Arthur's world narrowed, for once, not to wounds or steel but to the quiet space between both.
Chapter 7 – Between Blades and Oaths
Rain had washed the dust from Minas Tirith in the night.
When Arthur stepped into the training yard at first light, the packed earth was dark and cool, still holding a faint sheen. The air smelled of wet stone and oil; somewhere nearby, a groom cursed softly at a stubborn horse.
Wardens drifted in by twos and threes. Some nodded to Arthur with the easy familiarity that came after shared battles. Others still watched him a little too carefully, as if waiting for some hidden flaw to show itself.
Lirael stood near the rack of practice weapons, arms folded, cloak pulled close against the lingering chill. Her gaze moved over the gathering men, counting without seeming to. When it reached Arthur, it paused for a heartbeat, then continued.
"Form up," she called. Torin was off inspecting other posts that morning, leaving her with the yard. "Pairs. We start with footwork."
Arthur took his place. Eoric hurried to his side, clutching a wooden sword as if afraid it might vanish.
"Morning, ser," Eoric said. "Didn't think they'd put the captain in charge today." He nodded toward Lirael.
"She knows what she's doing," Arthur replied.
"That's what worries me," the young man muttered, but there was a spark of fondness in it.
Lirael walked the line as they began, correcting stances with short, precise comments. "Wider. You'll topple in a strong wind like that." "You're leaning. Straighten your back; you're not begging the ground for mercy."
When she passed Arthur and Eoric, she didn't speak at first. She watched them for a few exchanges—Eoric attacking, Arthur deflecting and guiding his weight.
"Eoric," she said finally. "You always aim for the chest. Try the leg. No one is dangerous flat on their back."
Eoric flushed, adjusted his grip, and tried again. This time his swing dropped lower. Arthur caught it on his practice blade, nodding once.
"Better," he said.
They moved through drills until the morning mist burned away. Sweat darkened tunics; breaths grew louder and rougher. Arthur's body, as always, moved easily, his muscles firing cleanly without the familiar drag of fatigue.
Lirael called for sparring next, pairing knights with a quick eye. When she reached Arthur, she hesitated, then jerked her chin toward one of the older Wardens.
"Take Arvel," she said. "He thinks experience makes him untouchable."
Arvel snorted. "Experience keeps us alive, captain."
"For now," she said dryly. "We'll see if it keeps you on your feet."
Arthur and Arvel circled each other. The older man had the comfortable stance of someone who had survived too many fights to count. He opened with a probing strike, testing.
Arthur blocked, feeling the weight and angle, adjusting. They traded blows for several passes, the sound of wood on wood sharp in the cool air. Arvel pressed harder, trying feints and quick changes of direction.
Arthur met each with calm, small shifts. A step here, a turn of the wrist there. Nothing wasteful.
Finally, Arvel overextended on a high cut. Arthur stepped in under his guard, twisted, and knocked the sword from his hand. It landed in the dirt a few paces away.
Arvel stared at it, then laughed once, breathless. "You don't give a man room to be clever, do you?"
"I try not to," Arthur said. There was no boast in his tone, just a simple statement.
Lirael watched from the side, expression unreadable. He isn't just strong, she thought. He learns people. Fast.
When the session ended, men drifted toward the benches and water barrels. Lirael blew out a breath, then lifted her voice.
"Arthur," she said. "With me."
He followed her out of the yard, up a flight of stone steps that led to a narrow walkway along the inner wall. From here they could see the lower circles, white roofs and winding streets falling away toward the Great Gate. Beyond that, the Pelennor lay open and green, the faint line of the Anduin gleaming in the distance.
Lirael rested her hands on the low parapet, looking outward. For a moment, she said nothing.
"You move like someone who's been doing this all his life," she said at last. "But you arrived here with no past anyone can name. No house. No lord vouching for you. No comrades with stories to tell."
Arthur leaned his back lightly against the stone, arms crossed. "That bothers you."
"It should bother everyone," she said. "Battles are built on trust. If the line breaks where you stand, men die. I need to know if the man I'm putting on that line understands what that means."
He met her gaze steadily. "I understand it," he said. "I've watched people die when I did everything right and still came up short. I've watched them live because someone held longer than they should have. I know what it costs to stay when it would be easier to run."
Her eyes searched his face, weighing the words against what she'd seen. Sweat still beaded along her hairline from the drills; a faint bruise darkened one cheekbone from the last patrol. She looked like someone who'd heard many promises and seen many fail.
"Where did you learn that?" she asked quietly.
He hesitated. The simplest truth was also the hardest to explain.
"Far from here," he said. "In halls with white walls and too much light. I worked until my hands shook and my eyes wouldn't focus. And when I finally fell, it was not in battle, but beside a table."
Lirael frowned slightly. "You speak like a man who's seen a different kind of war."
Arthur gave a small nod. "Call it that, if it helps. What matters is this: I came here with nothing. No name to lean on, no banner. The only thing I have is what I do, every day, where people can see it. If that's not enough for you, I won't argue. But I won't pretend to be something else."
There was no plea in his voice, only a calm acceptance.
Lirael looked away, toward the fields again. For a few seconds, only the wind spoke between them, tugging at their cloaks.
"You held the gap at Osgiliath," she said finally. "You didn't break when they pushed. You didn't chase when they ran. You saw to the wounded before you checked your own armor."
"That's what any of us should do," Arthur replied.
"Yes," she said. "But not all of us do."
She pushed away from the parapet. "You're still being watched," she added. "By me. By Torin. By the men who don't know whether to call you blessing or omen. But as long as you keep standing where you did yesterday, you'll have your place."
"That's enough," Arthur said.
She gave a short nod, then started back toward the stairs. Halfway down, she paused and glanced over her shoulder.
"And Arthur?"
"Yes."
"Next time I pair you with Eoric, make him work harder. If you keep catching him, he'll never learn to stop falling."
A faint hint of humor touched his mouth. "I'll let him hit the ground once or twice."
"Good," she said, and was gone.
Later that day, Arthur returned to the Houses of Healing. The work there was quieter but no less demanding—checking the man whose leg he had re-stitched, reassuring a woman whose husband had not yet returned from patrol, helping an apprentice mix herbs without crushing them into useless pulp.
In the soft murmur of that hall, his mind slipped back to the patrol, to the way the men had looked at him after the fight. Not quite awe, not quite fear. Something in between.
They'll decide in time, he thought. All I can do is give them more days to decide in.
When evening fell, he stood for a while in one of the high courtyards of the Fifth Circle, watching the last light fade over the mountains. The White City below him glowed with lampfires and hearths.
He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. The metal felt familiar now, no longer a stranger's tool.
Behind him, boots approached. Eoric's voice, hesitant. "Ser Arthur?"
Arthur turned. "Yes?"
"Captain Lirael says I'll be under your lead on the next patrol," the young man said. "Figured I should at least warn you I'm not planning to fall over as much this time."
Arthur studied him for a moment. The boy's stance was a little straighter than when they'd first met. There was still fear in his eyes, but also resolve.
"I'll hold you to that," Arthur said. "We'll go over your shield work tomorrow dawn. Less falling begins there."
Eoric grinned, relief obvious. "Thank you, ser."
When the boy left, Arthur looked out over the city once more. He was still a stranger here. He still felt the weight of eyes on his back in the yard and on the field.
But in the Houses, in the patrol lines, in the way men like Eoric were slowly changing how they stood beside him, something was shifting.
Between blades and oaths, he was starting to find a place that felt, if not like home, then at least like somewhere he could stand without apology.