell them the full tale of their grandfather's brush with death and of his own grandfather, who's quick thinking had saved his young Lord from a violent end and who had subsequently served him for many years as a personal guard.
Tregoron had found out that day that Boromir had an insatiable appetite for tales of soldiers and battles for he was encouraged to speak of many of his own exploits. It was the younger boy's yawning that had brought his storytelling to a halt, but Boromir had respectfully asked if he might call again and an unlikely friendship had sprung up between the two of them that had lasted almost twenty years now.
The Steward's elder son had become 'the lad' to this tough veteran who, alike to his grandfather, found guarding his young Lord became a way of life, for Boromir grew to be as impetuous and fearless as his grandsire.
But the role of protector had fallen to him almost by accident when Boromir first arrived at the Osgiliath garrison as an inexperienced cadet to begin his army training in earnest. Tregoron had helped him find his feet on only his second day at the garrison. A dispute had erupted, started by an over zealous sergeant, one of those who would harass and ridicule the Steward's son merely for the title he carried and Tregoron had been forced to step in to break it up. From then on he had taken it upon himself to keep his eye on the lad and Boromir had been grateful to find him standing by on many an occasion.
It was Tregoron who had shaken the sleep from Boromir whilst they stood on late watches together; who took his eager pupil out on countless scouting missions, teaching him the lie of the land east of Anduin and how best to read it. And it was his strong arm that had lent the lad support when he struggled not to weep as he surveyed the carnage after his first battle. Over the years, Tregoron's gruff voice had encouraged the Steward's heir when he was unsure of himself, and calmed him down when his impatient temperament vied with the steadier ways of others.
But Tregoron had also tested their friendship, for he could not always side with the lad. He had often kept a very resentful Boromir at the archery ranges long after his day's duty was done, practising till his fingers bled. And it fell to him to impress firmly on the Steward's son that, despite his position, he was as bound by an order from his superiors as any other soldier, whether he agreed with it or not.
For daring to question such an order, Boromir had been instructed to collect up an armful of logs. While his fellow cadets stood watching, Tregoron had placed a few more logs into his arms and then ordered him to march around the drill square carrying his heavy load until finally, the young man's strength at last deserted him and he dropped to the ground, totally exhausted and gasping for breath. Tregoron ordered the silent, shocked soldiers to leave their comrade lying in the rain, but stood by his side himself, waiting till he eventually found just enough energy to half walk, half crawl back to the barracks.
Next morning, a pale faced and somewhat subdued young soldier had presented himself promptly as the dawn trumpets sounded for the first inspection of the day. To his surprise, Tregoron had seen no hostility in the lad's eyes; Boromir had treated him with all due respect and carried out the menial duties allotted to him with his usual cheerful forbearance. Between them the incident had never once been talked of and their friendship survived intact.
He chuckled to himself. Even off duty he had kept a weather eye on the reckless young Lord, sobering him up and seeing him to a barracks bed after many a night of youthful exuberance at the city's taverns. He had even fished him out of a whorehouse more than once, fielding off the ladies who were eager to keep such a fine young man for a longer time.
In truth he had enjoyed the last fifteen years. He had been proud to see the lad emerge into the fine Captain he was today and felt no little satisfaction that he had played an important part in helping him grow to this position. But there were plenty of others to keep him on the straight and narrow, and Boromir himself had learned to temper his excesses; maturity and responsibility bringing self-discipline and his years of warfare having the sobering effect it had on all men. The burdens of leadership now kept him from trouble and, Tregoron reluctantly admitted, it might be pleasant indeed to turn his attention towards his own family where he was perhaps more needed now.
"I hate saying you're right, my lass, but you are." Tregoron says. "And I'm just a foolish old man to keep on denying it."
"No, you're not foolish, Tregoron. 'Tis hard for both of us to feel the passing of the years. I would just like to spend whatever time we have left together. I deem I have shared you with the army long enough."
"And I've spent far too long away from you, lass." He kisses her and then kisses her again. "'Tis past time I put that right. I promise you, I'll sort something out with the lad."
She nods her head. "I do know how hard it will be for you."
But she does not, not really, though he will never tell her so. He pulls away from her to reach for his sword belt. With a calm he does not feel inside, he says, "I should go. Let's hope it's the last time I have to say those words, eh?"
"Oh, I pray so." There are tears in her eyes as they part at the door. "May the Valar keep you safe." She touches her heart and then his, the same ritual she has performed each time they have been parted over the years.
He has no belief that the Valar will do any such thing, for he has seen too much injustice and cruelty on the field of battle to believe in their protection. But it brings her comfort to believe, so he graciously accepts her blessing.
"You will ask him? You will not forget?" she cannot resist calling the reminder.
"I will not forget, my lass." He lifts a hand in a wave from the doorway, steps outside and starts the walk down the street to join his comrades and the lad in the square.