A New Squire

Military’s cadence diffuses across the encampment of Gondor for it is morn, and those stationed in her encampment are pit already to toils.  Between the many tents resounds the din of steel, coupled with footfall’s labor: guards shift and soldiers march beneath their many banners.

The pavilion of Dol Amroth is no different.  Therein, some Knights attend to their armors, the Lord Isilrim present among them.  About him stand some pages of his House, assisting the man in his craft.

[Dramborion(#13258)] The warming sunlight filtering into the pavillion, reflecting brilliantly off of the gleaming suits of armor being honed by the knights and their Lord, is temporarily and partially obstructed by a strikingly tall, very typically Gondorian young man, longish black hair playing about his youthful features, covered though they are in a light film of coarse, thick stubble. He looks about confusedly, clearly overwhelmed by the militant din, before his gaze settles upon a man who appears to be the Lord Isilrim. Hesitantly, he approaches, his expression, though generally stoic, rife with anxiety.

\"Lord Isilrim?\" he inquires, his voice unusually deep and resonant for one as young as he.

Palm yet bearing some mail links, the Knight Arathis shifts in regard of the Isilrim youth.  For a moment, he is silent, unashamedly assessing the lad with a hard gaze.  Then he speaks, brief words borne flatly: “Hail, good Dramborion.”

So he waits, narrowing upon the page.

[Dramborion(#13258)] Straining to hide his nervousness, sweat beginning to bead on his brow, he clenches and unclenches his fists, wiping his palms of the perspiration gathering there with his fingers. He casts a glance downward at the mail in the hands of Arathis before returning his gaze to that of the Lord Isilrim. At last finding his composure and eliminating the waver from his voice, he speaks clearly and resolvedly: \"I\'ve come to seek squirehood, and of you, Lord Isilrim, at my father\'s recommendation being newly 18, the commencement of my service is past due.\"

“Yet it is not for age that our kin serves the Prince.”

Though the Lord Isilrim settles the links upon a table, his air does not forsake their steel temper.  Clasping his hands at his back, he peers upon the youth, a stillness in his eyes.

“For what reason, son of Hir Ithilthor, wish you to bind your life to an Oath?”

[Dramborion(#13258)] A sharp, albeit inaudible, inhale and a slow, heavy blink of his eyes are all that would indicate Dramborion\'s deliberation. Running his thumb and forefingers over either side of his cheeks, feeling the faint stubble bristling thereupon, he briefly casts his eyes off and away, weighing his words heavily before at last returning the solemn gaze of the Lord Isilrim. At last he begins, speaking yet unfalteringly: \"Lord Arathis, it is my destiny to serve in the Order, and indeed I have been bred for such. My father and his before him all bound themselves to Oaths in turn, and I desire naught else in this life but to honor the tradition amidst which I have been reared. My love for and loyalty to Belfalas and Dol Amroth run deep: it is my home, the place that serves as frame for the fondest memories of my youth, and as such my will to see them both thrive and protected is expansive.\"

[Dramborion(#13258)]

He tarries yet another moment in thought, his regard once again growing distant and reflective, before once again addressing Lord Arathis: \"I have been given everything by the land that I love I am bound to reciprocate in kind.\"

The germs of a grimace bend the Isilrim Lord’s visage as the youth speaks, albeit it softens at his latter words.

“To risk death in the shadow of your fathers is folly.  And a request on such grounds I shall reject.  Yet what of this love?  Belfalas is wide, and many men bear arms under banner other than the Swan of the Knights.

“Heed!  Name me the Virtues of this Order, and those you deem at odds with one another.  For a Swansman that cannot come to terms with himself shall fail the Prince, and failure in service is forbidden of the Order you seek to join, good Dramborion.”

[Dramborion(#13258)] Dramborion\'s faint, nearly imperceptible wince at the visage and response of the Lord Isilrim alone belies his fear of having misappropriated. Hesitating again, his expression now frozen in introspection, he runs a hand up his forearm, tracing the prominent veins therein. \"Lord Arathis, there is no order more noble, more apt and wont to the service of Belfalas than that of the Swan Knights, and, that I may defend her to the full capacity of which I am capable, it is thus that I desire to bear the emblem of this and no other.\"

[Dramborion(#13258)]

Remembering his prior request, Dramborion\'s countenace lightens considerably, his voice taking on a tone considerably less grave, though by no means less earnest. \"The seven virtues of the Order, Lord Arathis, are as follows.\" At this he takes a breath, inunciating, pehaps overbearingly, each virtue with resounding clarity, pausing briefly following the recitation of each.

\"Loyalty. Truthfulness. Justice. Courage. Compassion. Humility. Hope.\"

Collecting his thoughts yet again, he continues: \"There are, of course, and as you have already pointed out, points of conflict within the seven virtues themselves. Loyalty and truthfulness, for example, cannot perpetually present harmoniously anymore than may compassion and justice.\"

A flicker of his arm, and the ancient Star-sword of Solitar is freed with steel’s howl: the token of his lordship held aloft, the Knight Arathis towers before the youth of his kin.  Those others within the canvas of Amroth are gripped in a watching silence.

Thus booms the tongue of the Lord Isilrim alone: “Kneel, good Dramborion!  And lay your hands upon the hilt of this blade, Inalantadil, for it shall be witness to your word.”

[Dramborion(#13258)] Gripped with sudden fright, awestruck to the point of immobility, Dramborion\'s eyes go wide at the sight of the sword\'s unsheathing. Fighting the instinctual urge to flinch, his body relaxes at the semantic of Arathis\' behest and, dropping reverently, almost limply, to his knees, lays vaguely tremlbing hands upon the gleaming blade of Inalantadil.

“Repeat after me, Dramborion!”

The command of the Knight thunders from him his stare rivets unblinking upon the page, heedful of his every syllable.

\"Here do I, Dramborion son of Ithilthor, swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Prince of Dol Amroth to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my Lord release me, or death take me, or the world end.\"

[Dramborion(#13258)] Mustering composure, Dramborion dutifully obeys the Lord Isilrim\'s command. His voice, retaining now but shadows and whispers of youth, resonates proudly throughout the pavillion as he repeats the oath spoken to him, never wavering. His recitation is flawless: \"Here do I, Dramborion, son of Ithilthor, swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Prince of Dol Amroth to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end.\"

His chest expands with a breath of relief, which he then slowly, deliberately expires, awaiting the response of Lord Arathis.

Attentive, Arathis listens carefully to the ancient Oath as it is recited by the youth.  At its conclusion, the Lord’s bass lifts in speech once more: “And this do I hear, Arathis Alcarin Isilrim, son of the late Lord Marshall Sirion II Isilrim, Lord of the Sema, and Knight to Prince Imrahil and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is freely given:  fealty with love, valor with honor, and oath-breaking with vengeance.”

Retracting his blade, the mien of the Knight is now slightly lighter than before: “Now rise, Dramborion, White Squire of Dol Amroth for this rank is now entrusted to you, and all the duties it entails.”

[Dramborion(#13258)] The young squire\'s eyelids snap open, closed as they had been in absorption of the crescendo and succeeding climax of the ceremony, but above all of his newly acquired status.

At last he rises and, meeting the gaze of Lord Arathis yet again, addresses him and all gathered \'round: \"In the name of Belfalas and the Lord and Prince of Dol Amroth shall I ever and faithfully carry out the oath which I have here sworn this morn. In their name alone...\"

Sheathing his sword, the Lord Isilrim suddenly clasps the shoulder of the Squire, a firmness in his grip.  Tarrying his hand there wordlessly, he remarks at length: “Your first task, Squire of the Swan, is to find the Knight-Captain Bor Bragollach and name yourself and to inform him of a ride that I shall take at noon, for which you shall prepare both our steeds, if he would join.

“With haste!”

Thus the Lord Isilrim returns to his armors.

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