Composure

Written by:Lord Arandur
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All credit goes to the author

Composure

A cold, hard surface slammed into the side of his head. His body shuddered as a wave of pain washed through him. The ground, he realized, as his vision focused. It was the ground that had hit him, not a fist. He could not feel his arms or his legs, but he could see them, and he could move them. Taking a breath, he managed to push himself onto his hands and knees. A booted foot connected with his stomach and he doubled over, sprawled on the ground. His cheeks burned and his anger flared, but he could do nothing as only a few seconds later a pair of large, broad hands took his shoulders and pushed him easily away, as if he were some sort of doll. Compared to these older boys he was helpless and weak. They could care less about what happened to him. He had started this anyway. It was his fault.

His damp, dark hair fell into his eyes, which stung, with both humiliation and with pain. He blinked hoping his vision would soon clear. His head throbbed annoyingly and his lungs burned with every breath he took. He felt as if he had just run miles. His skin felt hot and numb and his limbs felt heavy. He released a shuddering breath and swallowed, setting his jaw as he glared up at the boy who had hit him. He clenched his fists and staggered to his feet, though every muscle in his body protested.

By now, the rest of the class had swarmed around them. Many were shouting things but he could not hear them. Some laughed and others looked worried, some confused, and some excited. And then he saw his little brother. As his own gaze met that of the little boy’s, another fist crashed into his own face. His sight flickered for a moment, and he could feel himself falling again. He fell onto the hard cobbles of the street. He sucked in another sharp breath as the pain surged through him. That boy had broken his nose. He could feel the cool blood rush over his lips and seep into his mouth. He cried out, covering his nose with his hands.

For the briefest moment, he wondered why the weapons master had not come to his rescue yet. The man had turned his back on the class for only a second.

He was not an experienced fighter. Not like this older boy, who had probably already seen a battle or two, and if not that he was probably soon to be recruited into the army after he graduated from this weaponry academy. This older boy knew what he was doing, and he didn’t care about the consequences. No, he had thrown his sword aside as the weapons master left him and the heir to the stewardship alone for a few moments. Of course, this was after the young lord boldly insulted the older boy in front of his fellow classmates.

Now, the young heir could wield a sword well enough, but never had he learned to fight with his fists.

And then he saw that the older boy was laughing. He was bragging. He could not hear the words, but he knew it. And he did not ever remember pushing himself up from the ground, and he did not remember approaching the bigger boy, but he did remember raising his fist. And he also remembered the look on Faramir’s face.

And he froze. A fist smashed into his jaw and again his face connected with the solid ground. He was a coward. He was a failure.

He woke up later that day in the Houses of Healing. His father and the weapons master stood off in the corner, exchanging quiet words he could not hear. He was humiliated and his pride was damaged. But he would be alright.