Gorhend watched his small home grow larger as he approached. The thatched roof and papered windows were becoming an even more welcome sight as daylight dimmed. He shifted again in his saddle and grimaced. He did not mind aging, but the discomfort he increasingly experienced in the saddle was most irritating. His body was slowing quickly after more than six decades of vigorous good health, declining at a time when he needed vigor more than ever. Running a hand over his eyes, he was astonished to feel the fingers come away damp.
“I weep like an old woman,” he grumbled to himself. “What can tears accomplish, mourning what cannot be regained?” It was a lesson he had learned over the body of his son, when all the tears and railing at fate failed to resurrect the one thing he loved most in this world. That his son should die from mere chance while his daughter lived...
A sudden shame at these melancholy thoughts made his cheeks flush a deep red. Larhend was dead; Myrhil was alive. He needed to accept that and make the best of it. So far he had, as much as he was able. Myrhil was not as strong as her brother, but her spirit matched his, as did her temper. This latter trait worried him most, as it had been Larhend’s temper that led to his demise. Her skill with a sword at nineteen years of age matched Larhend’s at fifteen and that comforted him. The danger he spoke of to Cirien was always in the back of his mind and should it indeed come, he would need all of his men, and Myrhil too, to defend his herd and his land. Already she had exceeded Larhend’s age by two years and it was a father’s hope that she would surpass that by many more. His name perhaps would not live on, but his blood would when Myrhil found a mate.
His matrimonial musings were sparked when he drew up to the stables and saw a horse covered in a blanket with an unmistakable emblem embroidered into the rough material. The horse itself was familiar, as it was one of his own, sold to a friend six years ago when he last visited and broke bread.
The stable master was out with the other men guarding the herd, so Gorhend untacked his mount and curried him smooth before leading him into his stall. He threw the eager stallion some straw, remnants from last summer’s harvest, and soon the stable was filled with the sounds of happy mastication. As he walked past the visitor’s horse, he soundly patted the beast on the rump and whistled a soft tune. The equine’s ears swiveled and he nodded his head up and down.
Gorhend chuckled. “So, you remember that little lullaby, do you? You should, you rascal! You gave me quite a scare for two weeks after your dam birthed you! I remember the number of hours I spent nursing you to health. I hope you have not been giving your master any trouble.”
He received a nicker in response and, after scratching the stallion’s soft nose, Gorhend proceeded to the house. More candles had been lit as darkness deepened and all the windows were aglow. Periodically through the oiled paper he saw a shadowy figure move back and forth in the main room and the clatter of clay dishes met his ears. Myrhil was setting the table, no doubt resentful that she was forced to do her customary chores when the excitement of a visitor exceeded routine in importance.
“Myrhil!” he called out, slowly closing the distance between stable and house. “Who is joining us tonight?”
He heard the dishes clink on the table and soon the front door was thrown open. It was dark enough so that he could not see the figure’s features, but the voice told him that it was indeed his daughter. “An old friend!” came the eager cry. “He has been on the road for five days!”
Gorhend received his daughter’s embrace with a sharp exhalation as he felt his breath knocked from his body. “Please, daughter!” he managed once he recovered. “Your father is an old man. I would like to keep some air in these withered lungs.” At this display of affection, he regretted his selfish thoughts during his way home. Myrhil lacked nothing Larhend had possessed, except the virtue of his sex. The difficulties he and Myrhil encountered from time to time seemed of no consequence during moments such as this.
He ruffled the dark chestnut curls, as unkempt as his own, and said, “You should be more presentable, daughter.”
“Whatever for?” Myrhil asked, self-consciously bringing a hand to her head. “My hair? I washed it last Sunday. It has only been three days yet.” Then she smiled, and Gorhend could hear the knowing tone. “Ah, I understand. If I had but known that we would be entertaining, I would have taken greater pains. He only arrived an hour ago and Mother would as soon cut off my head than have me leave her to do all the cooking while I primped before a mirror like a palace rose.”
“Still, I have high hopes for you, girl,” Gorhend whispered into Myrhil’s ear. “He is not one to let friendship go unrewarded. He has not seen you in six years. You have grown up pleasingly.”
“Father!” Myrhil exclaimed. “I do not think that he would be impressed by a horse breeder’s daughter, strong though the bonds of friendship might be.”
Gorhend slapped her on the rump. “Not all of my mares are of the four-legged kind, but they all fetch a good price.”
“I do wish you would leave that horse language behind on the plains,” Myrhil said ruefully. “If Mother heard you, that ladle would fly right to your head, sure as an Elven arrow!”
“I can catch and duck ladles better than anyone in Gondor, Rohan, and all points north, south, east and west! That is a skill I have become adept at over our thirty years together.”
Myrhil squeezed her father’s arm in silent mirth. She so loved these times when they could laugh together and put differences aside. Giving his weathered cheek a quick kiss, she dashed on ahead of him and disappeared into the house. Outside the door, Gorhend knocked the mud from his boots and shook the dust and horsehair from his cloak. Now that night had indeed come, the land was blanketed in a chill that pierced skin and bone and it came raw and painful through the nose and mouth. He shivered as he passed through the doorway and shut it firmly behind him.
“How fare you, Gorhend?” came a deep and pleasant voice from the corner by the cooking fire.
Removing his heavy boots and donning more comfortable slippers made of supple leather, Gorhend advanced into the room and met his visitor in a firm embrace. The dancing flames illuminated two pleased grins as their hands gripped each other’s arms in greeting.
“Gorhend, my old friend! It does me good to see you in such health.”
“Boromir, you young lad! It does you good? It warms the heart of an old man to see that he is not forgotten.”
Myrhil looked up at their guest as she placed the last dish on the table. “Pay him no mind, Boromir,” she said. “He has been morose about his age of late. One would think his grave was already dug and all that needed to be done was push him into it.”
This comment was met with a shake of the head from the old man in question and he pointed to the small room adjoining the one they now occupied. “Go help your mother. You are belittling me.”
Myrhil quirked her lips and wiped her hands on her apron. She presented a strange appearance since she wore one of his old shirts, breeches and boots beneath it. Gorhend had not noticed her raiment outside in the encroaching darkness and wished that the foolish girl had at least changed into something more befitting her sex. Friend Boromir may be, but it would be much to ask him to overlook such eccentricities.
With a quick bow to Boromir, Myrhil disappeared into the kitchen where Laenilas was speaking loudly to the serving girl, Cardhel, that the potatoes needed to be mashed more. “There are still chunks large enough to choke a Mumak!” came an exasperated voice. “Here, take this and beat those tubers as hard as you undoubtedly itch to hit me right now!”
Boromir chuckled and turned back to Gorhend. “She gets more fiery with age,” he said. “As soon as I entered, she made little effort to let me know that I had arrived at a most inconvenient time.”
Gorhend brought a hand to his eyes and groaned in embarrassment. “I hope you can forgive the uproar that constantly infests my house. I tell her that we have enough to worry about with Mordor instead of adding to the problem with ridiculous complaints about potatoes and unexpected surprises.” He looked at Boromir. “Unexpected pleasant surprises,” he said pointedly.
“It was indeed a pleasure to make the journey westward, away from the threat to the east, if only for a little while,” Boromir said, sitting down again when Gorhend gestured towards a rough-hewn chair. “I leave the White City somewhat secure, although it can never be said that it is completely so.” He waved away this thought, as though impatient of his own somberness. “But you know that as well as I. My brother is acting in my stead for the duration of my journey, though he does have many able men to assist him.”
“Ah, how is Faramir?” Gorhend asked, settling in his own chair and leaning forward in avid interest. “Still skulking about the dusty corners of the library?”
Boromir shrugged his shoulders. “No more than usual, although he has been fast learning the art of war through a sword rather than reading about battles past. It is a heartening development to both Father and myself.”
“What prodded him out of wallowing in scrolls and fireside talks with that shifty Gandalf, or Mithrandir...whatever his name is?”
Chuckling, Boromir shook his finger. “You sound like Father. He is as relieved to hear of that old wizard’s departures from the city as he is to hear about a successful skirmish with the Enemy.”
Gorhend stretched out his legs and propped them up on a short wooden stool. “Well, I never believed in trucking with magicdoers. They cannot be trusted, to my mind. Sometimes they know what is in your mind before you know yourself. Charlatans, all of them.”
“Faramir admires him. Perhaps he sees something which we practical warriors do not.” He shook his head and scratched at his beard in thought. “Anyhow, I think the war drums to the east finally pierced that scholarly shell he had put about himself. He will see his twenty-sixth summer this year and while he was not unaware of the existence of orcs, I believe he now realizes that they are closer than he thought.” He sighed. “But I do an injustice to my brother. I should not speak of him so.”
“’Tis natural for an elder brother to derive perverse fun at the expense of a younger sibling,” Gorhend offered, thinking of Larhend’s torments of Myrhil as he said it.
“I am pleased that he is showing the strength, skill, and fortitude that a soldier of Gondor must needs possess in these times,” Boromir continued. “If we had an army of men like you...”
“Curse you, boy!” Gorhend laughed. “You flatter as well as those prancing courtiers.”
Boromir stood and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. In his dark red tunic and surcoat, he looked every inch Denethor’s son. “Do you call me names, Gorhend?” His eyes flashed in amusement.
“Aye!” Gorhend retorted. “Without me to whip you in line, you have gone soft with court life.” He likewise got to his feet and seized the knobby walking stick that rested against the wall behind him. Prodding Boromir’s midsection with the end, he contemplated his former comrade-in-arms. “I fancy you have added a stone or two since I saw you last. Too many puddings and sweetmeats, no doubt. Have you been spending your drill sessions at the feet of some court wench while she fed you by hand?”
This provoked a loud guffaw from Denethor’s son. “Gorhend, you have not lost your sense of the ridiculous!” he laughed. “Me at the feet of a lady! That will have me laughing the entire trip back to Minas Tirith.” His mirth subsided and he pushed the end of the cane away. “I am no pig to be inspected for the density of its fat, Gorhend. Nor am I some prize to be given away to a mincing fool with no sense, which is what those cooing court pigeons, as a breed, tend to be.”
Gorhend smiled to himself as he returned the stick to its position and reached over to the mantle, retrieving a pipe and small leather pouch. He held both up in invitation. Boromir refused politely with a wave of the hand. With a sigh, Gorhend sat back down and proceeded to fill his pipe with some dry, aged weed.
“You still smoke that?” Boromir asked. “I do not deny its benefits in the cold and damp, but it is very warm in here already.”
“Simply an old man’s indulgence,” Gorhend offered in excuse. “It eases my aches and pains.” He cinched the small pouch. “Truth be told, I rarely open this. I have had it for nearly ten years now and it is still half full. Yet lately age has caught up with me and I find need for its medicinal properties.”
Boromir smiled. “I would instead think that any healing it might do is all inside the head of an old man.”
Gorhend inclined his head in agreement. “Quite possibly. But as I said, this is an old man’s indulgence. It cannot kill me, as I have nearly reached the end of my life as it is.”
“Myrhil was right in her observation that you have become unnaturally morose,” Boromir said, his tone softening in concern. “Hardened warriors do not die in their beds. At least they should never meet such an end. I do not think that will be your fate.”
“Yes, that was the widely-held belief of Gondor’s soldiers when I was just a lad. Not one of us would die a quiet death.” Gorhend’s eyes became slightly misty. “I taught that to my son when he still lived.”
Boromir looked down at his hands. “I was saddened to hear of Larhend’s accident,” he began. “The news overtook me as I rode back eastward from my last visit here. At an inn in Pelargir, I heard that Gorhend’s son had allowed rage to overcome caution and he set about trying to break a young stallion. He did seem...intemperate the day I left. That I was barely beyond the horizon when it happened...” He lifted his eyes to Gorhend’s wrinkled face and suddenly saw an older man. “No words can express the sorrow I felt.”
Nodding in gratitude at Boromir’s words, but distrustful of the strength of his voice, Gorhend gnawed the end of his pipe. Finally when he was certain he had gained control of himself, he murmured, “Larhend admired you immensely, Boromir. You could not help feeling the adoration. You were already a seasoned soldier at twenty-five and he was beginning to answer the stirrings of bloodlust in his breast. He wanted to follow you, my boy. Barely had you mounted up and set off down the road before Larhend was arguing that he was of age to join the army.” Bringing a hand to his eyes, he said, “I should have let him go. Instead he tried to prove that he was strong when I already knew him to be so.”
Boromir remained motionless in his chair, unsure of whether he should stop his old friend from reopening a painful wound or let him continue.
“If I had let him leave with you, perhaps he might have met his death at the end of an orc blade or he would still be alive,” Gorhend went on. “Or mayhap a fall from a stubborn horse was his chosen fate.” He shook his head. “There is no way to know. I thought I had come to terms with it, accepted the way things unfolded, but I see that time does little to heal deep wounds. I was given two children and he was the one taken away.”
“It is indeed unfair that every man is not given two sons to prevent a loss in circumstances such as those you have suffered,” Boromir said.
Gorhend looked up in alarm. He cursed himself for his sentimental ramblings. By voicing his inner feelings he had placed Myrhil in a distasteful light, that of the undeserving survivor. Though he struggled with those feelings himself, he did not want Boromir to share them. He had foolishly colored Boromir’s perception with a dark brush.
Not wanting to seem too vehement in his retraction, he said, “Unfair? Perhaps in some instances it would be deemed so. I do lament Larhend’s passing. What father would not? But I have been blessed with a strong daughter who shows promise in the area of arms, though it is my hope she will never find herself forced to put her skills to use.”
“Myrhil?” Boromir could not hide his surprise and amusement at Gorhend’s statement. “She is naught but a slip of a thing.”
Gorhend allowed a smile to further crease his craggy features. “Six years is a long time, Boromir. The difference between thirteen and nineteen full turns of the year is great and it is a fool who does not recognize it.” He heard Myrhil and Laenilas approach, discussing the food they were bringing to the table. Hurriedly he got to his feet and took Boromir by the arm.
Boromir rose with the insistent hand and followed him over to the table. “My daughter is no court lady,” Gorhend continued in hushed tones. “If you accused her of such, you would likely receive a derisive laugh at your stupidity.”
“Then she certainly has not changed much since I was here last,” Boromir replied, “for she was very forward with retorts when she was a mere child.”
Gorhend was about to say more but his wife and daughter entered the room, their arms laden with bowls and platters of meat, freshly baked bread, and vegetables, including the controversial potatoes. Cardhel followed behind them with a large wooden pitcher of ale and four tankards that she placed before each plate. Setting the pitcher in the center of the table, she proceeded to help Myrhil with the platter of roasted meat so that it would not tip and spill grease over the table.
“Cardhel, please get the bread knife,” Laenilas instructed. “And the fresh butter from this morning.”
The girl disappeared from the room and Laenilas gave the table one last inspection before turning to Boromir, hands on her hips in satisfaction. “I believe that I have set a table worthy of a Steward’s heir,” she said briskly, “especially at such short notice.”
Boromir’s first instinct was to be intimidated, for this woman did indeed disconcert him. He would never tell Gorhend so, but his wife was a formidable force. He despised weakness in females, but neither did he particularly admire great strength. Her lineage made such a strong personality natural, but it was still something that he was ill at ease with, kin or no kin of Rohan’s ruling family.
He managed a curt bow. “Lady Laenilas,” he said, “I thank you for your generosity and hospitality.”
Laenilas wiped her hands on her apron and brushed stray locks of fair golden-red hair from her sweaty brow. “Lady,” she repeated. “It is strange to hear myself called that. I suppose that would be my title in gentler circles, but I do not inhabit such a place.”
“Your speech belies it,” Boromir said, wishing he were more skilled in pleasantries with females so that this short conversation was not so painful. An amusing thought ambled through his mind that if Laenilas were an orc and he had to kill her, he would not hesitate or fumble. Yet idle chatter was something beyond his abilities.
Taking Gorhend’s plate, Laenilas began to heap it with steaming, succulent slices of roasted beef and a generous helping of potatoes. “My speech,” she muttered. “I suppose it is something passed from father to son and mother to daughter, something that is never forgotten, even should the living circumstances change.” She set down the plate and gestured at the clean, but very rustic, structure around her. “No great hall of Meduseld is this,” she said, “but I am glad of that. I should hate to have such a burden on my time, as did the wife of my father’s cousin, Théoden King. It is my opinion that if childbirth had not killed Elfhild, the rigors of housekeeping surely would have.”
Boromir sat down on the long bench on one side of the table and watched Laenilas fill his plate with some of the most aromatic food he had ever had the good luck to encounter. Opinionated she might be, forthright she might be...but Laenilas’ skill in the kitchen compensated for those faults. The urge to spear a juicy hunk of meat onto his knife and devour it like the hungriest orc was almost unbearable.
He watched Myrhil fill her own plate and take a seat on the bench directly opposite him. His appetite was immense, but he could not help but remember Gorhend’s whispered comments about his daughter. He had indeed noticed her when he arrived. He had seen the same unkempt hair, cropped much shorter than the long and elaborate court styles he was accustomed to. He had seen the smudged face from laboring in the stables and the kitchen. He had seen the angular body that was now covered in manly attire rather than the dresses of youth. His comment to Gorhend about the girl being “forward with retorts” had been prompted by her greeting to him as he dismounted in front of their door. When he was unable to hide his amusement at seeing her attired in breeches and a shirt sadly in need of washing, the first words out of her mouth had been, “No doubt you think I am still the dirty little brat you last saw, Boromir of Gondor?” No malice, no challenge, no anger...just the same tart tongue that her mother possessed, although tempered with the humor of youth.
Now he studied her in the flickering candlelight shining down upon them from the lantern fixtures hanging above and began to see this other Myrhil that Gorhend had spoken of. In some ways, she did seem like the young child of six years ago, but in others, the changes were marked. No doubt he would not have seen them if it had not been suggested to him that they were there. No, she was not a child, nor a slip of a thing. The skinny body of the child had not fleshed out in the manner of the court women, rosy and encased in velvets and brocades, but it was now hard and lean, even disciplined. The hands that gripped the small wooden spoon bringing food to her mouth were rough and beginning to show the effects of plains life. A small drop of fresh blood was congealing where the dry skin over a knuckle had cracked from the dry, wintry elements. The fingernails held remnants of dirt and a furtive look at his own hands revealed that they were not dissimilar in that respect. He was curious to witness her skill with a sword, for Gorhend had hinted that she was showing promise.
Myrhil looked up from her plate and noticed that Boromir was watching her with some interest. Wiping the grease from her mouth with the back of her hand, she asked, “Dare I assume that you have changed your opinion about me being a dirty little brat?”
“Not after dragging your sleeve across your face just now,” he said, grinning.
Laenilas turned to Myrhil and whacked her shoulder smartly. “Here,” she said, giving her the square of cloth by her own plate. “Use this if you need to do that.”
Myrhil took it with a wink to Boromir and dabbed delicately at her lips. “That better?”
Laenilas closed her eyes and shook her head. Gorhend took the opportunity and delivered a sharp kick to Myrhil’s shin under the table. Myrhil jumped and looked at her father, wide-eyed. Seeing the storm cloud gathering over his gnarled brows, she told Boromir, “Your pardon. Mother and Father despair of me.”
Hazarding a glance at Gorhend, Boromir saw that his old friend was visibly agitated at his daughter’s unruly behavior. While Boromir did not heartily approve of such unseemly conduct, neither did it offend him. “High spirits,” he said lightly. “Nothing more. With age will come duty so best to enjoy it while you can.”
Myrhil smiled. “That is how I feel,” she said. “For duty will come soon, should a husband be found for me.” She looked pointedly at her father, then back at Boromir. “You have always shouldered duty, have you not?”
Brow furrowing deeply for a man of only thirty-one, Boromir nodded. “Yes, but our unenviable position in this land has made that necessary. Everyone in Minas Tirith has learned that the pleasures of city life must be paid for in another way. In exchange for convenience and a fortified home, the danger of siege and an Enemy all too near looms. I have been bearing arms for my city before the first whisker appeared on my face.” He scratched his beard and added, amused, “I suppose I have killed an orc for every whisker that I now have.”
Laenilas set down her spoon. “I do not wish to interrupt you, my lord, but could we please refrain from mentioning orcs and other foul beasts at the table? Gorhend and I have feared that they will appear in these lands and they are constantly in our thoughts. However I dislike discussing them outright.”
Boromir bowed his head. “I am indeed sorry. Foul as they are, they have become a part of my life. An unwelcome part, but one that I must constantly struggle with.”
The rest of the meal fell to silence, the pall brought by the talk of orcs lingering unpleasantly over the table. All that could be heard were the sounds of Cardhel cleaning the kitchen.
To be continued. . .