A lesson repeated

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.

Obvious exits:

Southeast leads to Minas Tirith: Way of Kings -- Marshalling Square.

---

It is a crisp, spring afternoon, the sky a deep blue with the first of the evening stars beginning to define themselves upon the dimming background. The training yards are yet still busy, the call for evening meals has not yet been sounded. Most of the men here are of the Hosts, the soldiers of Gondor who stand ready for Minas Tirith, with a few Knights and Squire, donning the White Swan of Dol Amroth. And in the corner, separated from the rest is another. The men of Gondor watch him carefully for he is dressed in clothes of the desert, his skin tanned to match, for he is Haradrim, and an enemy of Gondor.

Yildirim exercises in the yard. Though no blade, practice or otherwise, lays in his hand, he manages to do his forms with a naked, thin branch he must have found elsewhere.

Among those practicing here is a squire from Dol Amroth dressed in a blue tunic--one Menelglir Telpekhor. He breaks from his sparring partner, pulling off his helmet to reveal sweat-soaked hair ans he heads to a nearby barrel of water to ladle a drink for himself. Thirst quenched--or nearly so, for he takes another drink and then a third--he sets the ladle back down and crosses over to watch Yildirim.

The Harad man gets a nod. \"We must talk.\"

A smile is instantly upon the lips of the Haradrim as he is addressed by the young Squire. He stops and bows at the waist, \"Master Menelglir. An unexpected surprise.\"

He turns from the young man, retaking his stance, \"Must is a strong word. But I,\" he pauses, the language lost to him for a brief instance, \"I will humor you. What must we talk of?\"

One detaches himself from the muddle of men-at-arms at the far end of the yard to pace slowly back across the ground, dark head downcast. In his wake echoes a stern reprimand, \"-thee gone, and on the morrow fail thy kin no more.\" He is barely more than stripling, youth evident in the planes of his features, though in his eyes, when at last he lifts his gaze, is not joy but despair.

Chance it is, that brings him near to the stranger grey eyes narrow, snake-like. At the sight of Menelglir apparently carrying on a civil conversation with this servant of the Enemy, the young man\'s lips part in shock.

\"Must is a strong word and I would say it is a request. To be strictly polite,\" Menelglir says, lips thinning as they press together in a slight frown. \"I wish to apologize to you for my behavior on the day I punched you. I..\" More might come from the Blue Squire, but the arrival of a man-at-arms and the man\'s shocked look at him silences him. For the moment. Only a moment, in fact.

\"Is something amiss, brother?\"

A keen though alights in the eyes of the Haradrim. He pauses and stands, motioning towards the Man-at-Arms, \"Perhaps he has also come for another lesson? To learn the ways of the enemy so you may kill him?\"

\"If it is possible to gleen such information from an enemy who offers it openly.\"

The young man\'s hand clenches at that question, and the look he shoots this unknown senior is anything but brotherly. After a moment, though, his resentment is reigned firmly back under control with naught but a tightening of his lips to show for it. \"I had not heard that Gondor had any cause to offer apology to those of the South ... brother.\" The words are tight, reproving, even if their speaker looks less in years than Menelglir - or perhaps because of it.

At Yildirim\'s speech he barks out, \"There is nothing I need to learn that /you/ could teach me.\" This time he appends no title of rank or courtesy.

A muscle in Menelglir\'s jaw twitches ever so briefly, his temper so close at hand. But he inhales sharply and stares silently at the Hardrim before addressing the man at arms first.

\"_I_ have cause to apologize to this man of the South, who is here under a flag of truce. Which I violated. Therefore, I am offering him an apology.\" He looks at Yildirim. \"A humble one, sir. I have learned my lesson the hard way. I am sorry.\"

With that, Menelglir lets out a long sigh, then turns back to study the younger man at arms. \"I would say you should spar with him, but I fear you will make the same mistake Idid.\"

A raised brow, \"I think, as with many things, my Northerner friend, you are incorrect on what can be taught by me.\"

He holds an empty hand out, \"Find me one of your practice blades, and I will teach you that which your masters cannot.\" A pause and then a grin.

\"You violated a truce?\" the young man repeats, honest bewilderment creeping in above the hurt pride in his tone. \"But how- I mean, please explain, Squire.\" He jerks his shoulders back as the formal words are spoken, and holds his head high.

Yildirim\'s offer is received with a haughty stare. \"Then you would teach dishonour and deceit. Such lessons I have no will to learn, Southron.\"

\"I violated a truce,\" Menelglir sighs, then stares at Yildirim. \"What say you? I have apologized. Is it accepted, sir?\"

And then to the man-at-arms once more, he turns. \"I punched him. Words were exchanged between us and I lost my temper and punched him. Several times, in fact.\"

\"And you -should- spar with him. It would do you well...your name?\" Menelglir\'s words echo Yildirim\'s, and he glances that way and frowns. \"Despite his words. Heed not his words. As I said. Don\'t fall into the mistake I made.\"

\"Dishonor? Deceit? I have only been taught these things from Gondor. I only offer to teach the sword and,\" the young man looks his counterpart over, with a judging sigh, \"From the look of things, it would do you well.\"

\"And to your offense, it was a minor slight. I gratefully accept your apology,\" he bows again, \"And offer to you as well, another lesson.\"

Of course Yildirim\'s barb strikes its target easily. \"My abilities are none of your concern, Southron,\" the young man-at-arms snaps, his own hand clenching at his belt. \"When I am trained I my sword will cleave the necks of Gondor\'s enemies easily enough. Gondor is strong.\" Pride has spoken Menelglir\'s words come too late.

At those words, though, he sighs, his head dipping in what looks very much like shame. \"Were Gondor insulted, I fear I would do likewise,\" he murmurs, chastized. At the request for a name he squares his shoulders, responding as though it were a rote duty, \"Maerion. Of the Silver Ship Company.\"

\"Thank you.\" Menelglir sighs as his apology is accepted, looking distinctly relieved...and then surprised. \"Me? Another lesson? In swords?\" He shrugs, thinking about it for only a few seconds before pacing toward a rack of practice swords. His own sword and helmet and shield are set aside, and he picks up two wooden swords, hesitating and then finding a third. Thus outfitted, he trots back to the pair, in time to hear Maerion\'s words and thrust a practice sword to him and to the Southron.

\"Maerion of the Silver Ship Company, I repeat--heed not his words. Or heed them and practice using the anger that they generate to good ends. But do not break the truce. He is a diplomat, after all. And I am Menelglir, Blue Squire..\" He frowns toward Yildirim. \"Ready?\"

Yildirim weighs the blade in his hands, \"It is very thin. Like a stick.\"

Again his hands work the weight, \"Odd. But, it will do.\"

\"On guard,\" and he takes his stance.

The young Maerion stares down at the sword in his hand as though it were an adder. But the Squire is, after all, his superior. And the hurts of his previous practise session are still smarting. Resolutely now he grasps the wooden blade, and raises it before him in what he clearly believes to be a defensive stance. High as it is held, his legs are an easy target.

A smile lights Menelglir\'s face, not friendly, though, and he raises his blade to stand ready to meet the Southron\'s, a nod of acknowledgement given. And then, out of the corner of his eye he sees Maerion\'s stance, and he breaks his concentration to frown at the man-at-arms. \"No, no, turn your body sideways to him and don\'t stand so flat-footed,\" he offers. It\'s a perfect chance for the Southron to attack.

But he does not strike, though he eyes the opening. Instead, he offers a testing jab towards the Man-at-Arms, showing the opening the Squire speaks of.

Maerion\'s shoulders jerk at the reprimand, and his jaw sets. He flicks Menelglir an angry glance. \"Like thi-\" Even as he moves, Yildirim\'s light wooden blade catches him on the thigh. Pressing his lips together, he hisses in Menelglir\'s direction, \"I do not need any help, /Squire.\" His own wooden blade swings out blindly toward Yildirim, without any real targeting. The anger that lends the motion strength, though - that is real.

\"Oh...well...he needs no help,\" Menelglir echoes, smirking as the Harad\'s blade connects. \"Then I shall stand and watch my brother at arms while he instructs me in the ways of swordcraft.\" And with a small bow, he does back up to watch.

The Haradrim is not large, but he is nimble. The blade is easily side stepped and the Haradrim swing to connect with the same thigh, perhaps a bit too hard. He frowns.

Perhaps it is the repetition of the same target that gives the young Gondorian warning. Maerion, still recovering his balance from that last swing, jerks back as Yildirim\'s wooden blade thrusts out, so that the point no more than brushes his leg. \"Like a stinging gnat,\" he taunts. Taking a couple of deep breaths, the young man-at-arms directs his next stroke a little more than the last - he is aiming for that outstretched arm.

Maerion\'s attack is aggressive and Yildirim pulls his arms back and up to deflect. He pushes hard on the blade, putting no small amount of weight on the blade, \"I do not know what this... gnat is... but you talk much for one so close to losing.\" He steps the side, the blade running down the length of his opponents and then to land across Maerion\'s body.

Anger flashes in Maerion\'s grey eyes. Alas for Menelglir\'s warnings about discounting those words ...\"I will never surrender!\" he proclaims proudly.

Of course, thus distracted, there is ample time for the man of Harad\'s blade to wrap round his own, flicking it from his grasp - and then to land on his unprotected midriff beneath. The young man gives a gasp as he is winded, but the tears pricking his eyes probably have less to do with pain and more with humiliation.

There is silence as he gropes for the dropped \'sword\'.

Heard or no, Yildirim instructs on what he believes caused the young man to make the mistake. His tone, while polite and not patronizing, has that of a mentor, teaching his student. And for a moment, his sword is lowered.

Maerion\'s face turns white as he hears those words. Once the wooden blade is back in his grip, he pulls himself back to his feet, and for a moment it seems as though he will lunge at the southron. Then, with a jerk of his shoulders, he steps back. \"I-\" he begins. \"I will ... I will continue this lesson on the morrow.\" Without either word of thanks or subtle insult he turns on his heel and walks away from his companions, heading out of the training grounds. He keeps his face averted from all and once he lifts a sleeve to rub at his face.