Elendor
Words at Dawn
"You do not suffer arrogance as of yet. You do not suffer ill-advice. Do not fall because of anger alone."
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Minas Tirith
IC Time: Before dawn
Description:
Minas Tirith: Training Grounds
At the northern terminus of the Way of Kings, there rises the sheer face of Mount Mindolluin, beneath which is set a wide complex wrought of stone: the training grounds of Minas Tirith. Watched over by tall statues of the warrior Lords of the past, the training grounds are grim and spartan, set with practice circles and larger yards for mock combat. The Way of Kings heads south from here, however, coming to a grim looking gate that leads to the upper circles of the City of Stone.
During the evening hours, the training grounds are illuminated by the crimson glow of torches set into the walls, and tended to by a lone Man-at-Arms who ensures that nothing is amiss during the night.
Plumbean clouds cover the sky blown by eastern winds, and not a single star gazes through such a veil. The Training Grounds of Minas Tirith are dead silent, ill-lit, empty but by one man, a dark figure yielding a spear.
Stoically, he trains alone, performing with his spear what would seem a dance bizarre, a struggle against invisible forces-- a pained one.
Dawn's first pale light now begins to cut through the edges of the far clouds, and the tramp of feet can be heard entering the training grounds--Ceredir and two guards escorting him, none of the three looking particularly pleased to be awake at this hour.
"Sir?" Ceredir takes a step toward the Ranger, the guards making no move to stop him.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
As the light starts to demystify what night, in its shadows, concealed, the man training becomes more and more visible: garbed in green, bandaged face, one known to many as Gurtir Carmayar.
The Ranger doesn't immediatly heed Ceredir: instead he continues with his movements, the thrusts, slashes, parries, dodges. In this, he favours somewhat his right arm and executes the movement in a slower fashion, one might think, than he would in a fight-- recovery training?
It is only when he is done with whatever sequence he had previously conceived, when he comes to what seems a natural halt and holds his peace in silent observation of the limited horizon of the yards that he turns to face Ceredir and acknowledge him with a nod.
"I believe this is the hour you requested my presence here, sir?" Ceredir speaks at last, holding his words until the ranger's attention has turned to him. Even so, the emptiness of the training ground and the darkness that lingers move him to speak quietly.
Behind him, the two guards shift, no doubt dreading what will turn out to be very boring duty for them this morning, watching the scout and ranger train.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir lifts two fingers, which he points at the scouting... scouts. "You two, dismissed. I assume responsability.", he says curtly, his tone also low. Then he starts pacing towards the rack of weapons, where he starts examining the swords, no word yet spoken at Ceredir.
"Yes sir." The two guards nod, turn crisply on their heels, and leave without hesitation, leaving Ceredir standing where he is, watching the Ranger.
"We were speaking of anger, sir, and how to control it?" the youth ventures after a moment, as Gurtir still says nothing to him. There is the impatience of youth in his body language, his feet shifting back and forth several times.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Still looking at the swords, Gurtir replies, "Yes."
Then he picks up a longsword, tests its balance, taking his time... he turns to Ceredir, "Were you displeased by waking up so early?"
"Sir?" Ceredir answers, taken aback somewhat by this question. "I..uh...no, sir." Clearly, he is lying--it's easily read in his eyes.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The Ranger glares at Ceredir and holds the gaze for a while-- annoying seconds of silence and scrutinization. Then he snorts.
"This will be an extra-official training, Ceredir. The Lord Captain does not answer for it, nor any other Ranger. What happens here, stays here.", he throws the sword at the ground in front of Ceredir, "If you are really willing to continue with this, pick it up."
He turns his back on the scout, walking to the centre of the arena.
The scout can only hold Gurtir's glare for a few seconds before his eyes drop to the dirt. "Yes sir," he replies to the Ranger's words, a frown creasing his forehead as he stoops to pick up the sword. "In that case, sir," he continues as he follows Gurtir, "I'd damn well rather be in my bed." He grins. "Sir." A pause. "But I'm here because I meant what I said yesterday." No lies light his eyes now.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir nods, perhaps pleased, perhaps satisfied, perhaps simply nodding.
"This demands silence, emptiness. Else, I would still be in my bad. I could not care. Therefore, I have three rules: while we are here, no matter what, you will obey me-- no matter what second, if ever you feel like giving up, goddamn tell me-- and then forget my name and treat me only by Sir, salute." he brings his closed right fist to his chest, exemplifying, "And you will never, ever, hit me in the face."
"Do you agree?"
In the still morning, the Scout's intake of breath at this can clearly be heard, and he stares hard at the ranger before he nods slowly.
"Yes. I agree," he says after a moment.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"Tell me what you know of blades then.", Gurtir says, the nigh solemn stance he was previously adopting vanishing after the scout's acquiesance.
"I'm afraid not much, sir," Ceredir replies, still addressing the Ranger formally. That much, it might seem, has been beaten into him by his training. "Laeghen has worked with me, of course, and the Knight Barasaphad. And I trained some while I was in Rohan, as well. Their King even showed up, and tried to have us unhorse him," he grins at the memory. "But my skills are rather poor."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
A nod, "I see. And what do you know of weapon conservation?", asks Gurtir.
"Weapon...conservation?" Ceredir's brows knit, and he shakes his head. "Nothing at all."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"The knives of your tanner you mentioned yesterday.", Gurtir says, an eyebrow raising, "Were they never sharpened? Oiled? Cleaned at least?"
"Oh...that.." Ceredir grins. "Didn't know the word for it, but yes. Daily. But...what does this have to do with my temper?"
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The question brings a smirk to Gurtir's lips, which quickly fades, "Are you questioning me?"
"No..." Ceredir answers quickly, then perhaps remembering the Ranger's reaction to his lie earlier, he licks his lips. "Yes. Sir." A frown now grows around his eyes
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"Well, do not. I don't deem it fitting.", Gurtir dismisses the subject with a shrug, "What I will have you do is tell me about blade maintenance. If you do not know, you just got yourself a task: to ask around until you find the appropriate proceedure.", he pauses for a reply.
"It.." Ceredir's frown deepens, the scout clearly puzzled by this line of questioning. "It has to be cleaned and oiled regularly. Not put away wet in its scabbard, or it may rust," he says slowly, grey eyes on the Ranger's face. "You can use a whetstone to bring up the edge, but bad nicks have to be ground out by a smith. I don't..." he starts, then thinks better of it, licking his lips again. "Much like a knife blade, only longer."
Gurtir(#30678)]
"Yes. You are correct. I'd add oiling the wooden hilt, but never so that it becomes slippery.", Gurtir agreees with Ceredir, nodding, "Now, this longsword I gave to you-- ", he points it with his chin, "If you will please put it back on the rack."
The Scout looks down at the sword he's holding, then up at the Ranger, blinking. He opens his mouth to protest, but no words come out--only just a very small sigh. Then he walks wordlessly to the rack and replaces the sword.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"Come back here now and speak honestly to me", Gurtir tells Ceredir, "Are you angry?"
Still over by the sword rack, Ceredir hesitates, then nods his head and walks back to the Ranger. "A little, yes. But more confused than angry, I think," he answers honestly.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"I see.", the Ranger nods.
"From this, I believe we can draw something of a line, wouldn't you agree? Your anger does not come from pride over trivial things. I ignored you when you arrived, yet you didn't complain I threw something at the ground and made you pick it up, for the sake of it, and you did it. I dismissed your curiousity and protest without reason, and you were silent. I made you walk back to the rack, while you thought you would fight me, just to retrieve what I made you pick up from the ground."
Gurtir starts pacing about, a few steps, then changing direction, "More than wanting to harm me, you would like explanations. Am I mistaken?"
"Yes sir," Ceredir says softly, the scout not watching Gurtir pace, but hanging his head now. He sighs quietly and continues in the same tone, "that's all I wanted from Sir Elenur, too. An explanation."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"However, he will not give it to you.", Gurtir adds after Ceredir's last phrase, coming to a halt and looking over at the scout, "And that's what angers you beyond your wits. Knowing that you are a perfectly worthy man, dedicated, capable, and yet, rejected... please correct me whenever I make a wrong statement.... and you know you cannot make a damn thing about it. You are merely a victim of random dark plot, condemnable lust, regretable mistake.", he pauses for a reply.
Still Ceredir does not look up, though he nods his head to the Ranger's words. "All of that," he replies, bitterness filling his voice. "And knowing that in a land where name is everything, I have none. Not even a low-born name or family. I have nothing."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"You have spoken of yourself. Now, I pray you think of Gondor now. Think further, think of Numenor. The land of our fathers. It sunk because of arrogance, ill-advice -- and of anger.", Gurtir starts speaking-- and pacing, "Yet some in there were good, and though many perished, a few escaped: the Faithful, who came to Middle Earth. And their kingdom spread from the Haradrim beaches to the far, far north-- farther than Rohan, farther than the enchanted forest, farther than the tall mountains, the lands of their enemies and beyond." he makes a grand gesture with his hand towards the horizon.
"Anger, yes," the scout interrupts. "And what has Elenur of Bragollach done to ease that anger and arrogance? How exactly has he made our forefathers proud? If indeed the men of Numenor are my forefathers. This.." he sweeps his hand toward his grey eyes and dark hair, "could all be an illusion. A coincidence. I could not be of Numenorean heritage at all. But, thanks to Elenur, I'll never know." Bitterness and anger weave themselves through Ceredir's words.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
And it is Gurtir's turn to show anger, "If you will not think beyond yourself, _boy_, then don't speak at all. Can you not feel it? Can you not see your traits in the people of our land? Do you really _need_ somebody to tell you you are one of us?"
He shakes his head reproachfully, ere continuing, "Follow me. Even as it was, the decadence of a Numenor which was no longer, we fell the Enemy once. Our blood was strong and good. Still, Elendil died his kingdom was divided between his sons in peace. And thus it went, two lineages for each half."
He stops, looking at the man, "Our brothers in the northern kingdom... do you know of a northern kingdom, of any king other than Theoden?" he asks, a brief pause, "I do not. For they have fallen-- because of arrogance, of ill-advice, of anger."
At the ranger's reproach, the scout again drops his eyes, though not before shame can be glanced there. "No, I know not of a northern kingdom," Ceredir concedes, bitterness gone again.
He lifts his eyes back to Gurtir, but only briefly, for he looks away, staring across the empty training ground. "It was more than that, though," his voice drops to just above a whisper. "I wanted.." he frowns, looks embarrassed and glances sideways to Gurtir and away again. "I grew up with the tanner making sure I damn well knew I wasn't his son or his family. Not a day passed when he wouldn't rub salt in that wound...." He glances to the ranger, not continuing, looking to see if the man understands.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir does break his speech, a nod coming from him, "You have been done ill to, Ceredir. Nothing that I say means to contradict that. What I require of you is that you think beyond it, let it go in favour of something that matters more."
"Look at our Gondor. At our tall men, our fair women, _our_ children here. Remember of Rohan, their brave men, their beautiful ladies, their easy-laughing children. Go beyond all beauty you have yet seen and imagine the forgotten race of elves and their wonders.", he stares at the Scout, then adds, "Imagine all of it burning."-- a dry, cold tone, cruel in its indifference.
"The houses, the stables, the grass of Rohan. Our houses, our trees, our books. ", he pauses for a long while, letting the other muse, "Why does it not happen? Why aren't there more lands that are covered in orc filth and desolation?"
The Ranger's cold tone draws Ceredir's attention again, and with it, a frown from the scout.
"We fight it," he states flatly. "We throw our men against it and we die slowly."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"You are correct. It is not so..."
"Because we fight. Because we hold them back. Because every day, a man from our Company bleeds.", Gurtir continues, his voice now filled with a bitter-sweet pride, "In spite of the skill of the Hostmen who hold Osgiliath, of the Knights who strike the corsairs, of the Rohirrim, of who knows which other people are in the same struggle we are, it is the Company of Ithilien that feels the blow the heaviest."
"Our names are not asked. Our faces, seldom remembered. But our deeds, those live forever-- even unknown. They live in the continued resistance to the Shadow, in the laughter and joy that challenge the Enemy's malice, in the songs of wine, women, home."
Ceredir stares for a hearbeat, then his gaze leaves the ranger and he closes his eyes briefly, as if in some pain, his face a little paler in the growing dawn.
"What do I do, then?"
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir pauses at Ceredir's question, his tone becoming more informal again, "If you will remember what I spoke yesterday-- of the patrols? Carmayar and Cuthalion have great dislike for each other. Out in the Garden, it does not matter: it is not a Cuthalion beside you it is a Brother. The only man who will be able to save you. The only man who understands the lack of warm food, of dry clothing, the horrors you witness."
He stops to stare at the scout again, "I was once of fiery temper, heckless rage. But I would not shame the valorous men who wore the same uniform I do. What had they to do with my inner troubles? What had Gondor to do with my inner troubles that I would risk the moral of my Company, the very lives of its defenders? Would I part the only kingdom left attesting the grandeour of Numenor, of Elendil, in strife merely on account of a bar argument?"
"You have met one bad man in Gondor, Ceredir. Will you make the one thousand good ones suffer on his account? Is it fair that you give such power over yourself to one single man?"
Again he pauses, a vicious pause, "Is Sir Elenur _really_ deserving of this power you give him, this power over you? That his name may flare your temper the sight of him and his words, deprive you of your rationality and make you cast your own name, the most important one, the name each makes through deeds and effort, cast it on the mud of disgrace?"
There is a very long pause before the scout answers, the only sounds here the morning breeze rustling through nearby trees, birds stirring to song with the rising sun.
"No."
Ceredir turns and meets Gurtir's eyes. "No."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Indeed, Gurtir holds his peace while the scout ponders- and after he answers. He but nods slowly at him, the seconds flowing, the birds singing, the sun rising behind his back, "It is always a matter of choice. It may be half a second of decision-- but still it is half a second of decision."
"You do not suffer arrogance as of yet. You do not suffer ill-advice.", the Ranger says, "Do not fall because of anger alone."
A faint encouraging smile twists his lips, "Today I hope you have learnt two things: one about yourself the other, about what is _not_ yourself. Both much necessary to grasp that half second of decision which shows itself before disaster."
"It is easy," Ceredir replies after more long moments of silence, "to fall into habits. Half a second." He sighs a little, looking to Gurtir and then again away, east to the dawn. "Half a second to make a choice. To undo a lifetime of anger built up...18 years of it." Subdued, Ceredir shakes his head, no hope in his eyes at this.
"The sun is rising."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir's silence while regarding Ceredir's loud-thinking is respectful. He then turns to look at the rising sun.
"You are dismissed."
"Sir." Ceredir's manner returns to the formality of earlier, though the scout is very much subdued in voice and manner. He starts to walk away, then turns back, looking at the ranger with confusion on his face for a moment.
"Thank you."
With those words, he leaves.
Minas Tirith: Training Grounds
At the northern terminus of the Way of Kings, there rises the sheer face of Mount Mindolluin, beneath which is set a wide complex wrought of stone: the training grounds of Minas Tirith. Watched over by tall statues of the warrior Lords of the past, the training grounds are grim and spartan, set with practice circles and larger yards for mock combat. The Way of Kings heads south from here, however, coming to a grim looking gate that leads to the upper circles of the City of Stone.
During the evening hours, the training grounds are illuminated by the crimson glow of torches set into the walls, and tended to by a lone Man-at-Arms who ensures that nothing is amiss during the night.
Plumbean clouds cover the sky blown by eastern winds, and not a single star gazes through such a veil. The Training Grounds of Minas Tirith are dead silent, ill-lit, empty but by one man, a dark figure yielding a spear.
Stoically, he trains alone, performing with his spear what would seem a dance bizarre, a struggle against invisible forces-- a pained one.
Dawn's first pale light now begins to cut through the edges of the far clouds, and the tramp of feet can be heard entering the training grounds--Ceredir and two guards escorting him, none of the three looking particularly pleased to be awake at this hour.
"Sir?" Ceredir takes a step toward the Ranger, the guards making no move to stop him.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
As the light starts to demystify what night, in its shadows, concealed, the man training becomes more and more visible: garbed in green, bandaged face, one known to many as Gurtir Carmayar.
The Ranger doesn't immediatly heed Ceredir: instead he continues with his movements, the thrusts, slashes, parries, dodges. In this, he favours somewhat his right arm and executes the movement in a slower fashion, one might think, than he would in a fight-- recovery training?
It is only when he is done with whatever sequence he had previously conceived, when he comes to what seems a natural halt and holds his peace in silent observation of the limited horizon of the yards that he turns to face Ceredir and acknowledge him with a nod.
"I believe this is the hour you requested my presence here, sir?" Ceredir speaks at last, holding his words until the ranger's attention has turned to him. Even so, the emptiness of the training ground and the darkness that lingers move him to speak quietly.
Behind him, the two guards shift, no doubt dreading what will turn out to be very boring duty for them this morning, watching the scout and ranger train.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir lifts two fingers, which he points at the scouting... scouts. "You two, dismissed. I assume responsability.", he says curtly, his tone also low. Then he starts pacing towards the rack of weapons, where he starts examining the swords, no word yet spoken at Ceredir.
"Yes sir." The two guards nod, turn crisply on their heels, and leave without hesitation, leaving Ceredir standing where he is, watching the Ranger.
"We were speaking of anger, sir, and how to control it?" the youth ventures after a moment, as Gurtir still says nothing to him. There is the impatience of youth in his body language, his feet shifting back and forth several times.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Still looking at the swords, Gurtir replies, "Yes."
Then he picks up a longsword, tests its balance, taking his time... he turns to Ceredir, "Were you displeased by waking up so early?"
"Sir?" Ceredir answers, taken aback somewhat by this question. "I..uh...no, sir." Clearly, he is lying--it's easily read in his eyes.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The Ranger glares at Ceredir and holds the gaze for a while-- annoying seconds of silence and scrutinization. Then he snorts.
"This will be an extra-official training, Ceredir. The Lord Captain does not answer for it, nor any other Ranger. What happens here, stays here.", he throws the sword at the ground in front of Ceredir, "If you are really willing to continue with this, pick it up."
He turns his back on the scout, walking to the centre of the arena.
The scout can only hold Gurtir's glare for a few seconds before his eyes drop to the dirt. "Yes sir," he replies to the Ranger's words, a frown creasing his forehead as he stoops to pick up the sword. "In that case, sir," he continues as he follows Gurtir, "I'd damn well rather be in my bed." He grins. "Sir." A pause. "But I'm here because I meant what I said yesterday." No lies light his eyes now.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir nods, perhaps pleased, perhaps satisfied, perhaps simply nodding.
"This demands silence, emptiness. Else, I would still be in my bad. I could not care. Therefore, I have three rules: while we are here, no matter what, you will obey me-- no matter what second, if ever you feel like giving up, goddamn tell me-- and then forget my name and treat me only by Sir, salute." he brings his closed right fist to his chest, exemplifying, "And you will never, ever, hit me in the face."
"Do you agree?"
In the still morning, the Scout's intake of breath at this can clearly be heard, and he stares hard at the ranger before he nods slowly.
"Yes. I agree," he says after a moment.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"Tell me what you know of blades then.", Gurtir says, the nigh solemn stance he was previously adopting vanishing after the scout's acquiesance.
"I'm afraid not much, sir," Ceredir replies, still addressing the Ranger formally. That much, it might seem, has been beaten into him by his training. "Laeghen has worked with me, of course, and the Knight Barasaphad. And I trained some while I was in Rohan, as well. Their King even showed up, and tried to have us unhorse him," he grins at the memory. "But my skills are rather poor."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
A nod, "I see. And what do you know of weapon conservation?", asks Gurtir.
"Weapon...conservation?" Ceredir's brows knit, and he shakes his head. "Nothing at all."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"The knives of your tanner you mentioned yesterday.", Gurtir says, an eyebrow raising, "Were they never sharpened? Oiled? Cleaned at least?"
"Oh...that.." Ceredir grins. "Didn't know the word for it, but yes. Daily. But...what does this have to do with my temper?"
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The question brings a smirk to Gurtir's lips, which quickly fades, "Are you questioning me?"
"No..." Ceredir answers quickly, then perhaps remembering the Ranger's reaction to his lie earlier, he licks his lips. "Yes. Sir." A frown now grows around his eyes
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"Well, do not. I don't deem it fitting.", Gurtir dismisses the subject with a shrug, "What I will have you do is tell me about blade maintenance. If you do not know, you just got yourself a task: to ask around until you find the appropriate proceedure.", he pauses for a reply.
"It.." Ceredir's frown deepens, the scout clearly puzzled by this line of questioning. "It has to be cleaned and oiled regularly. Not put away wet in its scabbard, or it may rust," he says slowly, grey eyes on the Ranger's face. "You can use a whetstone to bring up the edge, but bad nicks have to be ground out by a smith. I don't..." he starts, then thinks better of it, licking his lips again. "Much like a knife blade, only longer."
Gurtir(#30678)]
"Yes. You are correct. I'd add oiling the wooden hilt, but never so that it becomes slippery.", Gurtir agreees with Ceredir, nodding, "Now, this longsword I gave to you-- ", he points it with his chin, "If you will please put it back on the rack."
The Scout looks down at the sword he's holding, then up at the Ranger, blinking. He opens his mouth to protest, but no words come out--only just a very small sigh. Then he walks wordlessly to the rack and replaces the sword.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"Come back here now and speak honestly to me", Gurtir tells Ceredir, "Are you angry?"
Still over by the sword rack, Ceredir hesitates, then nods his head and walks back to the Ranger. "A little, yes. But more confused than angry, I think," he answers honestly.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"I see.", the Ranger nods.
"From this, I believe we can draw something of a line, wouldn't you agree? Your anger does not come from pride over trivial things. I ignored you when you arrived, yet you didn't complain I threw something at the ground and made you pick it up, for the sake of it, and you did it. I dismissed your curiousity and protest without reason, and you were silent. I made you walk back to the rack, while you thought you would fight me, just to retrieve what I made you pick up from the ground."
Gurtir starts pacing about, a few steps, then changing direction, "More than wanting to harm me, you would like explanations. Am I mistaken?"
"Yes sir," Ceredir says softly, the scout not watching Gurtir pace, but hanging his head now. He sighs quietly and continues in the same tone, "that's all I wanted from Sir Elenur, too. An explanation."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"However, he will not give it to you.", Gurtir adds after Ceredir's last phrase, coming to a halt and looking over at the scout, "And that's what angers you beyond your wits. Knowing that you are a perfectly worthy man, dedicated, capable, and yet, rejected... please correct me whenever I make a wrong statement.... and you know you cannot make a damn thing about it. You are merely a victim of random dark plot, condemnable lust, regretable mistake.", he pauses for a reply.
Still Ceredir does not look up, though he nods his head to the Ranger's words. "All of that," he replies, bitterness filling his voice. "And knowing that in a land where name is everything, I have none. Not even a low-born name or family. I have nothing."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"You have spoken of yourself. Now, I pray you think of Gondor now. Think further, think of Numenor. The land of our fathers. It sunk because of arrogance, ill-advice -- and of anger.", Gurtir starts speaking-- and pacing, "Yet some in there were good, and though many perished, a few escaped: the Faithful, who came to Middle Earth. And their kingdom spread from the Haradrim beaches to the far, far north-- farther than Rohan, farther than the enchanted forest, farther than the tall mountains, the lands of their enemies and beyond." he makes a grand gesture with his hand towards the horizon.
"Anger, yes," the scout interrupts. "And what has Elenur of Bragollach done to ease that anger and arrogance? How exactly has he made our forefathers proud? If indeed the men of Numenor are my forefathers. This.." he sweeps his hand toward his grey eyes and dark hair, "could all be an illusion. A coincidence. I could not be of Numenorean heritage at all. But, thanks to Elenur, I'll never know." Bitterness and anger weave themselves through Ceredir's words.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
And it is Gurtir's turn to show anger, "If you will not think beyond yourself, _boy_, then don't speak at all. Can you not feel it? Can you not see your traits in the people of our land? Do you really _need_ somebody to tell you you are one of us?"
He shakes his head reproachfully, ere continuing, "Follow me. Even as it was, the decadence of a Numenor which was no longer, we fell the Enemy once. Our blood was strong and good. Still, Elendil died his kingdom was divided between his sons in peace. And thus it went, two lineages for each half."
He stops, looking at the man, "Our brothers in the northern kingdom... do you know of a northern kingdom, of any king other than Theoden?" he asks, a brief pause, "I do not. For they have fallen-- because of arrogance, of ill-advice, of anger."
At the ranger's reproach, the scout again drops his eyes, though not before shame can be glanced there. "No, I know not of a northern kingdom," Ceredir concedes, bitterness gone again.
He lifts his eyes back to Gurtir, but only briefly, for he looks away, staring across the empty training ground. "It was more than that, though," his voice drops to just above a whisper. "I wanted.." he frowns, looks embarrassed and glances sideways to Gurtir and away again. "I grew up with the tanner making sure I damn well knew I wasn't his son or his family. Not a day passed when he wouldn't rub salt in that wound...." He glances to the ranger, not continuing, looking to see if the man understands.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir does break his speech, a nod coming from him, "You have been done ill to, Ceredir. Nothing that I say means to contradict that. What I require of you is that you think beyond it, let it go in favour of something that matters more."
"Look at our Gondor. At our tall men, our fair women, _our_ children here. Remember of Rohan, their brave men, their beautiful ladies, their easy-laughing children. Go beyond all beauty you have yet seen and imagine the forgotten race of elves and their wonders.", he stares at the Scout, then adds, "Imagine all of it burning."-- a dry, cold tone, cruel in its indifference.
"The houses, the stables, the grass of Rohan. Our houses, our trees, our books. ", he pauses for a long while, letting the other muse, "Why does it not happen? Why aren't there more lands that are covered in orc filth and desolation?"
The Ranger's cold tone draws Ceredir's attention again, and with it, a frown from the scout.
"We fight it," he states flatly. "We throw our men against it and we die slowly."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"You are correct. It is not so..."
"Because we fight. Because we hold them back. Because every day, a man from our Company bleeds.", Gurtir continues, his voice now filled with a bitter-sweet pride, "In spite of the skill of the Hostmen who hold Osgiliath, of the Knights who strike the corsairs, of the Rohirrim, of who knows which other people are in the same struggle we are, it is the Company of Ithilien that feels the blow the heaviest."
"Our names are not asked. Our faces, seldom remembered. But our deeds, those live forever-- even unknown. They live in the continued resistance to the Shadow, in the laughter and joy that challenge the Enemy's malice, in the songs of wine, women, home."
Ceredir stares for a hearbeat, then his gaze leaves the ranger and he closes his eyes briefly, as if in some pain, his face a little paler in the growing dawn.
"What do I do, then?"
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir pauses at Ceredir's question, his tone becoming more informal again, "If you will remember what I spoke yesterday-- of the patrols? Carmayar and Cuthalion have great dislike for each other. Out in the Garden, it does not matter: it is not a Cuthalion beside you it is a Brother. The only man who will be able to save you. The only man who understands the lack of warm food, of dry clothing, the horrors you witness."
He stops to stare at the scout again, "I was once of fiery temper, heckless rage. But I would not shame the valorous men who wore the same uniform I do. What had they to do with my inner troubles? What had Gondor to do with my inner troubles that I would risk the moral of my Company, the very lives of its defenders? Would I part the only kingdom left attesting the grandeour of Numenor, of Elendil, in strife merely on account of a bar argument?"
"You have met one bad man in Gondor, Ceredir. Will you make the one thousand good ones suffer on his account? Is it fair that you give such power over yourself to one single man?"
Again he pauses, a vicious pause, "Is Sir Elenur _really_ deserving of this power you give him, this power over you? That his name may flare your temper the sight of him and his words, deprive you of your rationality and make you cast your own name, the most important one, the name each makes through deeds and effort, cast it on the mud of disgrace?"
There is a very long pause before the scout answers, the only sounds here the morning breeze rustling through nearby trees, birds stirring to song with the rising sun.
"No."
Ceredir turns and meets Gurtir's eyes. "No."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Indeed, Gurtir holds his peace while the scout ponders- and after he answers. He but nods slowly at him, the seconds flowing, the birds singing, the sun rising behind his back, "It is always a matter of choice. It may be half a second of decision-- but still it is half a second of decision."
"You do not suffer arrogance as of yet. You do not suffer ill-advice.", the Ranger says, "Do not fall because of anger alone."
A faint encouraging smile twists his lips, "Today I hope you have learnt two things: one about yourself the other, about what is _not_ yourself. Both much necessary to grasp that half second of decision which shows itself before disaster."
"It is easy," Ceredir replies after more long moments of silence, "to fall into habits. Half a second." He sighs a little, looking to Gurtir and then again away, east to the dawn. "Half a second to make a choice. To undo a lifetime of anger built up...18 years of it." Subdued, Ceredir shakes his head, no hope in his eyes at this.
"The sun is rising."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir's silence while regarding Ceredir's loud-thinking is respectful. He then turns to look at the rising sun.
"You are dismissed."
"Sir." Ceredir's manner returns to the formality of earlier, though the scout is very much subdued in voice and manner. He starts to walk away, then turns back, looking at the ranger with confusion on his face for a moment.
"Thank you."
With those words, he leaves.
Players: Gurtir,Ceredir
