Refused Proposals

"'Tis getting late," Gorhend announced as Cardhel began to remove the crockery from the table. He inhaled the last remnant of smoke the weed in his pipe had to offer and stretched first one leg out, then the other. Rubbing the knees with a sharp grunt, he muttered, "These night watches become more distasteful with age. On cold nights such as this, it is all I can do to unbend my legs when it is time to dismount."

"Let me take your watch, Father," Myrhil offered, beginning to rise from her seat. "You and Boromir may rest and talk over old times. Mother and Cardhel have the kitchen under control and you cannot deny that I am dressed properly to ride a horse."

Gorhend gave his daughter's manly garb a dour look, but softened. She was right about that, and the allure of passing the chill evening by the warm fireside in the young soldier's company bordered on irresistible, but such an indulgence couldn't be countenanced when his herd was involved. Duty brooked no argument from Age.

He reached out and patted her hand affectionately. "Not necessary. Boromir and I can still talk over old times on horseback." He turned to his guest with a questioning look. "That is, unless you have some objection to a nighttime amble up the Gilrain?"

"Nothing could be more pleasant," Boromir assured him, leaning backwards so Cardhel could remove his plate with greater ease. He smiled in thanks and Myrhil noted with great amusement that the girl's wan features flushed brightly under his attention. The warm and rosy lantern light enhanced the red spot suddenly appearing on each cheek.

As Cardhel hastily turned, skirts swishing and head bent in abashed silence, Myrhil looked askance at Boromir with an expression of amused reproach. She pressed her lips together hard to refrain from laughing when Boromir risked a casual look over his shoulder towards the kitchen to glimpse Cardhel's shapely figure retreat from the room.

Gorhend had not witnessed his guest's interest in the serving girl, but continued to complain good-naturedly as he got to his feet and returned his pipe to the mantle after emptying the ashes out of the bowl onto the crackling fire. "Boromir and I have business to discuss, no doubt," he continued, speaking to his daughter. "Most likely of the horse-peddling variety. Is that correct, my friend?"

"Yes, as usual," Boromir replied, also rising. "I am certain you knew the purpose of my visit from the moment you saw me."

"I did indeed. It has been a mere fourteen months since men from Gondor's army bought several dozen members of my herd. Every time you have come here yourself, it has always been for horseflesh." He sighed and ran a hand over his eyes. "I do not deny it is an honor that my stock meets with such approval, but I do lament their popularity and short lives against the host of Mordor and its allies. If I am not granted a respite -- if my mares are not granted a respite -- I will have to learn how to make horses come out of the ground rather than the natural way."

Boromir lifted his chin and spoke firmly, "It saddens me as it does you, Gorhend. I despise seeing the corpses of horses on the battlefield as much as I loathe the sight of dead and dying men. Yet in times of need such as this, our supplies must be as endless as we can make them."

"A miraculous feat, that," Gorhend commented dryly. "I am but a simple soldier, Boromir. Do not trust in me to do that which lies in the craft of wizards." He sighed. "You are speaking as a Steward's son, the one who carries the future of Gondor in his thoughts. I understand your predicament and you speak rightly about it. I will do my utmost. You know that."

Boromir walked over to the old man and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it in encouragement. "I do know, Gorhend my friend. I appreciate it, as do the men who have the fine fortune to be assigned one of your sturdy steeds. The feet of Mordor's minions are swift but when a Gondor warrior has one beneath him and his wits are sharp, escape is often assured. Do not despair! We will see these dark times through to the end, for good or ill."

He was heartened to see that his words had an effect on his old friend. Gorhend's aging frame noticeably straightened and in the flickering firelight the steel grey eyes that so matched his hair grew flinty and stolid as in past years. Boromir had seen this expression of strength and resolve numerous times before a battle or skirmish. There was none of the eager and bloodthirsty flame so common in the eyes of a raw recruit or newly blooded warrior. Boromir had never seen Gorhend thus for the old man had already become a grim and placid soldier when Boromir was still pulling at his mother's breast.

As long as Boromir had been privileged to know him, Gorhend always viewed an impending fight with the sure and unflappable confidence of the seasoned veteran who saw the enemy as a mess that had to be cleaned up, an obstacle to be surmounted with relentless persistence. Through countless battles Gorhend had slain a likewise countless number of foes with unwavering strength. Thirty orcs to one man were of no consequence to him and Boromir had adopted that same attitude as soon as his own fears were conquered and the stench and roar of the battlefield had seeped into his mind and body as well. Gorhend had placed the first real sword in his hands as a child and his stern encouragement in matters of weaponry and all the skills a soldier needed to survive had been as vital to him as his mother's milk. Though he never doubted his own father held great affection for him, Boromir preferred to hear Gorhend's words of approval. Under the battle-scarred soldier's eye, he need only be a skilled warrior while his father expected many other accomplishments: political caginess and the perpetuation of his blood, among others. Boromir knew he was a fine soldier, but he was not so confident about his ability as a politician or as a husband and father. He would practice for hours in the armory or on the plains outside the city with his comrades to earn a nod and an encouraging slap on the back from the greying sergeant. When Gorhend had finally left Gondor's service to return permanently to his wife and children, Boromir was pressed to focus his attention onto learning the political aspects of warfare and stewardship. Yet he still held his departed mentor in the highest respect and regard and so it was with some alarm that he heard Gorhend's despairing words and the urge to restore the resolve of old was immediate. The sense of relief he felt at Gorhend's reversion to his old self made him practically heave a heavy and happy sigh.

"A soldier always knows his duty, Boromir," Gorhend said, his brow furrowed and the gnarled eyebrows bristling as he spoke. "We old ones most of all. It is weariness that makes us forget it from time to time." His face softened into an apologetic smile. "When you can lay claim to as many years as I, you will understand what I mean. Despair and resignation can burrow in like a nasty bout of the ague when so few years are left to a man's life that all woes are but a temporary nuisance."

Instinctively he looked over at Myrhil who returned his gaze. His mind was assaulted by many score of thoughts as he looked upon his surviving child's young and untried face. His woes. They would end for him once he passed out of this world and began to tread the path of the next. Yet what woes were in store for Myrhil? Would she be able to go out and meet them, whatever they might be, and come back from the battle, beaten, bloody, and bruised, but still on her feet? Did she have what was needed to live in this increasingly cruel and uncertain world? Had Larhend even possessed it? His own early death before he had been tried and tested left a gaping hole of doubt within his peace of mind. Instinct told him that Myrhil was not able to stand alone, though she would be the first to tell him he was mistaken. A husband. . .a husband must be found for her.

He was well aware of Boromir's apathy towards matrimony. For years he had been of the same mind until he met Laenilas. But perhaps Boromir's opinion could be reversed as his had been. Myrhil was no court conniver on the prowl, yet she had faults elsewhere which no doubt would dim any attraction she might hold for Gondor's heir. Maybe Myrhil was right and he should abandon this mad scheme. The Heir of Stewards would be given a bride suitable to his blood. Yet Myrhil did possess Rohirric royal blood through Laenilas, so it was not completely impossible. . .

"Father, please let me go with you."

Gorhend's thoughts were interrupted by his daughter's voice, so deep in contemplation had he been. "What, Myrhil?" he asked.

"May I go with you and Boromir?" she asked again, drawing out the words slowly as if to insure that he heard her. "As I said earlier, I am dressed for the ride. Another pair of eyes can only be an advantage. We have just five men working here now, and the herd finds it simple to cause trouble and not stay together."

Gorhend lowered his chin and looked at his daughter over the top of non- existent eyeglasses. "Does this have something to do with Belaród?" he asked. "Of all the men, he is the most insistent on you becoming a full- fledged herdsman."

Myrhil slapped the table with her hand, causing the few remaining utensils to jump with the force of the blow. "No, it has nothing to do with Belaród!" she shot back. "He only sees that which you do not!"

Boromir tensed at the exchange of words and leaned over to Gorhend. "I will go to the stable and ready the horses." He felt making a hasty exit would be the most prudent course of action. He ventured a look at Myrhil and saw that she had lowered her challenging gaze but her frame was still rigid with anger. One hand was clenched into a fist, the sinews of her bare forearm standing out in stark relief; the other was burrowed in her hair, fingers tugging at the curls in silent fury. Though no stranger to confrontations with his own father, he did not feel he should witness strife within other families. He was a friend, but this did not concern him.

"What was that, Boromir?" Gorhend asked, distracted. "Oh, yes. . .if you would. I will be along shortly."

Boromir readied himself and left the house, relieved at the rush of bracing air against his face after the sudden heat and closeness inside. He exhaled sharply and with a final glance at the lantern glow through the papered window, he strode to the stables.

"Please forgive my daughter's temper," he said with a sigh, taking his horse's reins and leading him outside. "Unfortunately she is much like Larhend in that respect, which is why I refuse to allow her to ride when I feel she should not. Full of piss and vinegar, she is," he finished sourly.

Boromir murmured something unintelligible as he followed with his own mount. Once outside, they swung themselves into the saddle and began to proceed north at a leisurely gait, side by side. "It is natural for her to want to come along," Boromir finally ventured. "Yet such is not her place, as she should well know."

Gorhend shook his head. "Perhaps I am at fault. After Larhend's death, she did take his place in many ways out of necessity. There was no need for another woman in the house. Cardhel and Laenilas were more than capable of handling all those matters. I had enough men at the time to manage the horses out on the plains, but there were duties here that she could undertake. She always helped the mares with the foaling and she and I handfed any sickly ones that happened along, but she also started taking care of the accounting books when I had little time for them." He turned to Boromir. "Have you noticed what a sturdy creature she is?"

I did indeed, Boromir thought, remembering Myrhil's wiry appearance at the dinner table. But he shrugged and said, "Not particularly."

"I lost my blacksmith to the war about four years ago when Minas Tirith called for more recruits and was unable to replace him," he went on. "Myrhil had helped him in the past, running the furnace and holding the horses while he shod them. So I told her that all of that was now her responsibility. She's very adept at it and I have been remiss in finding another smith. Now it has been four years and with that and the stewardship of the books, so to speak, she feels she is entitled to do more." He slapped his thigh in frustration. "'Tis all my fault," he said again.

"Do not blame yourself," Boromir told him. "You made decisions necessary at the time which can now be reversed."

"Reversed?" came the surprised reply. "I am an old man and I have little desire to end my days fighting with my daughter. Larhend and I parted on ill terms. Not only that, but I have no one to replace her with. If men were scarce four years ago, they are even more so now. I would find a husband for her, but that has been a hard task to accomplish."

"What of this Belaród?" Boromir asked. Choosing his words carefully, he continued. "If he supports Myrhil so, then a match should be easily won."

Gorhend swayed with his horse's gait for several long seconds and just when Boromir felt he would not reply, he said, "Belaród is a clever man and he knows how the bread is buttered. He has always been friendly to her and telling her how she is entitled to this or that. That is how this strife began."

"Why do you not send him packing?" Boromir asked. "Matters would soon settle when he is gone."

"Lack of men, my boy," Gorhend sighed. "It all comes back to that. No, as soon as I find a husband for Myrhil, I will take great pleasure in escorting Master Belaród to the boundary of my land and kicking his troublemaking hide down the road." He laughed wickedly at the prospect.

Boromir joined him and said, "I assume I will soon be meeting this wretch?"

"Most assuredly."

"Shall I be civil?"

"If you would. Perhaps that will compensate for my less-than-gracious behavior." He sighed. "As you can see, I am cast between a rock and an orc. I wish him gone, but I cannot afford to have him leave." He turned to Boromir. "You would not want to give up the soldier's life and become a horse breeder, would you?" There, it was said. He had spoken more bluntly than intended, but he had discovered he possessed little talent for subtlety.

Boromir could barely conceal his shock at the sudden turn in the conversation. "I?" he managed. Choking back a disbelieving laugh, he reached over and gripped Gorhend by the shoulder. "Did I hear you aright? You wish for me to wed your daughter?"

"I do indeed, though now that I have spoken it aloud, it is a mad idea and makes no sense."

Boromir thought for a moment. "I see why you would wish for me to form a bond with your house. It is our friendship, is it not?"

Gorhend nodded. "Yes, that and also I think you and Myrhil are a better- suited match than she and that miserable Belaród. It is an instinct I have had ever since I was in the army and had to sum up a man's worth with a glance and a brief inspection of his skills. I find Belaród sorely lacking in both. But you, my friend. . .I could not approve of you more."

"Much as I would like to seal our friendship in yet another way, I beg your pardon if I refuse. It is simply not feasible."

"I feared as much. No matter! I will find a suitable mate for my strong- willed mare one day." Gorhend affected a cheerful expression, though it took great effort to mask his disappointment.

"The reasons why I refrain from taking a wife are many," Boromir offered by way of explanation. "I do not like the company of females at great length and the responsibilities that come with a wife and children are not suitable to me. As a soldier, my first responsibility is for the lives of my men and then for my own."

"And I am wondering if you also would not like to be in the position I am in now: seeking a husband for your own child."

Boromir grinned. "The reasons have increased by one as you say that."

"You cannot blame me for trying," Gorhend said, a smile creasing his face. "I tried the frontal assault, but I doubt that if I had flanked you it would have been any more successful." He sighed. "Myrhil is not the type to beg to feed you sweetmeats and plead for you to dance attendance on her. I thought she would be more suited to your tastes than the type you see at court."

"She is," Boromir said honestly. "With a bit of guidance, I would not worry about her when I went to battle. Still, it is more than what I would like to handle presently." He nudged Gorhend. "Rather than a wife, serving girls and other 'ladies' will do."

Gorhend chuckled. "That is where you and Faramir differ! I cannot imagine him in a brothel under any circumstances unless he is so drunk he had no idea where he is. Speaking of which. . ." He pulled a flask out of his tunic and held it up. "Before I escaped from my irate child, I managed to grab some warm spirits to make the journey more pleasant." He took a brief draught and handed it to Boromir, who gratefully let the fiery liquid course down his throat. "A bit more of this, and we will find outselves heading to Pelargir for good times in the arms of some loving ladies."

Boromir began to laugh, but found himself coughing as the spirits surged back into his throat. "Gorhend, it was a sad day when you left Minas Tirith for the final time!" he laughed ruefully. "I took Faramir to one of the city's rowdiest establishments for his sixteenth birthday just as you did on mine. The lady was patient for just so long, and it was a disaster in the end. He all but threw up on himself."

"It was nearly a disaster when I took you, but the battle occurred when I got home. If that perfumed tart hadn't hung herself all over me, Laenilas would have been none the wiser."

The sound of deep, earthy laughter floated over the plains and blended oddly with the soft gurgling and lapping of the Gilrain. The night was illuminated by soft moonlight emanating from a sliver placed high in the sky and with the scent of spring hanging on the air with tantalizing promise, all anxiety and fear welcomed the beauty and aura of peace so that tension could ease, if only momentarily. Only to the east could worry intrude, but the sky had been dim and the soft rumble persistent for so long with no cause for alarm this far westward that it was easy to dismiss them. In this night of reunited friends and fond memories, thoughts of the Enemy were gladly set aside.