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 6: Eoren
"Are all the men present, sergeant?"
"All but one, sir." Rangold snaps out a hasty salute as the Captain emerges through the throng of soldiers, surprising him where he lazed against the wall, idly biting a fingernail. He holds up the muster roll for the man to see but Boromir flaps it away with a wave of his hand.
"Let me guess. Young Eoren?" he hazards with a grin.
"She's probably still polishing his boots, my lord." The sergeant grins back; thanking the Valar the Captain is in a good mood. A stickler for discipline he might be, yet something in Eoren's nature seems to amuse the man and the lad's tardiness and other small lapses are usually overlooked.
But Eoren, walking at his mother's frustratingly slow pace, is on his way to the square, trying to disguise the acute discomfort he feels and praying she will not reach for his hand. He knows he is already late. However, he will gladly accept whatever punishment may await him for it will be nothing compared to an emotional outburst from his mother should her temper be breached.
He has had to already endure her cutting his hair far shorter than he likes and, at her insistence, he shaved off his beard before this mornings return to duty. It made him look like a filthy peasant, she had said. He had sulkily remarked that many of the soldiers in his unit wore beards, even some of the officers, and would she dare suggest Captain Boromir looked like a filthy peasant?
'Yes', had come the sharp reply, 'he does, and he needs his hair cutting too. If he was my son…'
Her tirade had continued for many minutes. He had listened in a depressed silence to her condemnation of his Captain before she turned her displeasure to the shortcomings of his father, the Steward. She even, to Eoren's bewilderment, managed to find fault with Lord Faramir, his brother.
On receiving his posting to the Osgiliath garrison, pride in her only son saw her boasting to their neighbours of his achievements as if he were the only soldier in the city on whom Gondor could depend for its survival. That her pride in him led her easily to exaggeration then to blatant untruth was a torment he had to bear. She failed to notice the amusement and ridicule in her neighbour's eyes or see his humiliation.
But her proud boasts turned to bitter acrimony as soon as the door shut on her audience. Then it had become a furious rant. Why was he going away from the city? Why had he been posted to Osgiliath? Why was he content to be with the regular army when he knew full well she had the Tower Guard in mind for him? On and on she nagged. Eoren had told many a lie, insisting time and again that he had no say in where he was posted. But the truth was, he had all but fallen on his knees and begged his superiors to send him to the ancient city.
She tried tears, played on the gentler side of his nature, whining that she would be left alone again, that he did not love her, that he should have pressed harder for a posting in the city close to home. He braced himself for the end to her outburst for he knew well what it would be. Whatever prompts the start of it, it always ends the same way. The litany never changes. Eoren is heartless, ungrateful, selfish and finally, inevitably, just like his father. The last denunciation is spat out with real venom. When she accuses him of being the same as the father he adores, his heart beats with pride, only to be torn asunder when her loathing of the man makes itself plain.
Small wonder his father had requested a transfer from the Tower Guard to the furthest of the southern border garrisons. Eoren missed him terribly when he left, yet even then, at the age of nine, he understood his father's reasons for doing so. And on the rare occasions that he had seen his father in the intervening years, his mother's bitter disparagement of the man was barely worth the joy Eoren felt to see him again.
Following his father to the south had more than once crossed his mind, but he is trapped. Though he does not, in truth, any longer love his mother, he understands her need of him. With her husband long gone, she is dependant on Eoren's wages for a roof over their heads and food on the table. Guilt, pity and a misplaced sense of loyalty ties him to her.
As they near the square he is only too well aware that the sun is glinting on his leather boots; boots she spent so much time buffing to a mirror finish. When her head is bent over this task it is one of the few occasions when her tongue ceases to move and he has learned to accept with gratitude this small respite from her belittling and malice. Gladly will he bear his comrades taunts, shielding their eyes at his approach as they pretend to be dazzled by the gleaming leather.
"You will ask him again?" it is more of an order than a request.
"Yes, mother. I will."
"And do not be fobbed off with him telling you Osgiliath is a better posting. The Tower Guard would be grateful to have such a soldier as you amongst its ranks. That Captain Boromir can have any number of ruffians he likes. You deserve better." She is puffing slightly as he speeds up and takes the steps two at a time, but she manages to stick with him.
But he will not ask. He has found camaraderie at the Osgiliath garrison, the rough and ready ways of the regular soldiers much to his liking, though at first he found it a tough challenge to be accepted into their ranks. A shy cadet with such shiny boots had been an easy target, and many tormented him unmercifully at first. But then, when he took their banter and mockery so well and learned to give back with his own special brand of humour, he slowly established his place as one of them. After nearly two years of service amongst those men, he has no wish to serve anywhere else.
The square is close by; he can hear the noise of many voices, the clatter of weaponry and armour, bawled orders and equally loud replies and he begins to feel his excitement rise. At the gate he pauses.
"Well, we're here, mother." he says. "Farewell. I will soon be home again."
"We aren't there yet." She has not stopped and Eoren has to break into a short run to catch up with her as she hastens through the gate before halting as the scene in the square takes her by surprise. He almost cannons into her.
"Mother!" He hisses. "You cannot be here. You have to go back."
"Will you look at all those soldiers? They all look as though they've just climbed straight from their beds, unkempt and scruffy, the lot of them." She stands hands on her hips, shaking her head.
"It's not a parade." Eoren takes her arm to try and turn her. "We're marching to the garrison."
"Well, at least you will not disgrace the city." Her smile alights on him, somewhat gentler than he expected.
"Eoren!" To his amazement and horror, his Captain, followed by sergeant Rangold, is striding towards them.
"My lord!" he exclaims, his face a bright red. "Forgive me, sir. I was delayed."
"You're always delayed by something, lad. 'Tis no surprise." The apology is airily dismissed. "Good morning to you, mistress." Boromir inclines his head politely to Eoren's mother who tilts her own back at him.
"Good morning, my lord." She says and then, to Eoren's mortification, she takes his arm, pushes him forward and says openly, "Come, Eoren, here's your chance. Ask the Captain now."
"Mother!"
"Is aught amiss?" Boromir asks.
"No, sir." Eoren says, a little too quickly, but his mother is undeterred.
"Oh, you are hopeless, lad. Captain Boromir, on behalf of my son, may I speak to you, sir?"
Boromir looks startled, but encourages her with a smile, which is soon wiped by her words.
"'Tis Eoren's wish, my lord, to be transferred to the city, but he has not the wit to ask you himself. We both hope you will consider reassigning him into the Tower Guard. His father once served in the Guard, sir, years ago, and Eoren has always wanted to follow in his footsteps."
The Captain is unable to hide his surprise. "I will certainly consider it, mistress, though…" he turns to Eoren, but sees he has been ambushed by a group of his young comrades who are cheerily admiring his shining boots, shading their eyes. Rangold, he notices, has slunk to one side several steps away. "I had no idea Eoren wished to leave Osgiliath to join the Guard."
"Oh, indeed he does, my lord. It has always been his ambition. It was such a disappointment when his request to join the Guard was ignored when he received his first posting. He has always been most unhappy in Osgiliath; he badly misses his home when he is away and finds the company hard to tolerate." She gestures about the square with her hand, her face creased with repugnance. "Just look around you, my lord. The state of these men says it all. Unkempt, unshaven; they are not fit companions at all for one such as my son. He has already been obliged to spend far too long in their company, coarse and foul-mouthed as they are."
Anger flares in the Captains eyes as Boromir prepares to defend his men, but she has the better of him, wagging her finger in his face as she continues, "I was concerned when first he left home that these common soldiers would do their best to corrupt him. Oh, as soldiers they do a fine enough job, I will grant you that, but the regulars have always been known to be ill-mannered and crude to a man. Not like the Guard or the Rangers; now they're a far better class of men, always have been, far better suited to one of Eoren's temperament and upbringing."
Boromir tries again to protest. His words are drowned as she carries on blithely, "And I fear that despite Eoren's best efforts to keep himself apart, they are having an effect on him which I grieve to see, arguing and defying his mother's wishes as he never used to do. Came home drunk one night, he did, poor lad, and it was all the fault of your men, taking advantage of him, forcing him to drink against his own wishes. I've seen them when they're abroad in the city; the taverns are full to overflowing when Osgiliath's men come back from a campaign. A half decent Captain would keep a tighter rein on them. 'Tis not right that my son be tempted into bad ways by the likes of such men. He comes from a very respectable home."
Boromir chooses to ignore her insults and is about to say that drinking helps to temporarily obliterate the horrors of war; that he takes refuge there himself at times, but he knows she would not understand should she take a breath to listen. Listen is something he doubts she ever does.
"Nigh on two years has passed, my lord, since my Eoren was sent away and no-one seems prepared to answer our appeals, though I have asked sergeant Rangold there many times to plead on our behalf. Mind you, he is as ignorant as they come; with him in charge 'tis no surprise Eoren has been overlooked…"
When Eoren gets the chance to look over his shoulder, he manages to see where his Captain, to his dismay, has been cornered. His mother, whose head barely reaches his chest, now has him pinned helplessly to the wall, held captive by the sheer power of her tongue. The Captain nods his head, takes a sideways step, but she is with him and he gains no ground. Eoren sees the man hold up a hand and open his mouth to speak. From experience, he knows that any attempt to interrupt her will be easily routed and so it is.
Boromir has never faced an enemy such as this woman. Total bewilderment and an overwhelming desire to run override his anger at her disparagement of him and his Company, but she is blocking his escape. Unless he physically lifts her out of the way, he is unable to act. Although strongly tempted to do so, he resists. All he can do is stand with his arms folded protectively across his chest and wait. Nearby his soldiers have fallen back, a disbelieving silence falling about them as they stand transfixed by the unfolding drama, not one stepping forward to his aid.
Sergeant Rangold casts Boromir a sympathetic look and receives a wide-eyed appeal for help over the top of the woman's head, which he ignores with a wry smile. Eoren, burning with embarrassment, is as temporarily frozen as his fellows, but when he hears the words undisciplined, disgraceful, shameful, rabble, falling from her lips he knows it is time to act to rescue his beleaguered Captain.
"Mother! Please! Stop this." Eoren steps forward to grab hold of her arm and it is the small interruption his Captain needs. As her attention momentarily turns to her son, Boromir slips free, twists adroitly and takes a place by the side of sergeant Rangold, whose eyes instantly fill with panic. Boromir is feeling better now he is on more open ground with room to manoeuvre and manages to hold his position as her finger once more threatens to have his eye out.
"… should be reported to the Steward!" She has barely stopped to draw breath before facing him again. "A disgrace it is. Well, I demand you right this wrong now, my lord. Today. 'Tis long past time you took note of Eoren's misery. He has never belonged in Osgiliath and a more observant Captain would have seen that long ago. And as for you." the finger jabs at Rangold. A veteran of many battles, he visibly flinches. "You're to blame for encouraging such shocking behaviour amongst all these young lads and trying to ruin my sweet, sensitive boy."
The Captain hears her say 'sweet' and 'sensitive', but they are not words he would use to describe the young soldier and he feels many a dead orc would agree with him. Memories of Eoren come to mind; howling a defiant battle cry, boldly plunging into the fray of battle by his side; blood spattered and grimly jubilant, raising his bloodied sword high over the corpses of his victims. And then he pictures off duty Eoren, happily swilling his ale, a tavern wench on his knee. He recalls seeing Eoren blatantly cheating at cards, joining in with the singing of bawdy army songs, grabbing a bottle of wine and leading his wench up the stairs…
"If you had half the concern they claim you have for those who serve in your Company, you would see a post in the city would suit him far better, amongst men more superior and fitting…." She is still speaking, Boromir realises, blinking in disbelief. Desperately anxious to regain some semblance of command, he holds up both hands to try to stem the flow and says loudly, "You have made your point well, mistress. Believe me, I shall act upon it. "
Sensing she still has a deal more to pronounce, he hastily adds, "Enough, mistress. Enough. Forgive me, but I have orders I must follow. It will greatly displease the Steward should we delay longer. We must be gone." He manages to contain another interruption by pushing his hands forward as a barrier between them. "Rest assured, I have taken heed of your words, as has sergeant Rangold."
"That fool of a man? I tell you, a useless lummox he is, sir, and a very bad influence on these young men." She glares at the sergeant. "Had he done his job correctly in the first place, as I have often told him, then I would not have had to bother you this morning, my lord. How many times I…"
"We must go, mistress." Boromir says firmly, bows and backs away and, with a note of desperation says, "Eoren, come here, lad. See your mother to the gate."
Having at last gained the upper hand, he watches as Eoren escorts her away and turns back to find his sergeant. "Valars blood, Rangold, why did you not warn me about her?" Then his eyes narrow as he looks accusingly at the man. "Did you know I was about to walk into an ambush?"
"I guessed so and decided rather you than me, my lord."
"Indeed? I shall remember that." But there is no malice in his voice. "You know, Rangold, I feel…"
"Flayed, sir?"
"Aye. Something like that." Boromir shakes his head, still incredulous. "Now I understand why Eoren is always willing to stay at Osgiliath and take on extra duties. Mayhap I should send his mother to the Morannon. She could talk the Nameless One to death."
"Personally, I'd tie her in a sack and throw her in the river." Sergeant Rangold offers unhelpfully.
"That is not something I could countenance, sergeant," Boromir feints disapproval then laughs, "though I can understand your sentiments. But should everyone start along that road with the folk who irritated them then the city would soon be empty and the river full. And," he adds with a grin, "I deem that you and I would find ourselves amongst the first to be so dispatched."
"My lord, mean you to imply that sergeants and Captains do not always inspire love and devotion from the ranks?" Rangold's mouth is twisted into a sardonic grin.
"I do, and well you know 'tis true." Boromir glances to his right to see a miserable young soldier return to the square. "Just grant us a moment alone, Rangold."
When Eoren reaches him, Boromir guides the young man over to a quiet corner. "Osgiliath would be a far duller place without you, Eoren. From whence came this desire to stay city bound?"
He can hardly bring himself to look at his Captain; he just shrugs and shakes his head.
"Is it truly your wish or just your mothers?" Boromir asks.
"She wants me closer to her, my lord. She is all alone. If I was in the city then…" he tails off.
"Would you not be captive to her every whim?"
"Aye, sir, I would." Eoren replies, his voice dull, reflecting his abject misery. "I am so sorry, my lord."
"It was not your fault." Boromir reassures him. "But understand this, my lad. The Tower Guard are the finest of men and I am proud of each and every one of them. They may be held to the city for the most part, but they are no lesser soldiers for that."
"I know that, sir." Eoren raises his head to look his Captain squarely in the eye. "And I would be honoured to serve in the Guard, as once my father did, if you so order me."
Boromir nods his approval. "That is good. Yet I believe 'tis not amongst their number your mother sees you at all. I deem, once accepted into the Guard, she would then petition to have you reduced to standing gate duty only; taking on nothing more deadly than drunkards, thieves and petty wrongdoers."
"She would do that, my lord. I have no doubt of it."
Boromir hooks his thumbs into his belt, his eyes placing Eoren under close scrutiny. "I am about to lead this Company into the northern reaches of Ithilien where the Rangers report large numbers of our enemies are gathering. You well know that what awaits us will be tiring, filthy work with at best a wounding and at worst, a gruesome death. I imagine tackling the drunkards as they fall out of the taverns might seem to many to be a far preferable way of life."
"I'm sure it would be to many, sir, but not to me."
"No?"
"No, Captain. It would not. My lord, I would far rather be where the fighting is, with my Company and my comrades and under your command."
There is no guile in his staunch allegiance. It pleases his Captain. "Then there is no doubt where best I should place you." Boromir replies. "You and I will continue to stand and fight together, private Eoren, and when we return home, we will stand again to brave your mother's wrath as best we can. A transfer to the Tower Guard is denied, soldier."
The youngster relaxes, a relieved smile lighting his face. "Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you very much."
Boromir claps him on the shoulder. "So, may we now be on our way, lad?"
"We can, Captain. I am quite ready." Eoren grins cheekily, but the salute he gives his Captain is smartly executed and his boot heels clack together as he snaps to a respectful attention.
There is hope in her heart for her son. This will surely be the last time he marches away. She is pleased to see from where she is observing on the wall that he is speaking to his Captain. She hopes he will say nothing out of place; wants to call to him to mind his tongue. Seeing his sharp salute she blushes with pride, but when the man laughs at whatever Eoren has said, she is confused.
She watches as Captain Boromir walks towards the Great Gate; she sees him leap nimbly up onto a mounting block to shout his orders to the waiting troops.
"Men of Osgiliath's Company," his powerful voice echoes around the square, "now young Eoren is all set to join us at last, we shall set forth. Form your ranks! Lieutenants, to me!"
Laughter greets his words, loud cheers acknowledge his order then a silence descends as the disparate groups of men swiftly transform themselves into ranks of disciplined soldiers, jumping to almost as one, ready to leave their city in orderly columns. A groom brings the Captain's horse. Once Boromir sees the men are ready to march, he has a few final words with his officers then takes the reins, riding proudly to his position at the front of his Company.
From her vantage point she hears his words about her son and has to swallow an overwhelming desire to go down and rebuke the man for his impudence. She sees him raise the Horn to his lips. As the Great Gate swings open a single loud blast signals the Osgiliath Company is leaving the city. Trumpets on the walls answer with piercingly clear notes that linger like smoke on the still morning air, high above the heads of the marching soldiers.
As she makes her way home she is pleased to think that Eoren shall not serve again under Captain Boromir, his tunic awry, his hair falling into his eyes and that dreadfully untidy beard.
Not to mention his boots in sore need of a polish.