Training Sessions Over
A request for @celeluwhenfics of Boromir training up an overconfident new recruit! Want to request a one-shot? Here's the post with details!
“The new recruits have arrived for training, Captain.”
Boromir looked up from the reports sent in from Osgiliath, finding the familiar face of Lastor at the door to his office. Corking his inkwell and rising to his feet, he was quick to roll the sleeves of his tunic back down over his forearms.
“How are they looking?” he asked, knowing the guard would have already cast a critical eye over them.
“Green.”
Not ideal, but that was something that could be fixed.
“There’s a few that have more experience either with the sword or fighting in general, but the rest of them are young and inexperienced,” Lastor continued as Boromir strapped his sword belt on, and gathered up his round shield. “But… there is one who claims to have more experience.”
“There’s always one,” Boromir sighed. “Very well, lead the way.”
Located in the sixth level, the recruit barracks were constantly teeming with newcomers, older soldiers training the younger, or curious young men looking to prove their worth. Admittedly the military of Gondor was constantly seeking new hands to assist in battle, but sometimes it felt like there were two dozen new recruits every week.
All of whom, needed assessing.
True it was a task that could have been delegated to another of the Captains under his command, and often was when he was called away for battle. But Boromir like to meet with the newcomers, to welcome them into the army, to assess their skills, and to ensure that each and every man within the chain of command, could trust him.
Before they’d even entered the barracks, Boromir could hear the commotion coming from the training ring in the central courtyard. As expected, two dozen young men of varying heights, builds, and confidence were forming uneven ranks, being corralled into place by Deputies. Keeping to one side for a moment, he watched with a keen eye, assessing them from a distance and trying to gauge just how full he’d have his hands for the rest of the afternoon.
Not too bad, by his guess.
The majority were listening to the commanders, and only a smaller group were proving difficult.
A group of five, with a clear ringleader who was speaking to the others, all but ignoring instructions, standing casually at ease and out of line. He was young, early twenties at the most, dressed well and immaculately groomed. A lord’s son by Boromir’s guess.
“What’s that one’s name?” Boromir asked quietly, head tilting to the guard at his side.
“Magron, sir.”
The fact Lastor answered so quickly and without hesitation, told him that this Magron had already made a name for himself. Only confirmed by the irritation hidden in the guard’s voice.
“Son of a Lord by any chance?”
“Aye, Gledrong of Lossarnach’s youngest.”
The Vale of Flowers? Lord Forlong currently ruled, but his son Gledrong was a fine lord and Boromir counted him amongst friends, so for Gledrong’s son to be acting out already, let alone the fact he’d been assigned to the soldiers of Minas Tirith rather than Forlong’s own men… It spoke volumes.
Just how troublesome had he proved to his own father?
“Well, lets get this over and done with,” Boromir muttered, mostly to himself, but Lastor huffed in mute agreement.
Stepping forwards Boromir strode out from the shadows of the doorway, approaching the ranks of recruits with purpose and confidence. At his abrupt arrival, they snapped to attention, admittedly not forming true ranks and lines but their postures certainly straightened up, that was fine, the uniformity required training just like everything else. His eyes rapidly scanned across the faces of the men before him. Yes, this time around it was all men, and while female soldiers were few and far between, they did occasionally join the ranks.
“Gentlemen,” he greeted, “I appreciate that you’ve all elected to join the ranks of men defending this city and our lands, but I wish to get one thing straight. Those of you who’ve signed up seeking glory, you will not find it here.”
Boromir paced slowly from one end of the lines to the other, letting his eyes rove across their faces and searching for any sign of glory hunters. They were paying rapt attention, a few heads cocked, a few puzzled expressions, but so far nothing that concerned him.
“War isn’t like the stories, it is brutal, it is cruel, and it will break you many times over. Honour and renown are found far from bloodshed and battle, it isn’t found with your blade in the gut of orc or man,” he continued. “True glory and true honour is found in the strength of your shield and your aid to your fellow soldiers.”
Silence, the shift of weight either from discomfort or concern, but no protests.
The Magron lad, however, was barely paying attention. His arms folded and weight settled on one leg, a stark contrast to the upright, hands behind back, steady stances of the other recruits. It took a concentrated effort not to frown at him in admonishment. They weren’t trained soldiers, they weren’t coached in the correct way to stand or how to show their attention was focused.
Not yet anyway.
“If anyone takes issue with this, if anyone wishes to leave, it will not be held against you,” Boromir started to wrap up, “I’d rather those who were unsure stepped aside now, than come to regret it or fall on the battlefield.”
The last lot of recruits had three people choosing to back out, and Boromir had been quick to direct them towards the admins of the barracks. Maybe they’d not be brave enough to battle, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t assist in some other way. But in this group, not one person stepped aside, no one awkwardly cleared their throat or raised their hand.
“No one?” he asked, “I promise not to hold it against you if you can’t stand my face any longer.”
There was a quiet huff of laughter from a few of the men, but they still all held fast.
“Excellent, I’ll start by assessing your skill level with the blade, and then with blade and shield,” he explained, “If everyone could move to the sides, my assistant Lastor, will instruct as to when it’s your turn.”
The scuffing of feet, the shift of bodies, and the quiet murmurs of conversation.
Or mostly quiet conversations.
“Really?” Magron was grumbling rather un-quietly, “I’ve been training with the sword since I was five.”
Oh joy.
Boromir barely managed to school his expression, turning his back to the group and moving towards the centre of the sandy area. His shield was set to one side and drawing his sword he went through a few basic motions to loosen his joints. Ideally, he’d have warmed up first, but this was to be testing the recruits’ abilities, not an actual fight.
Not that true battles would allow chance to warm up.
At Lastor’s instruction, one of the recruits was called forwards, handed a suitable sword, and sent towards Boromir.
The poor lad looked utterly terrified to be facing the Captain so quickly.
With words of encouragement, Boromir coached him through the first few strikes, allowing him to gain some confidence, allowing him to grow accustomed to the weight of the blade. It didn’t take long for the lad to release he wasn’t going to be battered to within an inch of his life, and soon settled into it a little more.
His own arming sword was so familiar that Boromir barely needed to think, he simply moved. But then again, he’d spent close to thirty years training, and then twenty years utilising this sword specifically. Of course it was second nature, but for these new recruits, it could very well be the first time they’d handled a sword for more than a few minutes.
“Good!” Boromir praised at a more powerful strike from the youngster. “You’ve got a knack for this.”
A grin of relief flickered across their face but was quickly snuffed out by a scoff from the sidelines.
It wasn’t hard to guess who from.
Several other recruits stepped up and went through the motions, each of them with skill levels varying from rudimentary, to basic, to intermediate, but none of them stood out as being unsuited for the role of soldiers. It was a group he’d be able to work with, they’d learn quickly and improve even quicker.
“—so basic.” Boromir caught the tail end of Magron’s latest complaint. “I’d mastered this by the time I was eight.”
That was enough.
Glancing across the courtyard, Boromir caught Lastor’s eye, and gave him a nod.
The guard knew him well enough to need no other explanation, no hints or nudges. He simply glanced down at the parchment of names, and as though reading from a list, and called out.
“Magron, you’re up next.”
“Finally.”
The youngster sounded far too eager to show his worth to his gaggle of sycophants, quickly hoping up and moving forwards. And waved off the offered sword. True, one hung from his hip, an elegant weapon with an ornate basket hilt and slender blade.
Ah.
Boromir recognised that make of blade, and knew what style of fighting typically came along with it.
‘Oh this could be interesting.’
Careful to keep his expression impassive, he waited patiently for Magron to trot across the sandy surface and settle to a stop just out of lunging distance. A smart move Boromir had to give him credit, but it wouldn’t do him any good.
“Do you have much experience?” Boromir asked the same question everyone else had been asked, despite the fact he’d spent the better part of an hour listening to this young lord crow about his prowess with a blade.
“I started training with the sword when I was five,” Magron replied, looking pleased with himself. “My grandfather insisted, you see.”
“Ah yes, Lord Forlong of Lossarnach, am I correct?” he asked as though unaware, receiving a nod of confirmation. “Let’s see how well it’s served you then, shall we?”
Settling into a low guard, Boromir watched as Magron did the same. The position of his feet turning his body to the side to narrow his profile, his one-handed grip of the basket hilted blade, the other hand tucked into the small of his back.
Had he really spent all this time watching the others fight and not recognised the vastly different style?
“Ready?” Boromir warned. “Begin!”
Magron lunged, a neat step forwards, his sword arm extending in an elegant thrust.
One that Boromir knocked away with ease. His longsword whipped about towards the lad’s legs, slightly faster than he’d been with the others, and was rewarded with a startled noise and hasty leap back from Magron.
He was quick, Boromir would give him that.
The clash of blades rang out, Magron stood his ground a moment, his blade weaving through the air with a sinuous serpentine grace as he lashed out towards Boromir.
Only to be knocked aside again.
Watching his stance, the way Magron ground his feet into the sand, Boromir could see how he was customed to keeping his footing, short sharp lunges and occasional bursts of speed. Sharper thrusts, swift flicks, graceful slashes, and far too many unnecessary movements thrown into the mix. Magron’s style of fighting was elegant, it was stylish, it was suitable for the lofty lords of Gondor to while away the hours in friendly competition.
And had no place in this training ground.
“Move your feet!” Boromir instructed, “holding your ground is only going to get you killed.”
“That’s not how I was taug—”
Magron got no further as Boromir’s blade whipped about, twisted across the smaller blade, and with a flick of his wrist, the sword was sent flying across the sandy ground.
Before the lad could so much as curse, the longswords point settled at his throat.
For five seconds neither of them moved.
He’d gone rather pale, so Boromir took his cue and backed off, giving Magron breathing room.
“Lastor, a sword please,” Boromir requested.
The guard was only too happy to trot across the ring and press a long sword into the lad’s hands, and on his return trip, was quick to collect the other blade from where it had fallen. Preventing any swapping of blades.
“This isn’t, it’s not my sword.”
“I am aware,” Boromir replied, not bothering to hide the amusement from his voice, “but if you’re to join the military, a uniformed fighting style is required to protect the whole. Ready?”
The expression on Magron’s face could only be described as ‘rabbit who just heard a hawk’. But to give him credit, he gripped the sword, took up position, and tried to ignore how his arm trembled slightly with the weight of the larger blade.
“Begin!”
Magron’s lunge was considerably less elegant and refined, easily countered by Boromir’s own parry. Knocked off balance, the lad hastened to get his feet into position, only to find Boromir raining down blow after blow.
The fight felt slow to Boromir, almost clumsy, but it seemed the strikes were barely deflected in time by Magron. His face had become pale, sweat slid down his brow, but his teeth were gritted and there was a scowl of concentration on his face as he parried again and again and again, as he all but staggered back across the sandy ground from the onslaught. No matter how little chance he had to launch attacks of his own, but at least he was deflecting and parrying, no matter the strain.
A sweep of the longsword, and Boromir’s blade struck Magron’s calf with the flat, flinching to the side
Boromir moved, darting forwards, his longer stride quickly bringing him to bear down on the younger man, one hand seized Magron’s sword wrist, twisting his hip and all but flinging him up and over.
There was a crash, a startled yelp, and the lad went down, landing flat on his back in the sand, staring up in outright alarm as the point of Boromir’s sword once again hovered at his neck.
He looked… cowed.
“Not bad,” Boromir said, sheathing his sword, and extending his hand to the kid, “you’ve got the fundamentals down, it shouldn’t take long for you to improve.”
It was no small amount of reluctance, that Magron reached up, and was hauled to his feet. Face flushed with exertion and embarrassment, he was quick to move to the side of the ring, and retook his place. Head down, tail between his legs, and utterly refusing to meet the eyes of those he’d been gloating with.
No, there’d be no more comments, no more posturing. Magron had just learnt a hard truth and wouldn’t be crowing his virtues any time soon.
“Right, who’s next Lastor?”
*****
“Captain?”
Boromir looked up at the familiar voice. The sky was starting to darken, and after the recruits had been dismissed from their first day of training, he’d hung back with Lastor and the others to discuss their potential. It was looking positive, with only a couple of men with far less experience.
However it was Magron that was loitering in the door to the armoury. His basket hilted sword once more at his hip, even if his eyes were downcast and awkward.
“Magron,” Boromir greeted warmly, despite his initial wariness, setting aside the sword he’d been sharpening. “What can I do for you lad?”
There was an awkward silence, the clearing of a throat, and the shuffling of feet as Magron clearly struggled to find his words.
“My grandfather wants me to become a captain and lead the Rose Knights when I’m older,” he blurted.
Boromir barely had chance to take that it, as it seemed with those words, a dam had been breached and the words kept coming.
“He insisted my brother and I trained from when we could hold a sword and he’s been relentless in our continued training, but while my brother is excelling I’ve always struggled with the larger blades so when I realised I was good at fencing I stuck to it in a bid to show I could do something, but now I’m here on his insistence and I’m not very good with the larger blades and now—”
Boromir held up a hand, and the stream of words came to a halt.
“Living up to a father’s expectation is hard, let alone that of a grandfather,” he said frankly, all too aware of how his own father expected more and more from him and Faramir with every passing day. “Is this something you want to do?”
The genuine question seemed to take the younger man aback, as he rocked onto the heels of his fine leather boots, hands twisting and fidgeting as he considered the question. A serious expression on his face, at odds with his prior smugness and eventual shame.
“I want… to be useful,” Magron admitted honestly, “I can fence, but todays taught me that fencing it very different to the longsword, let alone the shields.”
“It does take practise,” Boromir agreed, “there’s other ways you can assist, administration, recruitment, supply chains, the armoury…”
“None of which will make me a Captain like my grandfather wishes.”
It wasn’t said petulantly, but Magron’s voice was strained regardless.
“If you wish to continue with being a solider, then I’ll not discourage you,” Boromir replied gently, “but even if you did, it doesn’t mean you’ll make it to the rank of Captain, it takes more to command the men than your skill with the sword.”
There was a subtle wince from the lad.
“But, I can see that you’ve got the determination, and you’ve already shown you have the aptitude to preserver with your prior training. With that sort of dedication and focus, you’ll quickly learn to manage the longsword,” Boromir pressed on, the positive reinforcement aimed to encourage the youngster. “Stick it out a little longer with the other men, see how it goes in training, if you still feel this way after a couple of months, come speak with me again, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Even if that was finding him an alternate path within the military.
“Thank you, sir,” Magron relented.
“Alright, now off to the mess hall with you lad.”
Not everyone was cut out for the life of a solider, and there was no shame to it. But would Magron and his grandfather see it that way?
Boromir hoped so.
