scribbletwins' study

Through Daeron's Eyes: Yule Gifts (Chapter Two)

2006-08-26T07:32:13Z

Author’s Note: This story takes place when Daeron and Halmir are 12 years old, the year before they are to enter the military Academy. Lord Laedren (Daeron’s father), and Captain-General the Lord Boromir make several appearances in this fic.

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, Tolkien owns it. If you don’t recognise it, I own it. No copyright infringement is intended.

Dedicated to Rhyselle with much affection and thanks.

Yule Gifts

By Dancingkatz

T.A. 3010 – Near Midwinter (Yule)

Intent on what he was doing, Daeron was surprised when the door slammed open and Halmir burst into the room. As his best friend greeted him he stared in dismay at the gouge that now marred the once smooth leather.

“What--? Oh, Daeron, I’m sorry!” Halmir skidded to a halt by the table and bit his lip when he saw the damage to the all but completed bracer.

“Go away, Halmir.” Daeron wouldn’t look at his friend because he was afraid that he’d lose his temper completely. It was only a week until Yule, and the gift he was making for his father was ruined. ”Don’t say anything. Just… go away!”

Daeron waited until Halmir had left, this time closing the door quietly behind him, before throwing the knife aside and burying his face in his hands. His idea to make his father a new set of bracers had seemed a good one last summer but the entire project had been fraught with frustration.

From the poor quality leather the merchant had initially foisted on him to the second hand tools that were all he could afford, to finding the time to work on the bracers without anyone seeing what he was doing, he had been almost ready to give up. Only his wish to give his father a special gift kept him going.

He picked up the bracer and carried it to the window so he could examine the damage in the bright winter sunlight. The gouge wasn’t excessively deep but if he smoothed and leveled out the surface the bracer would be too thin to offer any real protection. Sighing, he returned to the table and began to put his tools away.

An hour later he tentatively knocked on Halmir’s door. Halmir opened it and they interrupted each other’s apology.

“Daeron, I’m really sorry…”

“Halmir, I shouldn’t have…”

Halmir dragged Daeron into his room and closed the door. “How bad is it?”

Daeron said nothing but handed Halmir the bag that held the bracers, before collapsing into the chair next to the fireplace. Halmir’s dog, Alba—actually one of his father’s retired hunting hounds—who was sprawled on the hearth rug, roused long enough to check if Daeron had brought him a treat and to swipe his chin with a lick before subsiding to his former position. Daeron apologised for not bringing Alba anything and scratched him behind the ears while Halmir inspected the bracers.

“I don’t know how you could fix it so it’s as smooth as the other one,” he admitted finally. “But maybe Jorell might know what you can do.”

“Who’s Jorell?” Daeron asked, not really believing that anything could be done to remedy the problem.

“You haven’t met him? He takes care of all the repairs on the tack and harness for the Citadel guard. If there’s a way to fix this he’ll know it.” Halmir put the bracers back in the cloth bag and handed it to Daeron. “Come on, I’ll take you to meet him. Let’s go, Alba. You’re coming, too.”

The hound rolled his eyes at his master as if to say Are you crazy? Leave my nice warm fire for all that white wet stuff and cold paws? but at Daeron’s urging got to his feet and followed Halmir out of the room.

It wasn’t really that far a walk to the saddlery that was tucked behind the stables, but both boys were glad to duck inside and get out of the frigid wind that was growing colder by the minute. As it was, Alba practically knocked them down in his attempt to escape the outside as soon as possible.

“Who have we here?” inquired a mellow voice from the other side of a screen that apparently blocked the wind from outside, as Alba paused to shake the snow from his back.

“Hi, Jorell!” Halmir called as he pulled Daeron after him. “Down, Alba! This is my friend Daeron.”

Jorell was a stocky, dark haired, browned eyed man who was currently in the middle of replacing the flaps on a cavalry saddle from the looks of the workbench next to him.

“Well, it’s good to meet any friend of Halmir’s. What’s brought you out in this weather?” He offered a callused and brown-stained hand to Daeron.

Daeron shook the proffered hand and decided he liked this man. “Halmir said that you might be able to give me some advice.”

Jorell grinned and shot a sideways glance at Halmir who had made himself comfortable on an entirely disreputable looking sofa next to the stove and was currently arguing with Alba who got the most comfortable spot. “Advice? Well, it depends on what kind of advice you’re seeking. Tell me your tale and I’ll see what can be done.”

Daeron pulled the bracers out of their cloth bag and offered them to Jorell. “They’re for my father for Yule…”

Jorell reached to turn up the lamps over the workbench, cleared a space, and laid the bracers out flat. The gouge was even more apparent under the brighter light. “Hmmm. You made these?”

Daeron replied in the affirmative and explained that he’d found a pair of very old bracers in one of the trunks in the attic and copied the pattern. “Is there any way to fix it? Yule’s only a week away.”

Jorell didn’t answer immediately. Instead he carefully examined each bracer; looking closely at the stitching, the smoothness of the edges, and the setting of the rivets that attached the straps. “No, lad. There’s nothing that can fix that gouge—“ he held up a hand, forestalling Daeron’s expression of dismay. “But, there are ways to salvage the situation.”

“But, how?”

A bit of scrap leather sailed across the room to hit Halmir on the head. “Halmir, make yourself useful. Get that box off the second shelf of that cabinet and bring it here.”

Sighing dramatically and muttering that he never got any respect, Halmir retrieved the box and brought it over to the workbench. “I don’t know why I come here. You always find a way to abuse me.”

Jorell snorted. “Just be glad I’m not a bricklayer or you’d have been knocked out cold. You may as well learn to do this, too.”

The finely finished box held a collection of dies and knives along with a set of sharpening stones. Jorell pulled out the largest of the dies and displayed it to the boys. “You ever wonder why all the uniform tack decorations are identical?"

Daeron glanced up at Jorell for permission and took the die in his hands. It was a depiction of the White Tree. “It transfers the pattern, doesn’t it? Then you can carve it and it will always look the same.”

“Exactly.” Jorell took the die back and reached past Daeron to pull a slab of granite closer to the edge of the table. “Grab a piece of cowhide from that basket and lay it on the granite. Halmir, hand me that wood block and hammer.”

Fascinated, the boys watched as Jorell set the die on the hide, covered it with the wood block and carefully brought the hammer down on top of it. When the block and die were moved away, a fine-lined image of the White Tree had been impressed into the leather.

Jorell then used one of the knives to carve along the edge of the trunk of the stamped tree, cutting a beveled gouge that accentuated the image. Within a few minutes the left side of the tree was completed.

Handing the knife to Daeron, he instructed him to practice cutting a few beveled lines, giving advice as to angle and depth. Daeron was astonished at how the slightest change in the angle of his hand or an increase of pressure could change the character of the line. Once it appeared that he had the idea, Jorell told him to complete the tree.

Then he turned to Halmir and got him started doing the same on another piece of leather.

The boys now being occupied and Alba snoring on the sofa, Jorell went back to his work on the saddle, periodically stopping to check on their progress.

Daeron seemed to have an innate talent for the task. He was bent over the workbench, an intent expression on his face as the final branches of the tree developed under the knife. Halmir was obviously enjoying himself but it was equally obvious that his talents lay in a different direction.

Daeron finished the last cut and straightened up, putting the knife down and shaking out his hand. He’d have to practice a lot to get the same degree of finish as Jorell had but he was pleased with what he’d accomplished.

“Very good. I think that if you practice doing this for the next two days, you’ll be able to carve the White Tree on the bracers and hide the damage,” Jorell told him. “Come back tomorrow after lunch.”

“what about me?” Halmir interjected. Jorell laughed and tousled the boy’s hair. “You can come, too. Just leave your dog at home. I can do without the dog hair on my furniture.”

“As if it makes any difference to the couch,” Halmir muttered. “Oh, I forgot. My cousin Marnil’s back from Pelargir. I’ll be lucky to escape the house with all the relatives here. Come on, Alba. Let’s go.”

The hound reluctantly left the couch and followed Halmir outside.

Daeron took a minute to clean up the leather shavings and put the knife away. “Is it all right if I leave the bracers here? Until tomorrow at least?”

Jorell got down a tray from one of the shelves and taking a charcoal stick scribbled Daeron’s name on the front edge. “Put them in here and they’ll be waiting for you. Oh, yes. Just drop the shavings in that box over there. They can be useful.”

Daeron emerged from the saddlery shortly thereafter only to be hit in the chest with a well-aimed snowball. Before he could gather a handful of snow to return fire a second missile hit him on the head.

“Got you!” Halmir shouted and the snow battle was joined. Even Alba got into the act, leaping up to catch snowballs in his mouth.

Daeron was about to drop an armful of snow down the back of Halmir’s coat when a blast of silver trumpets rang out. “Ha! Lord Boromir is back! That means father’s back as well!”

The snow battle forgotten, Daeron ducked between two buildings and climbed up one of the support buttresses to look over the wall of the sixth circle. “There they are! Look, Halmir!”

There was no mistaking the Steward’s Heir as the troop rode towards the main gates of the city. And as Daeron expected, his father’s dapple grey gelding, Bréthil, was right next to the distinctive golden dun ridden by Lord Boromir.

“Do you want to go down to the gate and meet them?” Halmir asked, his eyes searching for his uncle and eldest brother amongst the troop.

“No, It’s too long a walk back up. They’ll be coming up here with the horses.” Daeron waited until the troop had passed the first gate and hopped down from the bench, grinning.

“Well, I’m going to surprise Kal and Uncle Thavron at the barracks. I’ll see you around if I can escape the family. Here, Alba!.” Daeron watched his friend and the big hound out of sight then jogged towards the stable entrance. He knew his friend had left so he could have some uninterrupted time with his father. Halmir’s father was one of the Tree Guard and so was home every night unless he had duty. Daeron’s father, Lord Laedren, was Captain and Aide to Lord Boromir and was away much of the time accompanying the Captain-General.

It wasn’t long before the troop arrived in the stable yard. Apparently, the last part of the ride had been done at an easy pace, none of the horses were blowing or sweated, but all were in need of grooming from the spatters of slush and mud on their coats.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at home studying with Janthred?” Laedren teased as he spotted Daeron coming out of the stable that housed Bréthil’s box.

Daeron grinned at his father as he took Bréthil’s bridle and patted the grey on the neck. In return the horse nibbled on his hair and hinted that he’d really like a treat. “Janthred is on his way to his sister’s house in Greywood for Yule. Sorry, Bréthil, I don’t have anything for you today.” As his father dismounted the big grey gelding, he added. “I thought you weren’t going to be back for another three days.”

“Do you want me to leave again?” Laedren tousled his son’s hair as he put his other arm around the boy’s shoulder. He remembered how he’d felt about being hugged in public at age twelve and his son was likely the same way. Hugs and goodnight kisses were given and accepted in private, not in the full view of friends and men you wanted to impress.

“Of course not! Can I help you with Bréthil?” Daeron knew he should go home and let his mother know that Laedren was back early but his father had been gone nearly three months to Cair Andros and he was loath to give up any time with him at all.

“Of course. You can help me with this armour, as well. It’ll be good practice for next year.” Laedren handed Daeron his helm and took Bréthil’s bridle.

If anything, Daeron’s grin got even bigger. “Next year? You mean I’ve been accepted for the Academy?”

“There I go giving out classified information. I wasn’t going to tell you till Yule, but...” Laedren led Bréthil into the stable and started to remove his armour. “I don’t suppose that you have anything to tell me about what you’ve been up to in the past three months? Other than adding what has to be a half head of height on yourself, I mean.”

Daeron set the helm and the pieces armour that his father handed to him on the bench opposite Bréthil’s stall then turned to help with the tack; but his way was barred by the passing of another horse, this one a distinctive golden dun even taller than the big grey. Everyone in the city knew this horse by sight and Daeron hastily bowed as the Steward’s Heir led Gyldenlác, his Rohirric stallion, into the stall next to Bréthil. Once the way was clear, Daeron joined Laedren in the box and took the bridle from his father. The big grey already had his nose in the watering trough. “I’ve been studying with Janthred, of course. Right before he left he said we’d be starting on military jurisprudence when he got back. Why can’t he just call it army law like everybody else does?”

After hanging the bridle on the hook provided, Daeron unsaddled the gelding. He flipped the girth over the seat and frowned. The two of the three straps that attached it to the saddle were worn almost through. He put it on the rack and fingered the damaged leather, worriedly. “Father, your girth…”

“I know. We’ll stop by the saddlery on the way home and see if it can be repaired. That’s one of the reasons why we didn’t gallop in. Get me— ah, you were busy while we rode up, I see. Brushes, rub rags, even a bucket of water and saddle soap.” Laedren sounded pleased.

When Daeron went back into the stall, he grabbed a handful of straw and started removing the mud that had spattered on Bréthil’s off side. The gelding’s ears were drooping in contentment as the Captain and his son worked over him and caught up with each other.

“How’s that pony of yours? I’m surprised you weren’t down outside the gates riding when we arrived,”

“Dae lost a shoe and split his hoof—the off fore—three days ago. He’s still at the farrier’s. We had to walk him nearly four miles back to the gate.” Daeron stopped brushing Bréthil and looked miserable, thinking about the sturdy highland pony he’d been given for his sixth birthday. “I pulled him up as soon as it happened but—“

Bréthil turned his head and butted it against Daeron’s shoulder so he started brushing the gelding again. “The farrier said it would heal but I won’t be able to ride Dae until the hoof grows out.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Daeron. Horses will lose shoes and accidents will happen. You noticed it immediately and did the right thing. Dae will recover in time.”

Suddenly, their conversation and the relatively quiet sounds of the men working on their mounts and talking was interrupted by a clang, a splash, and loud and inventive cursing. Bréthil cocked an ear towards the neighboring box and snorted in what sounded like amusement.

“I ought to have your rendered down into glue, golden boy!” Boromir roared. “I don’t care if you were a diplomatic gift from Theoden. He just wanted to get you out of his stable.”

Laedren turned and looked over the boards into Gyldenlác’s box and laughed. The stallion had waited until his rider had bent to dip the sponge and kicked the bucket of water over, drenching Boromir, who had stripped down to his shirt and breeches to better deal with grooming his horse. Of course, the stallion looked perfectly innocent, sanguinely mouthing hay from the net hanging in the corner of the stall.

Daeron bit his tongue to stifle his own laughter and went to the storeroom at the end of the corridor for towels and a blanket. When he returned with his arms full he found that Lord Boromir was humorously recounting more details of just why “Gyl” would be more useful as any number of things other than a warhorse. Laedren was laughing like a drain and leaning against the boards separating the boxes while Bréthil and Gyldenlác looked like they were exchanging similar comments on the qualities of their respective riders.

Daeron draped the towels and blankets over the door to Gyl’s box and returned to grooming Bréthil. In a few minutes the hilarity subsided and everyone returned to tending their mounts.

“He’ll do. Lets take care of the tack and after I check on my men we’ll go home.” Once they had the tack cleaned Laedren dropped the brushes and rags into Daeron’s arms and gave him a push towards the storeroom. While Daeron was on that errand his father dumped the bucket in the drain-channel.

Boromir caught Laedren’s eye as he was putting the bucket away. “You’ve got a good lad there. Bring him with you on the Eve.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Laedren gave a formal salute and bow, then grinned as his commander and friend rolled his eyes. “I’m just getting back into practice, Ori. I can’t call you by name in front of your Lord father now, can I?”

“Well, you could but I wouldn’t recommend it.” Boromir clapped Laedren on the back and returned to Gyldenlác’s box.

Daeron reappeared and his father handed him the damaged girth as well as his greaves and helm. “I’ll get the rest. Now to see the saddler.”

As they made their way around the stables to the saddlery, Daeron suddenly realized that he was supposed to spend tomorrow afternoon with Jorell practicing. With his father home how was he going to explain his absence without ruining the surprise?

He needn’t have worried.

Jorell gave him a discrete wink as Laedren explained about the girth and took the offending item from where it was draped over Daeron’s shoulder. After some minutes examining the girth he nodded decidedly. “Well, you were lucky it lasted this long with the way those buckle rivets were set. I certainly didn’t put those in.”

“No, Fedrel did that up at Cair Andros nearly three months ago. Can it be fixed or is my pay going to be docked for a new one?” Laedren inquired.

“Oh, it can be fixed, sir.” Jorell tilted his head towards Daeron. “Perhaps your son would like to come round tomorrow and learn how it’s done? At the least, he’ll get an idea how to tell if his harness has been repaired correctly.”

“Certainly. I should have thought about introducing you to Daeron months ago. When should I send him over?” Laedren looked at Daeron to see if he had any objection. “It will keep him out of trouble while his tutor is away.”

Daeron had no objections at all to the idea but felt it necessary to object to the intimation that he was a troublemaker. “Halmir’s the one who finds trouble. The problem is that it always happens when I’m nearby.”

The two older men laughed and Laedren ruffled his son’s dark hair again.

“Be here right after the noon meal, Daeron.” Jorell put the girth in one of his trays and labeled it. “When are you heading out again, Captain? It will be a few days before I can get it completed.”

“Not until after Yule. So you have a week at the least.” Laedren shook hands with the leatherworker and guided Daeron back outside. The weather had changed and now big, fluffy snowflakes were drifting from the blanket of clouds above them. The wind had quieted, and though it was cold, it was so beautiful that Daeron didn’t mind the walk down to the barracks on the third circle.

They were there only long enough for Laedren to make sure that all his men were settled in and to see if there were any personality conflicts that could be remedied by rearranging billets. There weren’t any problems. His troop had been living and working together since he’d been promoted to Captain nearly five years earlier. Daeron watched with pride as his father walked through the barracks always seeming to know what to say to each man. As he prepared to leave, the most senior of the sergeants proffered an invitation to his Captain and the Captain’s son to join the troop a few evenings hence for a meal and toast to the season.

When Laedren accepted on both his and Daeron’s behalf, the sergeant grinned. “’t won’t be fancy like they’ll be having up at the Citadel but you won’t leave hungry, I can promise ye.”

Daeron thanked the man for the invitation saying that he would be honored to join them, and on the spur of the moment, offered a bow to the gathered men.

As he followed Laedren out into the dusk to make the climb to the Sixth Circle, Daeron blushed to overhear one of the soldiers say, “Jus’ like his Dad. Quality!”

Laedren had heard the praise as well but pretended not to because it was obvious that Daeron was embarrassed by it.

When they got home, Laedren handed his armour over to one of the waiting servants and went to greet his lady wife. Daeron looked at the greaves and helm in his arms and followed the servant to the small room off the study where his father kept his weapons and gear when he wasn’t out in the field. It would be at least an hour before dinner would be served, if not longer. He might as well keep busy until then. At any rate, cleaning his father’s armour might preoccupy him enough to let him ignore the fact that his stomach was currently far too familiar with his backbone.

The servant brought the supplies that Daeron needed and then left when his help was politely refused.

Daeron had finished all but one of the lamed pauldrons when Laedren appeared at the door dressed for dinner in an ornately embroidered velvet tunic in deep forest green.

“You’ve been busy, I see. Leave that and get cleaned up. Your mother says you’re to wear a dress tunic since we’re dining formally tonight.”

Daeron wondered who the guests were that made it necessary for his mother to decree that he dress up for dinner. Usually, if there were guests important enough to dress up for he ate in his room rather than join the adults downstairs.

He was still fighting with the tunic’s recaltricant top button as he hurried down the corridor to the dining room, trying to remember the finer points of formal etiquette that both his mother and Janthred had been trying to get him to remember for years. He finally got the thing fastened and taking a deep breath opened the door.

The next morning he gratefully enjoyed the absolute informality of eating breakfast at the wide kitchen table while the cook and servants bustled about. It was a wonder he’d managed to eat anything the night before what with having to remember what to do when and with what. At least his mother seemed to have enjoyed it. His father hadn’t laughed but there was no way that Daeron could miss the amusement that lit Laedren’s grey-green eyes.

Daeron had thought more than once during the interminable meal that he just might prefer reading up on military jurisprudence under Janthred’s watchful eye than any more lessons in social etiquette. But when his mother appeared in the doorway, looking like a woman with a mission he realized that more lessons were exactly what he was going to get.

It was with immense relief that he escaped the house and headed for the saddlery. He was back in his most comfortable clothes and the cold air was refreshing after spending the morning in his mother’s stuffy sitting room pretending to be formally presented to persons of various rank. Ha had a scratch on his neck from the braid at the collar of the dress tunic she had insisted he wear for the exercise and a burgeoning bruise on one knee from where he’d slipped on the polished floor. This etiquette thing was literally becoming a real pain.

Jorell welcomed him warmly and waved him towards the workbench. The damaged girth lay there along with a collection of tools.

“We’ll work on the girth first then you can practice on your special project.” Jorell told him. “Now, tell me what’s wrong with the girth, in detail.”

By the time Daeron left the saddlery his hands and arms ached but he didn’t mind. He was pleased with the way the afternoon had gone. His father’s girth was on its way to being repaired—they still needed to stitch the new lining to it so the stitching where the new buckle straps were attached wouldn’t irritate Bréthil’s skin. Then they had to waterproof the stitching where the new buckle ends had been attached. Additionally, he’d successfully carved four images of the White Tree on the practice leather and Jorell had said that he was ready to start the work on his father’s bracers.

It was only as he entered the house and saw his mother coming down the stairs from her rooms wearing one of her best gowns that he remembered that dinner was formal that night.

The days passed quickly as Yule approached. The afternoons spent in the saddlery didn’t quite make up for the mornings spent under his mother’s tutelage nor the formality the evening meal had become or being unable to spend time with Halmir but he was just about finished with the bracers. Careful placement of the pattern had incorporated the gouge into one of the branches of the White Tree and Jorell seemed pleased with his work on the girth as well.

The day before the Eve of Yule Daeron entered the saddlery to find Jorell tooling the brow band Daeron had made the while learning the techniques that were used to fix the damaged girth. A garland of roses were blooming on the strip of leather under his knife as Daeron watched.

“It’s beautiful,” Daeron said as Jorell straightened up and set the knife aside. “And your did at all freehand.”

“That comes from practice. When you do this long enough you don’t need templates or guides for the patterns you do a lot.” He nodded towards the bench that Daeron had been working at. The bracers had been dyed black yesterday and left to dry. “Before you burnish those, I have something to show you.”

Jorell opened a locked cabinet and withdrew a stout box and opened it. Inside were withdrew a bottle of what looked like glue, a fine paintbrush, a collection of agate burnishers, a small sharp knife, a pair of tweezers, and what looked like a small booklet containing what Daeron thought were silver leaves.

“Did you ever wonder why the silver on the dress saddles and bridles never tarnish, lad? It’s because we don’t use silver.” He carefully used the tweezers to pull a single sheet of the leaf from between the tissue pages of the booklet and held it up to the light. “We use mithril.”

The thin leaf of the glowing metal was returned to the booklet and Jorell explained the process of laying the metal leaf to decorate the leather. “It can be done with any metal, but silver tarnishes, and gold is too soft for anything that isn’t kept inside. Mithril leaf, however, is strong and once its laid it’s there until the leather wears away under it.”

As Daeron watched, one by one the carved roses on the brow band were lightly painted with glue and a tiny piece of the mithril leaf cut just large enough to cover the glued area was pressed into it. Once all the leaf was in place, Jorell counted to sixty then used a thin agate burnisher to polish the leaf smooth. He used the pointed tip of another burnisher to turn back the one or two areas where the leaf had extended past the edge of the glue and pressed it back into the mithril. To Daeron’s surprise the folded edge appeared to melt into the rest of the metal. Finally, Jorell used a piece of white silk to polish the entire band. The mithril blossoms gleamed in the lamplight on the dark leather.

Then to Daeron’s terror and delight, Jorell talked him through leafing the carved decorations on his father’s bracers. All he’d wanted to do was to salvage the damage and still have a gift for his father but Jorell’s patience and generosity had made them into a gift a Prince would be pleased to receive.

“Thank you, Jorell.” Daeron said as he carefully wrapped the bracers up and tucked them in a cloth bag. “Saying ‘thank you’ just doesn’t seem like enough for everything you’ve done.”

“Come back after Yule. A soldier should know who to take care of and repair his own gear, and if I have you around I can give you the boring stuff while I woke on the things I prefer to work on.” Jorell handed him the brow band. “Take this for your mother. I know you haven’t had time to do anything about a gift for her since you’ve been here every afternoon. And don’t forget your father’s girth.”

Daeron tucked the brow band into the bag with the bracers and gathered up the girth after donning his cloak. “Thanks again, Jorell. Happy Yule. I wish I had a present to give you.” He paused a moment then gave the man a hug before running outside.

Jorell smiled after him. “You just gave me one, lad. You just gave me one.”

Daeron made it to his room and put the gifts away in his clothes press without running into either his father or mother. He had another thing to be happy about. Tonight he was accompanying his father to the barracks for dinner instead of having to suffer through yet another set of etiquette lessons disguised as a meal.

Dinner with the troops had been educational in its own way, but it was infinitely more relaxed than dinner at home would have been. The best part was after the meal -which had been, as promised, not fancy but very tasty- when the men settled with their pipes to tell stories. They only left when it became obvious to Laedren that his son wasn’t going to be able to keep his eyes open for much longer.

The Eve of Yule dawned bright, sunny, and cold. Daeron carried the repaired girth down to breakfast and blearily wondered if he could talk his mother into skipping the etiquette lessons for once.

It turned out that Lady Meriel had far more on her mind than etiquette lessons. She was dressed in a plain blue gown and apron and was busy going over various lists with the cook when Daeron stuck his head into the kitchen. The rest of the house staff seemed to be in there as well and given the foodstuffs and supplies piled on the big table, it was more than obvious that breakfast was being served elsewhere in the house.

Before he could ask anyone he was turned round and pushed towards his father’s study.

“I would stay out of there, if I were you. You might find yourself part of the Yule Feast tomorrow instead of eating it!” Laedren was cheerful and given the late hour of their return far too awake in Daeron’s opinion.

After some toast, cheese and eggs, Daeron was properly awake. He waited until Laedren had finished his own portion and handed him the girth strap.

Laedren took it from him and found that not only had the damaged end of the girth been completely replaced with new straps and buckles, but the underside had been lined with soft padded doeskin, and the use scratches had been buffed away. “Jorell does excellent work.”

Hesitantly, Daeron said, “Actually, father, Jorell showed me what to do and I fixed it. He double checked everything, though,” he added hastily.

Laedren smiled at his son. “Well, since your mother is busy this morning, shall we go for a ride and I can try it out?”

Daeron’s returning smile faltered. “I’d like to, but Dae’s lame, remember? You go and I’ll stay and read one of those books that Janthred left me. I ought to look at least one of them before he returns.”

“No, you come with me. I’m sure we can find something for you to ride. It’s a holiday and you’ll have more than enough studying to do once Janthred gets back. Go change your clothes and meet me in ten minutes at the front door.”

Daeron took his father at his word and was arrived at the foot of the stairs just as Laedren returned from having a few words with his wife.

The stable was fairly quiet with only a groom or two in sight and most of the boxes occupied by drowsing horses.

“Here, tack up Bréthil, and I’ll check with the Horsemaster and see who I can get for you to ride.” Laedren handed him the girth then strode down the corridor.

Daeron opened the Bréthil’s box and received the usual greeting of sniffs and hair nibbles. There wasn’t much stable dirt to be brushed off the dappled grey hide and Bréthil was an accommodating horse by nature, readily taking the bit when it was offered.

Daeron had just secured the girth and checked the stirrup leathers when the sound of hooves walking down the stone-floored aisle made him look up.

Laedren was leading an elegant blood bay mare that wore a dark green blanket decorated with the symbol of their House differenced by the cadence mark indicating the House’s heir, under the beautifully tooled saddle.

Completely stunned, Daeron was speechless. He stepped out of Bréthil’s box and offered the bay the flat of his palm. She was absolutely perfect, from her delicate nose to the tip of her lush black tail. She responded by sniffing his hand then laying her chin on his shoulder. As soon as the introductions were completed Laedren handed Daeron the reins.

“Her name is Ruinanor..” Laedren said. “Happy Yule.”

“Ruinanor.” Daeron was still stunned. She was his? He turned shining eyes on his father. “She’s perfect, wonderful… oh, thank you!”

“Well, take her out to the yard while I get Bréthil, and you can try her paces.”

Daeron discovered that Ruinanor was so much taller than his pony that he had to make use of the mounting block to reach the stirrup. But that inconvenience was forgotten as he walked her in serpentines across the yard. She was so responsive to the slightest shift of his weight and the lightest touch of the reins that it seemed she picked up on his very thoughts.

Laedren mounted Bréthil and caught Daeron’s eye as he completed a turn. “Let’s go. We need to be back home by mid-afternoon.”

The guards at the main gate cheerfully saluted Laedren and wished he and Daeron “Happy Yule” and the sergeant in charge complimented Daeron on his new mount.

Once they had reached the snow covered fields between the walls and the beginning of the farmland Laedren marked out a large rectangular perimeter by trotting Bréthil round until they met back with his hoof prints. He dismounted and put Bréthil on a ground tie, then pulling a lunge line out of his saddlebag and clipping it to Ruinanor’s bridle, he said, “All right, lad. Cross those stirrups and drop the reins. It’s time you get to know how she moves.”

The schooling session didn’t last very long, perhaps half of an hour, by which time Daeron and Ruinanor had long since come to an understanding with each other.

“Very good,” Laedren praised them, collecting the lunge rein and whistling for Bréthil. “Let’s let them stretch their legs.”

While waiting for Laedren to mount up, Daeron nudged Ruinanor into a trot and attempted to guide her with his legs and weight shifts alone. She was more than agreeable to the exercise and they completed 8 serpentines by the time Laedren drew up along side.

“Quit showing off, and take back your irons and reins.” Laedren told him. Daeron complied with a grin, and found he needed to let the stirrups out a hole. Once his feet were back in place, Laedren gave Bréthil his office and the dapple grey warhorse cantered northwards. Daeron followed suit on Ruinanor, her hooves kicking up showers of snow behind her.

They were returning to the city when Daeron turned Ruinanor to the east, bent over her neck and then urged her into a full gallop. He didn’t keep her at that pace very long and slowed her to a canter as he circled her back towards where Laedren and Bréthil had pulled up to wait. They were about 50 yards away when Daeron realized that two other riders were now waiting with his father. He immediately recognized Lord Boromir’s Gyldenlác but the huge black standing by the golden dun’s side was unfamiliar. He slowed to a trot then to a walk and finally halted about ten feet away from the trio.

Was that... Lord Denethor?

Daeron bowed as deeply as he could in the saddle towards the Steward and again -but not quite so deeply- towards the Heir with his heart in his throat. He hadn’t a clue as to how to proceed from there. None of his mother’s etiquette lessons covered what to do when you met the Steward while out riding. As he straightened he noticed four mounted guardsmen a short distance away.

I just know I’m in trouble now, he thought as he glanced at his father. But Laedren seemed unperturbed.

Lord Boromir was the one who came to his rescue by grinning and nudging Gyldenlác forward to take a closer look at Ruinanor. “She’s got quite a turn of speed on her. I think she’d leave me breathless as well. How are her gaits?”

“Ruinanor has a very smooth action, my lord.” Daeron answered, smiling at his mount and stroking her neck as she turned and bumped his left knee with her nose. He then looked up at Laedren and smiled happily and proudly. “She’s my Yule gift from my father.”

“A most generous gift,” Denethor opined. “Come, Boromir. The morning wanes. A happy Yule to you and your son, Lord Laedren.” The Steward turned his mount towards the gates and was immediately joined by his escort.

“Ride her in health, Daeron,” Boromir said then turned towards Laedren. “Until this evening, Laedren.” He then sent Gyldenlác onward to join the Steward’s party.

Laedren nodded towards the gates. “We need to go back as well.”

An hour and a half later, both Bréthil and Ruinanor were groomed and snug in their respective boxes, the tack was cleaned and put away and father and son were demolishing a substantial luncheon in Laedren’s study as the kitchen and dining rooms were off limits.

“What will happen to Dae, now that I’ve got Ruinanor?” Daeron asked.

Laedren stretched out his legs towards the fireplace and lit his pipe. “I was thinking about sending him to my cousin Narin’s estate near Amon Din. Narin’s son, Nevil, is five years old, and should be ready for a pony by the time Dae’s hoof heals up. What do you think?”

“That sounds like a good idea. I’ll miss Dae, but...” Daeron shrugged sheepishly. “Even if you hadn’t given me Ruinanor, it wouldn’t be too long before I was too tall for him.”

“Technically, you’re not big enough for Ruinanor, but you’ll grow into her soon enough. This way you’ll have about eight months to get used to her and learn what she can do before you start at the Academy.”

Later that afternoon Daeron went up to his room and stopped dead in the doorway when he saw what was laid out on his bed.

A full formal Court outfit in dark green was draped over the bedspread, one nearly identical to Laedren’s Court garb, save for the same cadency mark on the device – a branch bearing a silver rose crossed by a sword all in silver - that was blazoned across the front of the tunic. Everything was there; from the finely embroidered silk shirt to the heavy fur lined cloak and appropriate accessories.

“Do you think you can tolerate wearing it tonight?” Lady Meriel stood behind her son. “You certainly can’t come with your father and me to the Citadel wearing your riding clothes.”

Daeron was completely flummoxed. “But...”

She gave him a push into the room. “Why do you think you had a crash course in Court etiquette this week? Honestly, I hadn’t intended on starting you on that until spring since you’ll have to be presented before you start at the Academy. I certainly can think of more enjoyable things to do with my time than make you miserable. Get cleaned up and dressed and meet your father and I downstairs.”

Daeron didn’t recognize himself when he stood in front of the looking glass over the washstand to comb his hair. He looked like a young man instead of a child.

He dropped the comb and crossed to his bed, sitting down next to the cloak. He’d looked forward to Yule as always, but this year things were different. Ruinanor was a gift for a man, not a boy. And Court clothes? Yesterday next year seemed like it would take forever to get here. Now it didn’t look that far away.

“Daeron!”

At his father’s shout, he picked up the cloak and on the spur of the moment picked up his parents’ gifts. He still wasn’t certain that he had all the Court etiquette down correctly and if he was going to fatally offend someone, he’d prefer that his parents had received their gifts before his demise.

His mother looked like a queen, he thought, as he saw her in her Court gown of dark green and silver. Or at least like a queen ought to look, he amended, given that he’d never seen a queen.

His father’s attire was identical to his own save for the addition of a formal Robe and the lack of the cadency mark on the embroidered device on the robe’s left shoulder.

When he reached the bottom of the steps, Daeron paused and bowed before dropping to one knee and offering his duty to his father. Laedren squeezed his shoulder and bade him to rise and smiled as Daeron bowed and offered his duty to his mother.

Before rising at her bidding he gave her the silk wrapped package and wished her a “Happy Yule.”

Smiling she untied the ribbon securing the cloth and smiled delightedly at the gleaming brow band. “It’s lovely, Daeron! Wilwarin will look lovely wearing it when I ride out!”

After accepting his mother’s hug and kiss, Daeron handed his father the other package. Laedren unwrapped the bracers and stood looking at them in silence, his fingers running over the burnished leather and outlining the mithril tree. Then, just as Daeron was about to pass out from holding his breath, Laedren smiled and met his son’s eyes.

“I could use some help putting these on.”

The rest of the night passed in a haze of happiness for Daeron with certain events remaining bright in his memory for the rest of his life: being presented to the Steward and both his sons and not stumbling over the words and his feet as he went through the prescribed motions was only one of them.

Once the formal presentations and meal were over, the Court dispersed into smaller, informal groups. Elated that he hadn’t disgraced himself and relieved that he hadn’t spilled something on his clothes during the dinner, Daeron stayed by his father as Laedren greeted various friends and acquaintances. Unfamiliar with most of the subjects of conversation or uninterested in them, his thoughts dwelled on Ruinanor and whether he’d be able to escape the visiting family members and friends who would fill the house on the morrow and ride her again.

Suddenly, two hands came down on his shoulders and jolted him back to the present. “I didn’t realize that bracers were now a necessary part of formal Court dress, Laedren,” Boromir said.

“Only if they’re made by your son, Ori.” Laedren’s voice was proud.

Boromir gave Daeron’s shoulders a gentle squeeze and released him. Then he took Laedren’s right arm and closely examined the bracer. The burnished black leather gleamed in the many lights of the Hall, the mithril leaf of Laedren’s crossed rose branch and sword and the White Tree above them glittering brightly.

“Jorell will have took look to his laurels, I think,” Boromir said, releasing Laedren’s arm.

“Jorell taught me how to finish them, my Lord,” Daeron interjected. “I have a lot more to learn before I’ll be anywhere as good as he is.”

Boromir chuckled. “Everyone has a lot more to learn before they could be as good as Jorell is. We’re lucky to have him. That reminds me, I need to check and see whether he’s done replacing the flaps on Gyldenlác’s field saddle.”

“That can wait till next week, Boromir. Let the man have some time off. The last thing I need is him deciding it would be more salutarious for his health to relocate to Rohan or Dol Amroth.” Denethor had strolled up with Lady Meriel on his arm. “I ought to make you find his replacement if you chase him off.”

“Well, if he does leave, I have his replacement right here. Daeron made the bracers you were commenting on at dinner,” Boromir retorted.

Denethor raised an eyebrow and turned towards Daeron’s mother. “Is there anything this son of yours can’t do, my lady?”

“I fear his Quenya is lacking, my Lord.” Lady Meriel winked at her son, whose struggles with the complex language could sometimes be heard throughout the house. “But as it seems that is a skill it does not appear he’ll need as an officer of the Guard, such a lack is of little import.”

“I’ll agree with that,” Boromir said before Daeron had the chance to feel embarrassed. “I get a headache just thinking about the damned language. I leave that to Loremasters, scholars, and people like my esteemed brother who seem to find it fun to wrestle with inflections and cases. Speaking of which, where is Faramir? I need a word or three with him. Ah, there he is!” Boromir smiled at Daeron, squeezed his shoulder again, and headed across the room towards his brother.

“I also must depart your charming company, Lady Meriel. Chancellor Orthmann is headed this way and I have no wish to discuss matters of state in the presence of a lady. Lord Laedren, attend on me at Council in three days time.” Denethor placed Lady Meriel’s hand on her husband’s arm and nodded towards Daeron before turning in a sweep of elegant robes to intercept the Chancellor.

Shortly thereafter, Laedren bade the family’s farewells and they made their way down to the Sixth Circle under a cloudless star-filled sky. The cold air was refreshing after the warmth and stuffiness of the Hall and Daeron followed his parents in a happily bemused state of mind. He hadn’t offended anyone, much less the Steward, he hadn’t made a fool out of himself, and hardest to believe but best of all, Lord Boromir had complimented him.

Later, he stretched out in his bed, his Court clothes safely put away, and reviewed the day. It hadn’t been like the other Yule Eves he’d experienced as a child, but since it seemed he wasn’t going to be a child for much longer he rather thought he preferred the way this one had turned out.

For once, he’d not been hurt or in trouble when he encountered Lord Boromir. It even sounded as though he’d impressed the Steward’s Heir a little bit. And hearing Boromir express a matching opinion in regards to learning Quenya didn’t hurt at all.

Tomorrow was going to be full of visiting cousins and other family members and he might possibly manage an escape from them for a few hours on Ruinanor.

He yawned and let sleep overtake him. Just wait until he told Halmir…

FINIS.

We just created a new LJ community for LOTR fanfic

2006-08-26T06:18:30Z

The Steward's Archive is a community for reading, writing, and commenting on non-slash Gondor-centric fanfiction in J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings universe.

If you'd like to join just go to The Steward's Archives

and click on "join this community."

Looking forward to seeing you there!

Inkily yours,

Dancingkatz (one of the scribbletwins)

Redemption--a Snapefic

2005-12-31T08:18:05Z

This ficlet was the result of a brainstorm by mctabby who came up with "Blame Someone Else Day" where people submitted character combos and/or plot ideas for fics they'd love to read but would never write. The Sorting Cat (no, that is not a typo) matched me up with angelofthenorth to write a "Snape Meets Jesus" story. This is the result...

REDEMPTION

By RowanRhys, although it's really the fault of angelofthenorth and mctabby's "Blame Someone Else Day"!

Severus Snape sat in a shadowed booth in the corner of The Leaky Cauldron and scowled at the roomful of socializing wizards and witches. A clear glass goblet of water sat on the table before him, untouched; and he ignored the loaf of bread and dish of butter that sat beside it. The teapot was still magically warm, but he had taken his fill of the harsh brew that came from Tom's kitchens.

He was a hero--or so the Daily Prophet called him--saving the Headmaster and The Boy Who Lived at the very last second by his sacrifice. Not that it made others friendlier or less fearful of him. He awkwardly curled the fingers of his right hand around the coins in his pocket and dropped them on the table to pay for the food and drink he'd barely touched. His left was a useless bandaged lump at the end of his arm, resting on the table top. But he didn't get up. He had no where to go. No one to speak with. He couldn't bear to return to the school to face the pity in the eyes of the remaining staff. Dumbledore only kept him on out of a sense of gratitude, he was sure. The headmaster certainly had no real use for a man in his condition as a Potions Master, even in name only.

"Pardon me," a gentle, somewhat accented voice to his side attracted his attention. "Might I share your table? The others are rather crowded."

Snape turned his head and saw a bearded man who appeared to be close to his own age, garbed in white and crimson robes. The compassionate brown eyes reminded him uncomfortably of Remus Lupin's, but instead of saying 'no,' he nodded curtly and lifted his crippled hand toward the chair. "Help yourself."

The stranger smiled and sat down, putting down his own water goblet next to Snape's. "It's more crowded than usual tonight."

Snape harrumphed. "They're celebrating again. The death of Voldemort was three years ago today." He held his left arm close to his side, as if holding pressure against some sore spot on his ribs. "They're taking advantage of the date to party, but if they really cared about what really happened, they'd do more than just drink to the winning of the war. No one talks about the witches and wizards who died to fight that megalomaniac anymore. They'll drink to the 'heroes of the Light' but do any of them bother to do something for the Aurors who are still in St. Mungo's because they stepped between a curse and the very same people who ignore them now? They'll drink to Potter, but do any of them care that he's not able to drink with them because of those damned curses and transfigurations? No, of course not!"

"It sounds as if you have some sympathy for Mr. Potter." The man's hands busied themselves with the bread; tearing it into smaller pieces on the plate.

Snape froze then, his shoulders slumped. He sighed, "Despite everything he was as a brat at school, even I feel he didn't deserve what Lucius Malfoy did to him at Voldemort's command. I might have deserved it, but not the boy or his friends."

"So you believe that you reap what you sow? Or that you ought to?"

"What goes around comes around. But there's no fairness in it."

"What do you mean?"

The question demanded to be answered and the words began to press against Snape's closed lips, the thoughts that had roiled around in his mind ever since he'd realized nearly two decades previous that he'd made a hideous mistake in following Voldemort and made the decision to go to Dumbledore. It was as if he were under some compulsive form of Imperius as the words spilled forth.

"How much repayment is enough to pay for a mistake? How much suffering is necessary to atone for the suffering that a person causes?--that I caused? What else do I have to live through before it makes up for the mistakes of my youth? Potter did nothing more than be born of the wrong parents for Voldemort to turn him into The Boy Who Lived and all the resultant misery it brought to his life. He did nothing! At least I can show you where I bollixed up my life. But I'm tired of the whispers; I'm tired of having to pretend that it doesn't matter that most people still don't trust me. I'm tired of pain and loneliness and that damned pity and having to pretend that I don't care." He paused to breathe in and coughed suddenly, pain spasming in his face as he clutched his arm tighter to his ribs. When the fit finally ended, the stranger had moved around the table to sit next to him, supporting Snape with one arm and holding the goblet up to his lips.

"Drink it," he was urged, and there was something in the stranger's eyes that made Snape's usual protest against assistance die. Something that reminded him of Dumbledore before that dreadful day when Snape's luck had run out and pity had become the presiding emotion in everyone's face. As he parted his lips and let the liquid pass through, he felt a tingling sensation, and the cool tastelessness of water became the abundant richness of the best wine. He swallowed and felt the magic spread within him as the bearded man spoke again.

"It's difficult being a redemptive figure even when you know that was your purpose from the beginning. And in your case, you didn't know that was your destiny. And," he chuckled slightly, "I can't blame you for being frustrated with the people for whom you made your sacrifices. For most, when life is good, they don't want to think what they owe to those who bear that burden. I have had my own times of being tempted to wash my hands of all of them. Just like you. And you, like me--even if you don't want to admit it--could still see that they were worth saving, and you did what you had to in order to do it." He held a piece of bread up to Snape's mouth.

Severus, caught up in the voice and the words, chewed automatically. Another draft of wine chased it down, and sent more of that marvelous, healing feeling throughout his battered and abused body; from the headache that never seemed to leave him, to the damage in his feet that made walking so painful, washing away the hurts and disfigurements.

"Why did you do it, Severus Snape? Why did you throw yourself into Voldemort's hands to give the Headmaster and the boy a chance to escape? Be truthful." Veritaserum held less compulsion.

Severus closed his eyes, remembering three days of pain and agony that had beem made manageable only by the memory of gratitude in their eyes, and whispered, "Because I love them--despite everything that's happened to me because of them--I love them."

"As do I." There was a pause, then, "You are forgiven, Severus Snape. Now, forgive yourself."

Snape opened his eyes and stared down at the hand that covered the bandaged remains of his left hand. The wine's miraculous effervesence seemed to swirl down his arm, dancing along the place where the Dark Mark had been burned from his flesh in what he'd thought would be his last hours, and then to concentrate in the mangled bones and muscle of the palm. The constant ooze of putrefication that had plagued him since Dumbledore had lifted him down from where Malfoy had pinned him to the limbs of the Whomping Willow ceased, and he gasped as he felt the gaping hole close together.

The stranger smiled gently and reached to lay hands on the bent and twisted right hand, and the digits smoothed out under his touch, leaving skin unblemished save for the round scar from the spike that Lucius had used to fasten Snape to the thrashing tree.

"Was it so hard to admit it?"

Severus took a deep breath and realized that the hole in the side of his chest was also healed--wounds that the best medi-wizards from St. Mungos could not affect.

"Who are you?" he asked, although he already thought he knew when he saw the matching scar on the hand that healed.

"Another who was not honored in his native land, Severus. Come with me?"

When Tom rang the closing bell, he saw that the dark garbed wizard was still slumped in his corner booth. "Professor, you'll have to go upstairs if yer plannin' to spend the night--" He stopped and stared at the expression on the still, waxen face. No one had ever seen Severus Snape with such a look of peace before.

Nor ever would again.

Introductions are in order...

2005-12-31T04:55:24Z

Scribbletwins is rhyselle and dancingkatz, a pair of real-life identical twins who write original and derivative (fan) fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Some of our work is written individually and other pieces are collaborations.

We hope you like what you read here. Reviews and critiques are more than welcome.