Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin 6

Marchwarden: Son Of Guilin

Part 6

Posted: June 2005
Title: Marchwarden: Son of Guilin
Author: Kenaz

*****

Lothlorien, Third Age, 7

Two elves stepped forward, swords drawn. One was markedly taller and heavier, and wore a patently smug expression. The smaller combatant could not banish the trepidation from her face. They sized each other up, circling slowly in the dirt. The signal was given, and the bout commenced.

Shouts and cheers from the sidelines rose above the ring of clashing blades. Soon, grunts and gasping breaths joined the cacophony. The smaller elf held her own, but her opponent kept the pace of his assault strong; she parried his blows handily but rarely managed to get in a strike. He began a trenchant advance, deciding to use her insecurity to his best advantage. She was all but unwilling to advance on him, so if he came upon her at full speed, he reasoned, she would likely trip herself up in her retreat. He leaned forward and charged, a cry of victory already issuing from his lips.

With her defeat at hand, the smaller warrior saw nothing left to lose and dropped to a crouch, throwing her weight against the oncoming swordsman's legs. His momentum carried him over her back and he saw in that moment not his bested opponent, but the dry, hard ground rising fast to meet him. He dropped his sword in order to break his fall with both hands. She saw her opening and scrambled to kick the blade out of his reach.

When his initial shock wore off, he felt the tip of her sword pressed rather tightly against the back of his neck. Not quite enough to draw blood, but threatening. Slowly, the wide-eyed look of stunned surprise on the victor's face melted to confident pride. It had taken her a moment to fully grasp her victory, but once registered, she savored it fully.

"Do you yield?" 'Twas her voice now that held the smugness.

There was a pregnant pause before the larger elf laughed nervously beneath her blade.

"Yes, yes! By the Valar, I yield!"

The laughter of their audience died down as the Marchwarden raised his hand. His face was composed, but his eyes hinted at his pleasure that what had begun merely as a training exercise had become an important object lesson.

"What happened?"

The larger elf looked abashed as he dusted off his practice armor. "I thought I had her. I am far larger and saw no way she could take the upper hand."

Elemmakil stood up and strode to where the pair stood in the center of the well-trod ring. "You've made a novice error, my friend."

He turned to the group: "Never underestimate your opponent."

He turned then to the victor, clapping her on the shoulder as she stood proudly. "He will not soon forget this moment. I am willing to wager none will be so quick now to dismiss you for your size. Now we should see what a bout looks like when opponents are more evenly matched. Haldir, Feredir..."

The wardens rose and took their positions. Haldir nodded in acknowledgement to his opponent, but Feredir responded only with the narrowing of his eyes. His discourtesy rankled Haldir, achieving precisely its intended effect. There was no cautious circling when the signal was given, just a sudden lunge from both sides and the clamor of two blades connecting furiously.

Feredir gave Haldir no quarter; he was mercilessly pursued and immediately put on the defensive by a series of lightning-fast strikes. The blades sang as their edges slid together and pulled apart. Haldir feinted but Feredir was neither fooled nor distracted. He was single-minded in his pursuit of Haldir's defeat. With every advance, Feredir sought to shift their positions, turning Haldir's face to the sun to blind him, while Haldir fought to hold his ground. He had prepared to give a demonstration and he was disturbed by Feredir's viciousness, but if the elf insisted on a foul fight, he would have one.

Feredir lunged and Haldir parried, making a quick riposte that failed to connect, but Feredir's next stroke succeeded where Haldir's had failed. A fierce burn ran up his arm and out of the corner of his eye he saw a seam of red opening across his sleeve. When he looked up, he saw not apology or concern in the other elf's face, but rather unvarnished satisfaction. Nor did he show any sign of ending their bout. As the stain darkened and spread, his arm began to throb sharply, yet Feredir's assault did not abate in the slightest. The bout should have ended at first blood, yet to concede the match now was more than Haldir's pride could allow. To be bested was one thing, to be utterly humiliated in front of his captain and a passel of novices quite another.

The younger elves looked around nervously at each other. Clearly, something was amiss, the fighting too real, the animosity too disturbing. The demonstration had become a duel. Elemmakil sensed their growing discomfort. The match needed to be stopped. Now.

Only at his call did the two combatants stop their blades and step apart. Both were breathing heavily and trading murderous looks, the wound on Haldir's arm looking garish against a body rendered dun by a thin coat of dust kicked up from the ring. Elemmakil smiled easily to distract the young trainees.

"As you can see, when two fighters are well paired, a bout can go on with no victor until they wear themselves into the ground. Unfortunately, we do not have enough time today to follow this one to its completion."

Elemmakil dismissed the trainees, and when their numbers had dispersed, he crossed to Haldir and Feredir. "Follow me," he growled under his breath. Haldir's heart dropped to his stomach. They followed the Marchwarden's long strides back to the garrison.

If a look alone had power to turn an elf to a pillar of stone, it was the look that fell upon them now, fury cold as the Helcaraxë emanating from the Marchwarden's eyes.

"I ask you to demonstrate technique and instead you begin brawling like common tavern-crawlers! Explain yourselves!"

Neither Haldir nor Feredir spoke; they dared not even meet the Marchwarden's eyes.

"You are two of my better swordsmen and you are—were—respected wardens. By your behavior you have shamed yourselves and you have shamed me. Inexcusable."

To be dressed down in such a fashion was excruciating. Haldir was disgusted with Feredir and even more so with himself for being so easily baited. He would have squirmed under the mounting discomfort had he not been standing so rigidly at attention. His injured arm seemed to pulse hotly in time with the Marchwarden's angry steps.

"It was well within my right to take you to task in front of them, but as I expect you to train them, I could not afford to let you lose face to a greater degree than you have already managed on your own." He stalked like a caged wolf.

"These are no striplings. They will soon be with you on the Marches. They are not so green as to find you infallible purely on basis of your seniority. If you expect their obedience, you must give them an example to follow, and in that, you have utterly failed."

His eyes fell particularly hard on Haldir, whose shoulders slumped under the weight of his gaze and the heat of his anger.

"Long years have passed since I have lashed a man for poor conduct, but do not think my whip-hand is weak. You will taste it first hand if I ever see such disrespectful behavior again. If there is bad blood between you, remedy it soonest. Is that understood?"

Two humble voices chanted their accord.

"You have forfeited your leave. You will return to the borders with the next patrol in three days. You are dismissed." He waved with disgust at Haldir's arm, which was still seeping red. "See to that cut before it festers." He stormed out of the garrison.

Silence hung heavy in the room, the pervasive stink of shame hovering over them like a foul fog. Haldir looked over to Feredir and attempted to constrain the loathing in his voice.

"I cannot fathom how I have offended you that you would seek recourse that discredits us both."

Feredir glared at him. "No, of course you cannot fathom." He departed without another word.

"You wriggle like an elfling. Be still."

Haldir winced as Galion washed the cut on his arm and smoothed on a balm to numb the skin. It had been deep, and his ill-mannered grappling had only opened it further it. A few stitches were in order, and Galion turned to fetch the thin, curved needle and fine silk thread, though clearly it was Haldir's loss of face that was the greater wound.

"I do not understand it! He goes out of his way to antagonize me at every opportunity. T'was a training match! He has bested me at swords before, and he could have bested me fairly today, but that he had no desire for a fair bout. He did not want simply to take the match—he wanted to thoroughly unman me!"

Galion worked with a practiced hand, an even row of sutures following the path of his needle, each closed with a perfectly uniform knot.

"There has long been enmity between you. He envies you. That can come as no great surprise."

"Wherefore envy? I carry no higher rank, I have no privileges he does not. I have nothing for him to covet."

Ah, but you do, Haldir, Galion silently countered, knotting the final suture. "You must learn to ignore him."

Haldir scowled in response before examining his arm. "Impeccable, gwador. I shall barely carry a scar."

"You need no further reminder of your foolishness, I think."

Haldir smiled sheepishly. Even then Galion thought it a radiant smile. He cut a long strip of linen to cover his fresh handiwork, and hesitantly, knowing already the answer but hoping nonetheless, he spoke.

"Orophin has procured a cask of the season's first vintage and we plan to sample it tonight. Will you join us?"

Haldir laughed. "I weep for the day Alquonís turns my brother aside, for I have grown quite fond of her generosity with her father's goods. But no, I am expected elsewhere. Assuming I haven not fallen irreparably in his esteem after this afternoon."

Galion's face remained impassive. So it was as he thought: another night with the Marchwarden. It had become the rule rather than the exception of late. He hastily finished dressing Haldir's arm, and though Haldir found the bandage bound a little too tightly for comfort, he said nothing of it.

Haldir approached Elemmakil's quarters with great trepidation, the shame of the morning still churning in his belly. He was prepared to be turned away for his folly, though the possibility sickened him. It had been some time now since their liaisons first began, and Haldir's feelings for his captain had only continued to deepen. Yet always Elemmakil kept him at arm's length, close, but not overly so, and Haldir was oft left feeling off balance, fretting that the slightest misstep would find him put out of the Marchwarden's company. He knocked tentatively, awaiting an invitation. When he heard the Marchwarden bid him enter, he stepped cautiously inside.

Elemmakil came from the next room to meet him, his expression neutral. Though not angry, Haldir marked hopefully. He stopped half way across the room to address Haldir. His tone was level but deadly serious. A captain's voice, not a lover's.

"I expect I will never again have need speak to you as I did this morn."

"Aye, Sir," Haldir responded stiffly.

"What is your quarrel with him?"

Haldir shrugged. It seemed immodest to suggest jealousy, though he could find no other answer for the elf's evident hatred for him.

"Those with skill are never without detractors, Haldir, and you must learn to disarm them carefully. With effort, a detractor can become an ally, but it is all too easy to turn one to an enemy. Envy is a powerful force and pride even more so. A good leader knows how to defuse such tensions before they become dangerous."

"So what would you have had me do? Yield to him?"

"Yes. And cheerfully acknowledge his win. You would have shown him that you knew what he was about, but were prepared to let him save face. A win and a victory are not necessarily the same thing."

Haldir thought on that and saw the wisdom, though it was difficult to reconcile with his pride. It was not the first time, he reluctantly admitted, that the Marchwarden had hinted his pride needed tempering. He was overly sensitive to slights and did not respond to them lightly nor forgive them quickly. He acknowledged this weakness, but had not yet managed to overcome it. In matters where Feredir was concerned, he wondered if he would ever overcome it.

With a contemplative eye, the Marchwarden appraised the warrior before him. Haldir had spent some years patrolling the South Marches and the borderland along the Celebrant. It was time he understood how the rest of the realm was defended. Yet a wide patrol of the borders required the better part of a season at least, and such closeness, he feared, was ill advised. Already, occasional liaisons had turned to regular meetings, and while Haldir had become much endeared to him, always a voice in the back of his head warned him that he was allowing the young one to come too close.

But if he must ever lead, I would have him prepared. It is for his own sake, and the sake of the realm I would take him with me. He must know every inch of the land he guards.

A transparent justification, perhaps, but one he found tolerable. Haldir still lingered contritely in the doorway, awaiting a signal to proceed and clearly fearing he would be dismissed. The insecurity in those lovely blue eyes broke him; Elemmakil would discuss the wide patrol with him later. For the moment, reconcilliation was more pressing. He stepped closer and held out his hand.

Rivers of pilfered wine loosed tongues, and the night found four friends draped indolently over furniture and sprawled loose-limbed on the wide-planked floor. Conversation flowed freely as well; even the staunchest soldiers fall to gossip like a clutch of hens in the company of close friends. Their talk drifted, as was its persistent wont, into a traded tales of conquest.

Orophin paused the long saga of his latest escapades to pry the mazer from Rumíl's hands. "Haldir will skin me if he discovers how much wine I've allowed you. Indeed, he will skin me exposing your green ears to all our bawdy talk.

Rumíl protested vocally. He was, he assured them, old enough to hear their tales as well as to drink their wine. "I have no intention of repeating your mistakes, so 'tis a fine education you give me," he added cheekily. Orophin tugged sharply on the thick braid trailing down his impertinent brother's back before returning to the conversation.

"So what of you, Galion? We never hear of your dalliances, but I know you too well to believe you languish for want of attention."

The healer smiled slyly, cocking an eyebrow at Orophin. "You never hear of my dalliances because healers are known for their discretion."

"Yes," Taurnil piped up, "Unlike a certain warden who spends half of his nights slinking away from a certain vintner's daughter, and the other half of his nights slinking away from a certain farrier's daughter!"

Orophin, thoroughly bested, could do little but blush and bear the chafing as Taurnil raised his wine in toast. "To Alquonís. May she never tire of Orophin's charms so that we may never find our cups dry!"

The laughter simmered down, old friends enjoying the ruddy languor in their veins, and the comfort of each other's company. Orophin, however, was not content to let things lie.

"Truly, Galion... Is there no one you look upon with eyes for more than a few night's tumbling?"

Galion clenched his jaw. He prayed the wine hadn not sufficiently loosed Taurnil to the point of divulging confidences. To his relief, Taurnil cast his eyes away. It was Rumíl who pulled himself unsteadily to sitting and cuffed his brother on the back of the head.

"Are you perchance blind? He has eyes only for our brother!"

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, Rumíl realizing too late that he overspoke himself.

"Well, if Orophin had not noticed, then I can safely suppose no one else has," Galion japed to cover his embarrassment. "Thus I maintain at least a shred of my dignity."

Orophin rushed to dispel his friend's discomfort. "Haldir is far from chaste, Galion, and he has always marked you fair. He would not turn you away from his bed should you make your interest known."

Galion sighed and Orophin took note that Taurnil's eyes remained averted.

"If all I wanted was to warm his bed, I could have accomplished that long ago"

Orophin looked pained on behalf of both his friend and his brother. "Haldir is besotted with the Marchwarden far more than is wise. Of all the elves in the realm, why do you choose to withhold your favors from all but my misguided brother?"

"It is not my favors I withhold, only my heart. And it is for that very reason that nothing of this will ever be spoken of outside this company."

"What will never be spoken of outside of this company?"

Haldir's tall shadow spilled across the floorboards. The mouths of the cabal slammed shut like steel traps.

"As you heard, muindor, we will not speak of it outside our company, and since you have arrived so late, you find yourself outside." The collective sigh was slight but audible. It was the first sensible thing Rumíl had spoken all evening.

Haldir eyed them wryly, despite a sharp twinge of exclusion, and threw his dirty tunic at the youngest thorn in his side. "Keep your secrets, then. I am going to bathe."

Galion's stomach clenched miserably upon seeing the evidence of enthusiastic suckling on Haldir's neck. He hastily stood and stretched. "It is late. I should take my leave." He offered a glib smile and disappeared out the door. The abruptness of his exit was not lost on Orophin, who surreptitiously glanced to see if it had registered on Taurnil face as well. It had. He watched the archer's eyes follow the healer's back and stay poised there long after the his lithe frame vanished from sight.

"And what of you, Taurnil?" Orophin carefully queried.

"What of me?"

"Where does your heart lie?"

He smiled as he always did, though his eyes betrayed him. "I think you know."

"Yet you say nothing. You tend your feelings in silence..."

"...And in silence shall they remain. It would not do to burden him with something he cannot requite. He most of all would understand I do not wish to know myself second in his affections."

"So you will both doom yourselves to silence."

Taurnil thought on this for a moment, and his smile brightened slightly. "No. We doom ourselves to hope."

*****

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