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From White to Blue (Three Horses and an Ass TP)

Tags: Menelglir,  Arathis,  Gwendion

Short Summary: Arathis returns to speak with Gwendion; Menelglir is promoted.
Date (real-life): 2009-12-02
Scene Location: Eastern Eriador


Night comes and a camp is set. Inside the wagon there is only the Knight Gwendion. He sits upon a small wooden crate, his head hunched over held between his hands.

Outside, the young Squire and and Ranger speak softly over the campfire, enjoying the last of their meal.



A horseman arrives with neither word nor account.

His hand, dirtied and gloved, turns the wagon's canvas freely.

He then speaks, still from without: "Have you found a new wife, Gwendion?"

It is Arathis, some days removed, peering now queerly upon his fellow knight.



Startled, the Knight's head jumps at the voice but soon, surprise is replaced by a kind smile and tired eyes.

"Indeed not though," a sideways glance is cast towards where the squire and ranger would be sitting, "I think I am not the one to be asking such questions."

"No, though I am glad to see you. I have had much on my mind and of those thoughts I would speak with you."

"If course the Knight-Herald has strength yet to hear of my words after some time on the road." Gwendion offers then, "I noticed we seem to have still a rather large supply of wine. But it's purpose may be saved for trade and not respite."

"What say you, Lord Arathis?"



Arathis pulls himself into the wagon, his cloak shuffling before being tossed aside.

"Some wine would do us well," he agrees, lowering to a crate, "though the Elves shall require much of it."

Two plain-silvered goblets are handed to Gwendion. "Speak if you would speak; you need no leave from me.

"And pray, tell too why she is here, if not your wife."




A bottle is uncorked with a single hand as Gwendion speaks, a subtle laughter in his words, "I long ago lost the heart for such wonderful troubles as that rabbit could bring. I gladly pass along the opportunity to another, if such a chance even exists. But," hee tips the bottle and fills the first glass betwixt his fingers with skill beyond that expected from a Knight and holds it out to the Knight-Herald, "It is of Menelglir I would speak. He has traveled with us for some months now, as I with you, and though there is still much he can learn as a swordfighter," he pauses, his mood now souring some, "I think there is nothing beyond the sword I would teach him as a White."



“You call ladies rabbits?”


The goblet is nosed to a wry smirk; “Perhaps you have not been absent from Amroth for too long.


“But Menelglir?” A quaff follows the name, “He is clumsy; I cannot see him with sword.


“He is also daft, and meant to be more than a swordsman.”



"Such is my argument. A White is a boy, learning the limits the order; a Blue, of himself. Aghh...."

In a gruff, he fills his own cup deftly, "It has been long since I was among squires, and I have never had a Blue. So, you are the authority on such things in spirit and in actuality, Knight-Herald."

"He is a boy. Just a child learning the sword. For me, he is at a point where I wish to speak to him as a young man, but I cannot for he is but a White."

With a sniff and a wry smile, he adds, "I suppose what I ask is clear by now. I think he should be made a Blue and that either you take him, so I may instruct him under the path laid by yourself. Or, you grant him to me and I create the plan for his lessons. In either case, I will no longer need to treat him as a child. For though he has far to go, he is no longer one I think."

Another drink and he asks in last, "Your thoughts?"



Arathis looks over his shoulder, considering the boy through the wagon's canvas.

"It would be better," he turns back, "to speak to him as a man only when one. He is not as young as you would favor, and betrays everywhere the propriety of his House and our Order.

"But know what you would ask me: Squires of Blue shall ride and die upon their Oaths with the Knights; and should they live, their lives are still not their own.

He pauses to finish his cup. "I care little for the banter of the Elves; we are soon to war. Think you Menelglir ready?

"I shall not in good mind put a poor boy to die, especially if he knows not yet the Principles for which he shall die."




"I would counter you speak of two different things, sir. Often one lives up to the expectations of one's station. In my eyes, if you never chance to expect a boy to behave a man then he will rarely disappoint you. For you, I do not know what test you apply in your thoughts on such things. For me, he asks questions that are foolish and is quite immature, but his heart is strong and true and he has begun to speak questions beyond the empty minded, doe-eyed drivel that all new squires do. They are few and far between, but that is a mark for me that now is the time to force to him be more than he is now," explains the Knight, clearly troubled by more behind the long string of words.


Finally, another drink and then, "Now I feel as if we are holding him back. And where we go, he must age and grow faster, not slower."


"As for war, men do not rise to the occasion of war, only to their training. I do my best and he will be as ready as he will be, Blue or White. He learns quickly, but with the sword, there is much to teach."



Tired fingers pulls at his beard, ere spreading to catch his forehead. The goblet is discarded, its silver crossing idly against the wagon floor.


“It is tradition of our Order that any knight may take a squire as his Blue, should that knight judge himself and said squire ready.


“I would prefer the boy spend some years in the Hosts, more than he become a squire of mine. If you would judge otherwise, bring him here.”




This strikes a chord in the Knight and he laughs, "Indeed, but we have none to pawn him off to in this place thus I will bear his burden."


He rises, setting down the now empty goblet and moves to the exit of the wagon. Peering outside, he calls towards the fire, "Squire Menelglir, you are required inside the wagon!"



With haste--along with a confused look to the girl sharing his campfire--Menelglir scrambles to his feet. "Yes, sir," he calls in return, wasting no time in complying. He hops up, climbing in side, still looking puzzled.


“Good evening, Menelglir. I see you have found a new friend,” says Arathis at the boy’s entrance.


He unsheathes his sword, grand and old, and gestures with it the squire to his knees.




Finding his place at Arathis' side, Gwendion stands, a silly smile on his lips. He too motions for the Squire to move before Arathis and his blade.



"Evening, sirs," Menelglir returns, his eyes sliding to Gwendion and back to Arathis at mention of the Ranger woman. "She is...interesting. But I trust her," he adds hastily before his eyes widen at the sword and the motion. He complies, dropping to his knees, but not before another quick look to Gwendion--and a blink at the smile on that Knight's lips.



The blade is lifted as if for execution: “You shall have Hir Gwendion to thank for this.”


Its point, however, lands only before the squire.


“Grab the hilt and repeat your Oath, if you remember it.”



Suddenly looking very nervous, Menelglir nods and reaches to grasp the hilt. He draws a breath, starts, then has to clear his throat to start again, as his voice fails him at first.


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


At the very end, the words said low but with firm conviction, Menelglir falters, swallowing hard and his mind working on the rest, though he stares only at the hilt as he tries to remember the missing words.



No help comes from the Knight-Herald, who looks only intently upon the squire.




A quick glance to Arathis, and Gwendion looks back to the Squire and mouths the word, "Death," quickly.



It is but a quick glance that Menelglir ventures up to the Knight-Herald in desperation, but even that fleeting glimpse of the man's hard expression is enough to make him look away in an instant, withdrawing his concentration inward. In that moment, though, perhaps he sees Gwendion's silent aid, for he draws in a slow breath and then speaks once more.


"..Until my lord release me, or..." his eyes close for a moment, seekign the words, "or death take me, or the world end."



The sword is returned to its sheath with ease.


Replacement is soon issued, the knight's tongue steeled: "And this do I hear, Arathis, Herald of your Prince and Lord, 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.


"Rise, Menelglir of the Telpekhor, Blue Squire of the Swan. Though you shall wear a tunic of White until proper replacement is found, you shall carry henceforth the burden and responsibility of a Blue: you are hereby known as a knight aspirant, warrior and champion of the Virtues, and expected too to conduct yourself as one.


"Hir Gwendion is to be your father within this Order. Heed him well, lest a son should shame him.



It is a moment or more before the newly made Blue Squire rises: It takes that long for the youth to compose himself, excitement and happiness dancing in his expression, which he tries to subdue appropriately, though it remains there in his eyes.


"Thank you, sirs," he manages to get out solemnly, turning to Gwendion next and seeming as if to say more but not able to voice whatever it is. Instead he just grins, broadly so.




Returning to a stoic grim visage once more, Gwendion replies, "Perhaps the young Ranger knows something of dyes from these woods and you can wear blue yet."


"Regardless, it is as the Knight-Herald has spoke, you are no longer the child deciding if you are to have the life of a Knight, but a young man on his way to becoming one. The Oath reaffirmed shows this commitment."


"We will speak more when we break camp in the morn."



The smile earns its opposite upon the Isilrim lord. Askance, he regards Gwendion in silence.


His armors he begins to remove; halting, he remarks, "I shall be ill pleased, Menelglir the Mouth, if I find your rank is used in most against Findon. But now," settling his gauntlets, "I am to bed, and ask for peace.


"I shall meet this woman of yours on the morrow."



The smile fades without a trace and Menelglir nods quickly. "Yes sir, she may, though it is of little consequence to me that my tunic is still white--I wear it with pride still." A nod is given in reply to the rest of Gwendion's instructions, but as Menelglir turns to heed Sir Arathis, he colors bright red.


Shaking his head, he presses both lips together. "I will not sir," he promises, almost, but not quite starting to protest the appellation.


"If it is permitted," he glances to both men, "I will tend the fire longer, as I cannot sleep in any case and will likely be up until my watch?"



You say, "For that you may ask your knight."




"Of course."


"And I, Lord Arathis, will leave you be. Rest well," Gwendion says, recorking the bottle and setting it aside. He ushers the Squire out, leaving Arathis with only himself and his thoughts.

Date added: 2009-12-02 14:44:14    Hits: 79
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