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 5: Bernan

His arm is wrapped around her slim waist, hers around his, her fingers tucked into his sword belt. They stroll slowly, he curtailing his stride to match hers. Down the steeply curving street they walk past the leather workers shop and the boot makers, and on past the small dressmakers shop on the corner where she will return to work this morning while he marches off to war. Here they pause for a moment while she points out to him a gown in the window display, which shows evidence of her handiwork. He sees exquisitely fine stitching in gold thread on the blue bodice and the numerous tiny golden beads, which have been painstakingly sewn around the neckline to add to the splendour of the dress. To his mind, it is grand enough for the finest noblewoman in the city.

He is fulsome in his praise of his new wife's talents, his pride evident on his face. A handsome young man, with the same brown eyes and dark hair as his Belfalas born father, he is tall with the strong muscular build and graceful agility of a born swordsman. Standing straight, she comes up to his shoulder. Her long, auburn hair lies this morning in a thick plait down her back and, though she is plain of face rather than pretty, she is blessed with a pair of large grey eyes, eyes whose depth and sparkle had ensnared him from the first moment they had met.

It had been a dreary, winter's afternoon. Hurrying home from her work, she had stepped out of the way of a messenger on horseback, cantering up the street on his way to the Citadel, and lost her footing on a patch of smooth, icy stone. Seeing her fall, Bernan and three of his friends had rushed across the street to her aid. Of the four young soldiers who stood towering above her, it had been Bernan's outstretched hand she had chosen to help her to her feet.

He still held onto her hand once she was standing and she made no attempt to remove it from his grasp. Having ascertained she was not hurt, they had stood smiling foolishly at each other for a long moment before, red-faced with sudden awkwardness, he released her to bend down to pick up her basket. As he did so, he realised she would likely walk out of his life as swiftly as she had entered it if he did nothing to stop her. So, gathering his wheeling emotions together, he held on to the basket, boldly dismissed his grinning comrades and firmly placed her hand through his arm, insisting on walking her to her door. And that had been the start.

Bernan courted her with all due propriety. He had to work hard to please her pleasant, but rather over-protective mother, two sisters, elder brother and the stern grandmother who lived with them but, with his innate good manners and cheerful disposition, he eventually overcame their wariness and found himself warmly welcomed into the family home. His commitment to his work and plans for the future also impressed her father, by trade a master silversmith and a friendly, good-humoured man. Though Bernan's duties often took him away from the city, on his return, hers was the first house he called at.

And there was nothing he enjoyed more than sharing time with her, for they never ran out of things to say and laughter came so easily. To have her walk by his side or sit with him in the more reputable taverns cheered his oftimes heavy heart, reminding him that there was a reason he trod the dark and frequently terrifying road of a soldier, that there was still much goodness and sweetness worth fighting for. Sharing a liking for music and dancing, he soon discovered, to his delight, that she had a light, clear singing voice. The night she was persuaded to give a song at the Twisted Tree, the chosen tavern of Osgiliath's men, all other voices had ceased while his fellow soldiers turned to listen as if bewitched.

She quickly became known as the little songbird to those rough, battle hardened soldiers, her appearance in their tavern on Bernan's arm a cue to cease their moans about the gritty reality of a soldier's life. The purity of her voice touched every soldier's heart, transporting them all for a few moments to a better place where war and orcs and battle seemed a long, long way away.

Listening one night by the bar had been the Captain. His eyes had rested on her as much as every other man's there and, Bernan noted, by the pensive look which softened his weary face, even he was not immune from the sweet quality of her voice. Later, as they left the tavern, Bernan introduced her to his Captain and Boromir courteously raised her hand to kiss, thanked her for singing and expressed his hope that she would grace their company again very soon. Then, halting him for a second, he murmured in his ear, "Let that lass go, Bernan, and you'd be a damn fool."

But Bernan was no fool and he hadn't let her go. A year to the day of their first meeting she accepted his proposal and they were wed within another half year on his return from a gruelling, but victorious, campaign on the northeastern borders.

Their wedding day was a blur of smiles and handshakes, solemnity and joy. The sun shone, their families and friends gave generously to the wedding feast and the merriment had gone on well into the early hours. He had been in uniform; she wore a cream silken gown, which she had sewn all over with roses in silver thread that caught the light to make her shimmer as she walked towards him. His voice choked as he made his vows to her and, as she in turn spoke her vows, her hand resting lightly in his, he felt his heart tumbling in his chest.

They spent their first night together upstairs in the hostelry where they had held the wedding party, from where they could hear the laughter and singing still going on in the downstairs rooms. After drawing the heavy linen curtains around the four-poster bed, they lay back against the pillows in their own private world and drank a toast to their future, sharing a glass of very special wine. It held a fragrance of years end, of wild berries and wood smoke and, as Bernan swirled it around in the glass, candlelight flickered in its dark ruby depths. Neither of them had ever tasted anything so fine or so warming. Round the neck of the bottle was tied a parchment note, his Captains message of good wishes to them both, written in his own hand and signed simply, Boromir.

The night before the wedding, Bernan had been astonished when his Captain had called at his family home at their small boatyard down by the Harlond, to wish him well and bring him the gift. Boromir had accepted the offer of a whisky and sat down with him, his parents and sister, at a table by a large open window overlooking the river. He had instantly placed Bernan's father's accent as southern and the talk turned easily to boats, the sea and Belfalas.

His late mother, the Captain told them, had hailed from the southern city of Dol Amroth and he knew that area of Belfalas well; he had many happy memories of exploring the beaches there. He also told them he still had a box that held an assortment of seashells, driftwood, crab claws and pebbles for as a child he never left the beach empty-handed. There was one particular shell that was very special for his mother had found it for him. She had taught him how to hold it so he could hear the sea through it even when at home in Minas Tirith. He kept it by his bedside, he said with a sad smile, for it reminded him of happier, more innocent times. Bernan was able to say he too had such a shell and had been promptly bidden to fetch it. After Boromir had admired it he then duly listened, laughed and pronounced it worked quite as well as his own.

But it had not been just a social call. The Captain brought also a warning to the other young men who had begun to gather at the yard, mainly fellow soldiers, not to ply Bernan with too much drink or play any tricks on him. In a stern voice that belied the smile on his face, Boromir had ordered them not to do anything that would spoil the little songbirds wedding day or they would have him to answer to. None had found the will to defy him, much to Bernan's relief.

Four days after the wedding he was back to a stint of duty in the Anorien forests, and she returned to the dressmaker's workroom and the embroidery she executed so finely. She had known what to expect as a soldiers wife, and was wise enough not to moan about the lonely nights and long days. Bernan had been honest with her from the start; he enjoyed a soldiers life and, despite the hardship of constant partings, he intended to stay with his Company and the Captain he so admired; the Captain who had recently given him another promotion.

Now a sergeant, he enjoys the extra responsibilities his work has brought him and has already set his sights on a junior officer's posting within two years. Indeed, he hopes to prove himself worthy of consideration during the coming weeks. But that isn't the only thing on his mind as they enter the main thoroughfare leading down to the square, for he suddenly turns sharply right.

"Bernan!" she finds herself being propelled down a narrow alleyway and then pulled to a halt. He is grinning, her husband; there is a twinkle in his eyes. "Bernan, where are we going? You'll be late."

He ignores her. "Know where we are?"

She nods. "Of course. Coopers Alley, but..."

"Where I first kissed you, remember?" Bernan says. "It was raining. Even with your hair all rats tails, you were so beautiful."

"I know it was a freezing night. That rain turned to snow later."

"You were shivering."

"And you gave me your cloak." She smiles, sliding her arms around his neck. "And I remember not wanting to go home, even though I was so cold."

His arms wind around her, pulling her closer. "All I remember is your softness," he kisses her mouth gently, "and how gorgeous you looked and… how lovely you were and how sweet and… wonderful and… and…"

"How hopelessly in love with you I was?" she finishes off for him, her fingers twining in his hair.

"Well, of course you were. How could you resist a good-looking lad like me?" He kisses her harder this time, his hands resting on her hips. "Oh, sweetheart, I don't want to go."

"I don't want you to go." she whispers before she kisses him back with equal fervour. Around them the morning was also beginning for many others, but the young couple paid no heed to the marching boots that passed by on the street, the boy who peeked round the corner, saw them and ran off giggling, the dog that sniffed around their feet then slinked away or Bernan's lieutenant who espied them on his way to the square and, grinning to himself, made a note to have some fun with his knowledge.

"Got to go." Eventually he mutters into her hair. "I've got to go."

"Oh, Bernan..."

"No. I must." Reluctantly, he pulls away. "You know, I wish sometimes I'd taken work with my father at the yard and not joined the army, then we could be together all the time."

"Don't be foolish, Bernan. We might have more time together but I know as well as you that you'd be miserable." Her hand strokes his cheek gently. "Soldiering is in your blood. I've always known that."

"I just hate these farewells."

"So do I." Then she smiles. "But I love welcoming you home. Let us both look forward to that."

His face brightens at her words. "Oh, my lovely, that day can't come too soon."

He reaches for her but she steps deftly aside, straightening her dress and smoothing her hair behind her ears. "No. We must hurry. You can't keep Captain Boromir waiting."

Bernan takes her hand and they rejoin the wide street, walking briskly down the hill, the sounds of the muster getting louder by the moment. Her grip tightens. Only seconds more and she will have to leave him. Tears threaten, but she does not want that and tries hard to blink them away.

Pausing under the final archway, he turns to her. "I love you."

"And I love you."

Bernan gazes into her eyes, glistening with tears. He uses his thumbs to gently brush them away and whispers, "I will take care. And I will come home."

"You'd better."

He glances over his shoulder at the waiting crowd; sees his Captain leaning casually against the wall, his eyes scanning the milling hordes before him. His face is relaxed. One hand rests on his sword hilt, the other is idly fiddling with the Horn that swings at his hip. His eyes come to rest on them for a moment and he smiles at his young sergeant, raising one hand to give a lazy acknowledgment. Bernan returns the salutation crisply and smiles back. The man seems in good humours. That is a good sign. If the Captain is at ease then all bodes well.

He turns back to his wife. "Go now. Don't wait here."

He wants to concentrate on being a soldier with nothing to distract him. She understands. Standing on her toes, she pulls his head down to hers and kisses him quickly one last time. "Fare thee well, soldier."

"Fare thee well, maid."

Her hands grasp his, squeeze them tight, then she lets go, turns and walks without looking back up the street. Grateful she has made no fuss, he watches until she reaches the corner and passes out of sight.

Then, fighting back tears of his own, he takes a few deep breaths and spins on his heels to join his comrades.