A Pardoning

Rain patters at the vast pains of ornate mosaic decorating the sunward face of Bar Cuthalion, creating a quiet, calming mood in the hall of the Cold Lord. Its ancient walls have rarely seen the caring hand of upkeep in recent times, a plethora of cobs taking residence in its most remote crevices. The busts of many great Lords past adorn beneath the heigh ceilings, casting distant, disproving glares at all below in expressions forever trapped in timeless molding of stone. The master of the House sits at the far end of a long dark wood table dominating the center of the great hall. The only sound other than the rain that permeates the stale air is that of meat and wine being dined on by the Lord Claimant. Behind him, standing tall, a likeness of Turin Turambar looks upon approvingly.

Stripped of his weapons, rude though they are, the absence making the owner seem stripped of more then a simple rude bow and a long bladed skinning knife. His body soaked through his clothing, the long walk from the wilds of the western lands evident in the spattering of mud that walks up his legs like the encroaching assault of a cancer. His garments are simple, cut in a basic peasant style with no obvious indication that he belongs in such a majestic, if untended place. Only the ring he wears upon a leather thong around his throat betraying his lineage. Ancient, stained and corroded metal holding several stones in hues of Ancient Cuthalion, for the first time in decades worn outside of his clothing. With legs moving lightly he enters. Ever ill at ease when surrounded by walls, he lifts his jaw up, his gait and walk only of an heir of a line extending back before the histories were written. Shedding water like an otter he stalks up the table and with arms folded across his chest he glares at this strange man eating so well. \"Yes.\" he states, half a question, more a declarative statement of presence.

The Lord Claimaint barely looks up from his meal. A half dozen heavily armed guards begin to converge on the stranger. \"Leave him.\" commands Endaerion. Sword and spear tip are withdrawn, raised to a steady position upward towards the ceiling while their wielders back away slowly from the odd man of the wild.

\"So, you are found here at last. I had hoped it would be sooner, but the memories of the Cuthalion are long indeed. What, at last, is your name?\" he asks, a stain of wine being brushed off his upper lip with a sleeve.

Glaring at the guards who approached and then withdrew. Though he is obviously nervous, this slight display of power and intimidationdon\'t seem to phase him. Lips part for a moment, his tongue moistening chapped lips as he speaks.

\"You should know, you\'re the ones who cut our names from the register.\" A pause then and he continues. \"I am Daeryn, the son of Daerfaron and Aeren. Exile of Cuthalion and criminal.\"

\"Cuthalion, you say?\" the Ranger asks with mild interest. \"Many lay claim to this namesake, and indeed some father\'s long ago father likely wore the name well, but whose kindred have long now descended into inferiority of mingled lesser blood.\" The meat he picks at originates from a large bird laid prone and cooked to a crisp, set upon the table. To it he gestures in offering. \"Come, eat.\"

\"Very well, Daeryn son of Daerfaron, I am Lord Endaerion of the Cuthalion. The blood in my veins is rich with the legacy of ancient glory you seek claim to share in. And now that we have done with introductions, let us be quick about our business. I beckoned your presence because it is you, apparently, who intervened on the behalf of the welfare of my daughters indeed, in their presence I will have your identity and alleged role in this affair confirmed or not. But for now let it suffice to say that what I speak is true.\"

There is a pause in the discourse, or monolog, as it may in fact be, and the Marcher Lord rises from his seat with cup in hand to cross the hall towards his guest. \"Isn\'t it peculiar, though? Certainly this thing happens from time to time the familiar to a man of wealth and power is captured and held for some ransom or other robbery, and occasionally some benevolet soul comes to secure their release to the reward of riches and esteem. Often, I surmise, these benefactors are part of the very operation that they come to waylay, and in doing so present a more digestible form for the ransom that is originally sought bereft of the embarrassment and weakness that comes with paying the ransom alone.

A long sip and the chalice is drained. \"And yet you remained for no such reward. I dare say, you spirited away before any display of gratitude could be given at all. Now I ask, Daeryn son of Daerfaron, why is this?\"

A shrug of his shoulders, not caring to answer your questions in regards to his legacy. Though he does not eat, he does pull out a seat and slowly settling in, legs dranw back beneath his seat and arms resting against the rests, fingers curling over the edges and holding tight, that one action betraying his discomforture with this scenario. \"I make no claim.\" he mutters. Eyes glancing back towards you, staring with simple intensity. \"I did not ask for a reward, I do not want a reward. I did not come to you then because I knew this would be my reward. Death.\" a shrug of his shoulder as he glances back to the shadowy figures, the weapons still shining silver in the faded light. \"My family... forty years ago, we were discredited. There was a crime, as I am sure you know, and I will not humiliate myself by abasement and plead for my life. I knew it was forfeit the moment I approached this city.\" pouring himself a glass of water and drinking deeply from it. His eyes betraying the fact that is probably the first non alcoholic brew he has injested in many days. Having spent his time since returning to the city getting progressively drunker in the Drover\'s Arms. \"So go to your records, read up of my shame, decide on my crime and then punish me. I care nothing for these games you play. I am Cuthalion, and I will not be shamed as once my father was.\" taking a knife from the bird and pushing it, hilt first towards you, as if expecting you to slit his throat with it.

The guards expectedly step forward with much alarm but are quickly waved off by their master. \"Steady your hand, Daerien. If I had wanted you dead you would be so already. A hunter does not toy with his game. But you answer well, and I gleam truth in what you say.\"

Still standing, he pours another cup of wine for himself and one for the irritated guest. Then turning upon him, \"I do not suffer treachery, but treachery I do not judge you of. Brave were your actions, even if I little understand their nature, and I concur that a one who would flee from possible reward may indeed never have thought to acquire one. But acquire one you shall.\" There is a brief pause and the Lord Claimant looks up from a lowered face. \"Your tale kindles a flicker of recognition in my memory, and I say to you that no son should shoulder the burden of his father\'s faults if he himself is capable of delivering redemption to his namesake. And this I say you have done.\"

Laughter greets your words, no mockery, no mirth even. The reason for the eruption unclear and he does not bother to explain. Sipping at his water, drinking deeply until the glass is drained and laid upon the table upside down, leaving a small ring of moisture where it laid and pushing it away as indication that he will take no more from your table. \"And the fire that destroyed the Farm near Erech?\" he asks. Having recovered enough to ask again, eyes darting to the shadows, expecting ever awaiting the invisible blade that will claim what little life he has formed for himself from the hands that lift from the arm rest to be in studied glimmer in his eyes. \"I burnt that house, killed those guards. Your kindness is misplaced. Where was generosity that allowed a good woman to be raped and murdered by savages. My father might have been a coward, but to assume I was as well. I found her, I punished her murderers. I thought to escape my own crimes, but the women of your house broke my anonymity. Ah well. Reward me if you will, kill me if you will. Otherwise, I will return to Erech. At least amongst the villagers, they do not know of my shame and for a few moments of the day I am accepted and enjoyed. It hardly matters.\" He stands up, and starts to walk, moving down the length of the table and slowly wandering up the other side, as if he were some caged animal, or a prisoner tracing the perimeter of his cell. \"I should mind my tongue shouldn\'t I. I am in no position to castigate you, you were not the one to hurt us. And if you do not intend to kill, then to antagonize you into it is hardly smart, is it?\"

\"I would say not.\" comes a grim reply, soon supplanted by an expression of stolid countenance. \"You say you\'ve killed. I have killed to my own kin even. Some say it is justice that warrants such deeds, though I am inclined to side on the part of might seeing men as the selfish, treacherous creatures they are. But the fact remains that I value the lives of my daughters, and those lives might have been extinguished hadn\'t it been for your deeds. And so it is in that light that I am all but forced to, as man of noble bearing, to owe a debt of gratitude towards yourself. Enough of a debt, at least, to award you a pardon of your previous sins.\"

The Marcher Lord draws forth a mighty longsword from where it previously lay, sheathed upon his side. Its point he faces downward with the hilt gestured towards the man before him. \"By your oath, take me as your lord, and your pardon you shail receive backed by the very metal that you thus swear it upon.\"

Half flinching as you pull the blade from the sheath. The man pauses and then drops to one knee in front of you and shaking his head \"I am of the blood, but not trained to service. I am a hunter, my only lord was the earth itself. And her dictates could never be ignored.\" he takes a deep breath and looks up at you, the stubble on his head and face darkening his features to shadow so it is that his pale eyes that seem to be floating in the shadows of the flickering candles. \"I have been your servant in my mind for so long as I have been alive. Even when I knew not your name, I have been Cuthalion. I served the house on my own, to serve it in specific would be of no matter. What would you ask of me?\" he states, laying his left hand slightly forward, his right against his hip, within inches of his knife scabbard, but the blade has already been taken from him, so there is no evident danger there. The sheath in his left boot is also deserted, but there is perhaps that moment of suspicion that where two knives were found, perhaps one more was missed.

A firm nod. \"I hear you, Daerien son of Daerfaron. And by these words is your oath sealed, and your fate. Received are you homage and fealty, and to you I return the steadfast guardianship of your now lord. Rise, and be counted among the scions of Eldecar, Daerien of the Cuthalion. And Faelcrum, the Just Handed, shall you be known by your reunited kin, so that none may question the justice of thy deeds or raise a hand against you for them in retribution, less they have it cut down by my own. This I swear, Endaerion of the Cuthalion.\" And with a swift flick of his hand against steel, his fist clenches to squeeze droplets of crimson upon the store floor.

Eyes wide, watching you now, studying your features and trying to absorb your words as you speak them. Not knowing this ritual or the meaning behind your words. Lips turned slightly downwards. A nod of his head \"As you will my Lord. I will not wilt under pressure or bring disfavor onto the house. Of that I can assure you. Even if I am unable to comprehend the meaning of many things, know that my ignorance is honest at the least. Tell me of my duties, and I shall see they are completed. Direct my bow, and the arrow will fly true. Of this I can guarantee. Though my father ne\'er earned his name, you will not find me disgracing my given name, or the choice you have made. It is a worthy title, even if I feel the recipient is not yet worthy of such an appelation.\" such a long speech causing him to start, suddenly realizing perhaps that his tongue has gotten away from him again and silently his eyes fall to stare at the blood staining the floor, sanguin release that mars the slate grey of eternity upon which this building was built to withstand the pressures of an eternity. \"Let this past be my only requiem of dissent to the will of my Lord. I have grown older, and hope I have grown wiser.\"

\"Older and wiser I hope you will grow, but at the least you will find honor for your name. No need of your service comes to mind at the moment, but I shall keep you close for when the time arises. I grant you the privilege of roaming the woodlands of my holding, if a warden and keeper you will be of theirs. This, I believe, suits well your talents. And service in the Company of Ithilien I cannot recommend more highly if it is in combat that you seek your honor. There are few honors higher than the defense of our ancient homeland, may she be one day reclaimed from the Enemy.\"

An inclination of his head at your words, chastised in his own mind. Reaching out with his right hand and running his palm against the blood that stains the blade, slicing beneath his skin, a chunk falling from the pad at the base of his thumb, but his own blood now stains your blade, dripping from the downturned tip to splash as well, and folding back the flap of flesh and pressing his bleeding palm to his thigh to staunch the flow. \"I know not the paths the world might have me walk, but where I am called by the Steward or yourself, I will walk those paths instead.\" He moves to stand up, blood slowly dripping down the outer leather of his pants leg, his hand rising up slightly and still pressed to his hip, fingers slowly turning crimson despite the pressure. \"But I know a few things, even if my skills are honed to the hill country of the west, the world is ever the same even as her features might change. I will learn the ways of this country here, and in time I expect I will find the ways as well.\" he manages a smile, though it is but a moments flash before it is returned to the stolid demeanor, revealing nothing of the turmoil of the mind behind those pale eyes.

The Marcher Lord grows silent for a moment, and grave in his manner. \"To take the oath of a soldier of Gondor is no simple thing. I will not command this upon you, for we cannot fight to be free men if we do not fight as free men. But if this is what you seek, then repeat these words...\"

And so he begins the ancient incantation, \"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm. 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. So say I, Daerien son of Daerfaron.\" Silence echos.

Saluting you as he nods his head and repeats the words you have spoken to him, his voice steady, no quaver or break. Save for that slight hoarseness as if a voice that speaks now has not spoken so much aloud in so long. Adding nothing, subtracting nothing save for finally at the end mouthing the name you gave to him. As if tasting the words, testing them out against his own view of himself. But as he stops he turns to look at you, grey eyes unblinking and studious, with an intellect that has not been sullied by any education, or spent o\'erlong in study or words, the sunlight giving him the weatherworn features so wholley unsimiliar to the squinted features of reading crabbed writing by ill flickering light.

As said above - \"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm. 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. So say I, Daerien son of Daerfaron.\"

\"And this again do I hear, Endaerion of house Cuthalion, Ranger of the Company of Ithilien, as representative of Denethor, Ecthelion\'s son, Lord of Gondor, and Steward of the High King: We will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath breaking with vengeance.\" The words come as ritual the seasoned Ranger, delivered without fault. \"Many have I administered this oath to, many have I seen perish. All one can hope for is a worthy death.\"

Then the blade is sheathed. \"You\'ll be given full hospitality while you remain here, my servants will see to that. But you will have to excuse me, for now I retire.\" The Cold Lord then motions to turn, but stays himself in pause before surprisingly bringing a hand to rest upon the man\'s shoulder.

\"Thank you.\" he whispers in a low voice, and turning then departs.

Impassive as ever, the man seems most to react to the final thrate of breaking the oath. The vengeance visited upon those who do, such a part of his life for so long that the very concept, anaethema to him as it is, engrained upon the pinhead of his soul. The crack of lightning and thunder reverberating, rattling the windows. He bows his head a moment \"Thank you Lord Endaerion.\" he whispers and waiting for you to leave before inhaling deeply and turning on his heel, pulling a sheet of cloth from his pocket and wrapping it around his palm to ease the blood flowing from his wound. He stops at the door and just silently glaring at the guard who took his weapons, waiting until his knives are returned, his makeshift quiver and the hand made recurved bow is slung over his shoulders, and ignoring the weather he steps out, seeking the peace that only comes when the stars are the blanket and the dirt is the bed.