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 4: Wilfrith

Following the dawn trumpet call, the meanest-minded corporal in Gondor's army enters the dormitory, banging a dagger hilt against a metal tray as he bawls the first orders of the morning. He ignores the protesting oaths and groans as weary men rise to face another day. Cursing, ribald joking, laughter, whistling, the clump of boots on stone, doors slamming, and the echoes of the corporals tray as he tours the other floors; all are familiar sounds of a barracks morning.

Wilfrith is amongst the last to rise, preferring to let most of the men depart to the hall to eat before he readies himself to face the day. He is not a native of the city, but an incomer from a small town on the Sirith's banks, come as a young man in search of adventure and drawn to a military life rather than work in the family tannery back home. Living here amongst soldiers who treat him for the most part as a leper, the barracks are a detested and unwelcome reality, serving only to remind him of what he has lost.

The top half of a barracks bunk is the only place he can now call home while a single wooden locker holds the few possessions he owns. It is as if his home, his wife and his child had never existed. Except that they had existed and he had loved them, worked hard for them both and for the small cottage his wife had turned into a welcoming and comfortable home. It had been an ordinary life for an uncomplicated man and, unlike many, he had been completely happy with his lot.

Wilfrith had always believed in the truths instilled into him as a child by a pious mother. He looked to the Valar to protect him and his family and daily offered thanks for the gifts bestowed on him. But he was to find that faith utterly destroyed. The fire that swept through his home, taking with it the lives of his wife and son, left him feeling sorely betrayed by those in whom he placed his trust. And in the bitterness of his grief he could not understand why he was still alive, he who made his living by the sword, while his family, supposedly safe behind the city walls, were dead.

It made no sense. He had not prepared himself for such an event. The cheerful, stoic soldier turned overnight into a man racked with confusion, alienating all who tried to offer their help by his refusal to be comforted, his melancholy and despair leading him finally to disaster and disgrace.

And that he had not been handed over to the hangman was still cause for wonderment. He is only recently freed after six months of incarceration in a miserable, dark cell in the Tower of Guard, months that had given him time aplenty to contemplate his shameful and foolish actions, his unhappy past and his bleak future. Time aplenty for regrets and self-pity, but little time for hope.

As was his wont, he made no complaints about his imprisonment. The guards treated him well for the most part; the food and the surroundings, though both grim, had not been unbearable for one used to the rough conditions of many an army campaign. The solitude had caused him the most hardship; long days spent in his own company, a tedious existence with only rare interruptions when the guards brought him his meals. A few hours each day spent in a small high-walled courtyard was his only chance to see the sky and feel fresh air on his face. Yet he managed to form a rapport with his gaolers and sometimes, because he was a well behaved prisoner, they would allow him to join them for a game of cards in the guardhouse. From them he gleaned the latest talk from the city; which company was fighting where, what news had come from the borders, who was injured or lost.

Then, nearing the end of his sentence, his Captain, returned from a tour of duty on the eastern borders, had unexpectedly turned up. He stood framed in the doorway of the cell, frowning, two tankards and a jug of ale in his hands. The guards had argued to stay with him, but they had been curtly dismissed back to the guardroom, the cell door firmly kicked closed against them.

"I have just been informed you have asked to be reassigned to the garrison at Pelargir," Boromir said brusquely, "and I'm confused. I cannot think of one good reason why you should wish to do so."

"But, my lord," a bemused Wilfrith had answered, stumbling to his feet in confusion, "I … I thought after all that has happened, it would be best I should leave Minas Tirith, start afresh, a good many leagues from here, sir."

"Do you really want to go south?"

"I do not want to, my lord, no. But, as I have said, it would be for the best."

"Well, I disagree." Boromir had grinned then before putting the tankards on the bench and bending to pour the ale. "And I shall ignore the request, as you will be remaining in my Company. When you get out of this foul place, you will take what time you need to regain your strength and your skills then report to me for duty." He sat down and gestured Wilfrith to do the same.

Wilfrith had been taken aback by the order. No words would come so to fill in the silence he followed his Captain's example, picked up a drink and took a swig.

"And as I am commanded to take you back at a lower rank than you deserve," the Captain continued, "you will work in future with sergeant Mardil."

"Mardil? With the new recruits?"

"Aye. Those young lads are somewhat skittish; they need firm handling and someone they can trust to guide them well, someone who knows all about soldiering."

"Then why pick me, sir? They won't trust me after…."

Boromir interrupted him. "It must be sufficient for them to see how much I trust you. The Valar knows we have fought aside each other long enough for me to know your true mettle, Wilfrith."

Wilfrith was sure he did not deserve such consideration. "I don't understand." He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and, before Boromir could form a reply, he blurted out, "I deserve naught but the deepest contempt from you, my lord. My crimes warranted far more punishment than this," his hand swept around the dreary confines of his cell, "yet at the tribunal you stood by and defended me when all others wished me dead. Now you offer me forgiveness and a chance to start again. Why, my lord?"

But he gave his Captain no time to answer before he continued, "Many men could have died for my actions, sir. Good men of Gondor, men who looked to me to lead them and who I failed. And then… and then to compound my shame I tried to deny it! Tried to find a way to blame others!" He struggled with emotions long suppressed. "Had I not already lost my honour for that, then I surely did when I struck you, my lord! Valar help me, I deserve to have hung for that alone, many said so and..."

"Peace, Wilfrith. Peace." Boromir raised his hand and the man dropped into a miserable silence. "They were wrong. I do not believe one error of judgement, dishonourable or not, should condemn a good man to death. It would have been the grossest folly to take one such as you from Gondor just for the sake of my pride or to satisfy others, especially when I was in large part to blame."

"No, sir. That is not true."

"It is true. You were suffering from a most terrible loss and it was remiss of me to allow you to continue in a position of command. I asked you to carry far more than you could deal with, Wilfrith. I failed you badly. 'Tis I who let you down."

"No." Wilfrith broke in. "Oh no. None of this was your fault, Captain. None of it. My grief was a wholly private thing and should not have travelled with me to the battlefield. What I did was inexcusable and there is no blame belongs to you, sir. None at all. Mine was the error and mine is the shame." He closed his eyes so as not to see the compassion on Boromir's face. "It was I who failed you, my lord, and not just you. I failed my men and … and I brought dishonour to the whole Company. Captain, I beg you to release me from your command for another position. None in Osgiliath will welcome me back and I do not blame them. I am the very worst of men."

Boromir stared at him for a moment, taken aback by the man's depth of self-loathing. Then he reached out and gripped his arm. "Do you think your deeds have gone unnoticed by others in positions of command? Do you think talk of what you did has not travelled on the grapevine to all the garrisons? I could send you to the furthest corner of Gondor, to the most isolated outpost, but I know full well there would be men waiting there to make your life intolerable."

"Then I must suffer their contempt."

"But why should you? Far better to stay to make amends where you are best known and where I can watch your back. It will not be easy and I cannot deny some share your view that you have got away lightly. However, Wilfrith, not all do. You will find you still have some comrades in the Company willing to help you regain your sense of worth."

"By my own actions I have lost the right to call any man a comrade." Wilfrith said bitterly.

"Yet comrades do exist whether you deem so or not. I include myself amongst their number." Boromir spoke very softly and was rewarded for his admission by a spark of incredulous gratitude in the other man's eyes.

"No, Captain, sir, truly I am not worthy…"

"Wilfrith, you asked me why I have sided with you through all this." Rolling his tankard between his hands Boromir gazed into it, thoughtful for a moment, before saying quietly, "When I was a raw recruit trying to find my way, you guided me kindly and well yet clearly without wish for favour, as did some. Others took advantage of my inexperience and set me wrong for their own amusement, but not once did you do so though you had opportunity enough. You earned my respect and I also learnt to place my trust in you. Never have you given me reason to regret doing so."

"Oh, Captain…"

Boromir picked up the jug and leant forward to top up Wilfrith's tankard. "My position makes it hard for me to trust others; it is something I do with very few men. You, Wilfrith, are one of those few. That trust still endures, despite all. I have not forgot what I owe you and well do I know the goodness of your heart."

No word came from the other man. He sat as though stunned by his Captains words.

"We've come a long way together since those early days, have we not?" Boromir continued. "We've shared many a battle and many an ale."

"Aye, so we have, my lord." Wilfrith murmured, too overwhelmed to say more.

"So, as your Captain and comrade, Wilfrith, take this as an order. Stay where you are most needed. Accept my forgiveness and try to find some forgiveness within yourself or this will ruin you. There is nothing that cannot be redeemed. And remember, there are also others besides myself who wish they had done more and still carry the guilt of failure with them."

Wilfrith struggled to respond. "You… you do me great honour with all you have said, my lord, and I thank you. I thank you indeed. You think… you truly think that perhaps, there is then hope for me…"

"I believe so." Boromir smiled. "Trust me, there's not a man alive who can say he has never made a mistake and 'tis a high price you are paying for yours."

"But surely not high enough, sir, not for what I did." Wilfrith stubbornly replied. "Even your own brother thought so."

"Aye, there were those who argued for a harsher punishment and I will admit that when my brother lent his voice to them it saddened me."

"And it grieves me that I was the cause of strife between you and Lord Faramir, sir."

"'Twas but a difference of opinion, not strife." Boromir shrugged. "And I was fortunate that in council my opinion was taken note of and his was not."

"But surely Lord Faramir was right that I deserved a far worse punishment. I acted dishonourably," Wilfrith persisted, "there can be no dispute that it was a most shameful act."

"No dispute at all. Assaulting your Captain is a grave offence; the penalty for that act in your particular case was what divided us. Faramir, quite correctly, was concerned with military regulations, I with justice, which is always far less clear-cut. Personally, I think being locked up in here for a half year is punishment enough for any man; you have done well to survive it with your wits intact. And fear not," he added reassuringly, "my brother and I have agreed to differ as we do on many things and all is well between us." After taking another drink, Boromir chuckled. "You know, you punch like a troll, Wilfrith. I was still seeing stars the next day."

"Oh, by all the Valar, my lord, I am so sorry. I truly am."

They fell silent, each remembering the afternoon when battle fatigue had taken them both. During their encounter with the enemy, Wilfrith had lost concentration, lost the rhythm of the fight, failed to keep his men in a tight position and worse, failed to notice that they were becoming separated from the main force by a successful flanking movement by their opponents. It was a terrible mistake for a seasoned soldier to make and one that had almost led to a breaking of the front line, which would have let the enemy swarm through. Only swift action from those around him had rectified the near calamity.

Later the Captain had come to find him amongst the wreckage of a battle hard won. "Men could have died out there, men who trusted their lives to you, sergeant, and you let them down!" Boromir had been full of rage and disbelief.

Wilfrith had looked around. All eyes directed accusation and hostility at him like so many bitter barbs. And he was so mortified and so utterly, totally exhausted. He did not need to be reminded of his terrible misjudgement; he certainly did not want to be humiliated and scolded like an errant child before his fellows. He just wanted the Captain to stop his cursing and shouting and to leave him alone. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to go home. He wanted the comfort of his wife's arms around him and to hear once more his young sons laughter.

It festered inside, the seething rage he felt against the cruel hand life had seen fit to deal him and, as the Captain continued to yell, all reason deserted him. There was no choice; he could take no more. He had to make the man shut up. Blinded by his feelings and without a single thought as to the consequences, he had swung his arm back. With his fist tightly curled, he aimed directly at Boromir's face.

A warning cry rang out. Boromir started to take a step back and raised a hand in defence, but was a fraction too late. The blow landed just to the side of his left eye, knocking him onto his back.

After an initial stunned silence, had the Dark Lord himself descended into the midst of the gathered company, there could not have been more uproar and chaos.

The only thing that saved Wilfrith from an immediate lynching was a roar for calm from the dazed Captain, helped to his feet and steadied between two soldiers. Facing each other again, Boromir had seen through the frenzied confusion in his assailant's eyes to the utter desolation beneath and it had sobered him instantly to see how much torment the man was in. A further order was swiftly issued in response to that observed pain; that no harm was to come to Wilfrith and, though this had been met with many a protest, Boromir had been forceful in his sergeant's defence.

The military council however, demanded retribution. A capital punishment was rejected after an appeal for mercy from Boromir. Concerned only with gaining justice for his sergeant, he then made a second passionate appeal after which Wilfrith was also spared a corporal penalty. Fellow officers had rounded on Boromir to protest at that but, fully aware that he had, in part, driven the man to disaster, he obdurately ignored their vociferous disagreements and even brushed aside an urgent demand from his brother to see sense and allow a corporal penalty to stand.

But when the beleaguered council members insisted on a lesser sentence of incarceration, he had reluctantly agreed, though they allowed themselves to be persuaded that the sentence of half a year would suffice. And so the decree was duly handed down; Boromir, inwardly astounded that he had predominantly won the day, wisely said nothing when they stripped Wilfrith of his hard won sergeants rank. For such a serious offence, Wilfrith, listening to all the arguments in a bewildered silence, did not know what he had done to deserve such clemency.

"Come back to Osgiliath and stand with me again, Wilfrith." Boromir had ordered before he left the cell.

So here he was, almost eight months since he had last been summoned to muster. The familiar sounds of the Osgiliath Company preparing to leave the city carried memories thick and fast, bringing him to a dizzy standstill in the lee of the arch where he reached for the support of the stone wall behind him. For a moment he had to swallow hard, breathing deeply to steady his nerves in an attempt to prevent his fast departing courage from fleeing altogether. This was far harder than standing in a battle line. Studying the ground at his feet, he gave himself a stern talking to, his eyes fixed on the white stones he had fought to protect since he first joined Gondor's army at the age of eighteen, almost half his lifetime away.

The Captain's eyes alighted on him as he entered the square as though he had been watching for his arrival. Halting uncertainly before the crowds of assembling soldiers, Wilfrith prayed for invisibility or even to be struck down dead, anything, but having to deal with the mistrustful silence that fell amongst those nearest to him as he was recognised.

For a brief, mad moment he considered flight, but he clung yet to a scrap of honour; he had made a promise to Captain Boromir to return and he would not allow himself to break that vow. It would be the first step on the road to regain not only the respect of his fellows, but also his own self-respect. Many eyes turned to him as he forced himself forward, risking a few cursory glances at the men standing back to let him pass, some old companions and some new faces. He wished he could be warmly welcomed as he used to be by comrades glad to see him, for most faces were wary, even hostile, while others were carefully neutral. But he noted a few men did nod a silent greeting.

Then he was once more facing his Captain. It seemed to him as if the men flanking their commander closed in a tighter protective semicircle around him. One, he was certain, even gripped his sword hilt. Boromir obviously sensed the tension in the air for his mouth quirked in a half smile as he watched Wilfrith's approach.

"My lord," Wilfrith dropped to one knee before him, his head bowed, "I am yours to command."

Boromir accepted the gesture by saying in a voice that carried to every man around him "And glad I am to see you here. Your debt is paid in full, Wilfrith, son of Ailfrith, to the satisfaction of your Captain. Stand now and do your duty."

The man began to rise. He stumbled as he did so and Boromir's hand shot out to steady him. "Are you well?" he asked in a low voice.

"Aye, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Then report to sergeant Mardil over by the postern gate. He has his orders and you will take yours from him. I deem you will find he has a kinder and more forgiving heart than many here." Boromir said pointedly. A few men lowered their eyes, discomfited by his words.

"I will not let you down, my lord." Wilfrith could barely speak for the tightness in his throat.

"That I know," Boromir said, "and Wilfrith, I have made it known to all my officers that you have my full support. They will see word is spread that any man who purposely causes you trouble will have my wrath to face."

Wilfrith managed a slight smile of his own. "That is not a prospect I would relish again, sir."

At that Boromir laughed. "Go steady and good luck, my friend." He extended his hand out to grip Wilfrith's forearm firmly, a salutation of respect not lightly given. At his action, his clear sign of absolution, a discernible lightening of mood passed around the muster square as the soldiery took their cue from their Captain and the beginnings of forgiveness for the prodigal took root.