(Flashback)
Ranger
Duinion Raedor - roughly 6 years ago
(About a week after the death of Ryndir Dringolben)
The rain beat down mercilessly on the worn cobblestones. It was as if the weather was trying to keep up with the gloominess in his heart. Duinion stared ahead, apprehensively watching the people rushing about here and there, heads down, hoods up, trying in vain to keep dry in the steady downpour, trying to hurry to their destinations before they became soaked. While the streets of the marketplace were emptier than usual, on account of the rain, there were still far too many there for his liking. The ranger stood still, paying no heed to the water drenching his hair and clothing, dripping off of him. It did, at least, wash away some of the mud clinging to him.
He knew the way to the blacksmith’s shop, of course.
Ironclad Armor and Weapons was well known in Minas Tirith, and would not have been hard to find even if he hadn't been there countless times growing up. It felt like ages ago, now, those days long ago when Dawion used to want to join he and Domanol on their adventures. A friend who had later become his brother-in-law. It had been a hard enough blow when he died. Now, his heart felt heavier than his feet at the thought of the task which lay ahead. Still, he could not put this off any longer. He had delayed for as long as he could stand it… in the hope that he might at least be able to bring some small comfort to them, with news of justice being brought to the culprit of this heinous crime. No such luck. The rain had seen to that. Even with all of his skill, there was little hope of finding what no longer existed. All traces of the murderer’s tracks had been obliterated before he had a chance to begin searching.
He should have stayed behind and checked for the tracks himself. In his head, Duinion chided himself for the thousandth time. He ought to have stayed when the others left to bear their comrade’s body back to his family. If only he’d gone right then and taken a look at the tracks, maybe he could have found the murderers. But he had not done that. And a storm swept in that night, with strong winds and lashing rain. And it had continued to rain off and on for a week now. Duinion hadn’t even been home in all that time. He had not made it to the funeral.. even if he could have endured it. He had needed to be doing something, searching, trying to find the one responsible for this tragedy.
At last, it became obvious he was not going to find the bandit group believed to be responsible. It seemed the group had moved on, for he found no more signs of them, no matter how hard, nor how far and wide, he looked. They were simply
gone. Just like his trainee. Fighting down the lump in his throat, Duinion drew in a slow breath and closed his eyes. At least the rain helped hide the tears in his eyes.
The grey sky above made it a little harder to gauge the time, but he believed it to be late in the afternoon. Perhaps near closing time. He shouldn’t delay too long, or he would have to come back another day. Unwilling to have to do that, Duinion started forward at last, once a little of the traffic had died down. His strides took him hesitatingly toward his destination, and soon he was stepping quietly under the roof of the blacksmith’s work area. The steady hammering sounds made it so that his presence was unnoticed for a moment, until the bleary-eyed smith paused to take a drink from a tall glass near at hand.
“Mr. Dringolben?”
Though quiet, the sound of his name caused the smith to pause and turn. He frowned. “That’s me. Shop’s closed for the day, though. You’ll have to come back t’morrow.” He informed the prospective customer with a bit of gruffness to his tone.
“No.. I..” Duinion hesitated. Now that he was here, he realized that this was.. difficult. Far more difficult than bringing himself here had been. “I’m not here to buy anything, nor to place an order.”
“Then begone with you,” The smith retorted. “I’ve no interest in an audience while I work. And I’m not buying anything.”
“I came to speak to you, sir.” Duinion explained.
“I’m busy,” Damion grumbled, shoving the breastplate he was working on onto the coals. He turned and seemed as if he would ignore Duinion from that point on. “Got too many orders and not ‘nough time. I don’t got time to stand around talking to strangers, so go on, get outta here.” He grabbed the bellows and began pumping, scowling at the coals as they grew hotter.
Duinion watched him, closed his eyes briefly as he took a small breath in, then made himself release it slowly. “It’s.. about your son.” He almost winced as he heard the words leave his mouth. It sounded so.. harsh, almost cruel, now that he heard it out loud. He hadn’t meant for that. The funeral would have been only a few days ago… it must seem like poking hot iron into a wound that was still fresh.
Damion’s shoulders tensed, and as he turned, he leveled a glare at Duinion. “My sons.. are all dead.” Though his voice was soft and low, the anger, pain, and sorrow were as obvious as the water dripping from Duinion’s hair.
Duinion swallowed and gave a tiny nod. For a second, he thought he wouldn’t be able to get the words out. But he managed somehow. “I know… I.. I’m sorry,” He took a half step nearer.
“I told you to get out.” Damion growled, clenching his hands. “Who are you, anyway?”
Duinion hesitated. He had something important to tell the man. He couldn’t leave just yet. Still, he wasn’t sure how wise it was to linger when he had been ordered to go. But he had an excuse now; the man had asked who he was. “Ranger Duinion.” he answered quietly. “I.. worked very closely with Ryndir throughout his training.” He explained. Far more than anyone else, he might add, though he didn’t.
Damion stared at him for a moment, looking somewhat unsteady on his feet. He rubbed a hand over his face, then grabbed the glass and took another long drink. Setting it down, he let out a heavy sigh. “Duinion. Yeah. I remember you.” He mumbled. “You used to drag my oldest boy into trouble all the time, didn’t you?” He frowned and placed his hands on the anvil, leaning his upper body on it as he frowned at Duinion.
“We were friends,” Duinion answered cautiously, though personally, he disagreed about him being the one to drag Dawion into trouble. If anything, that would have been Domanol, or sometimes Dawion was the one who pulled Duinion along into mischief. But never anything truly bad. He decided not to say this, however.
“Ryn talked ‘bout you.” The grieving father added a moment later, with a hint of anguish in his voice. He looked up with a darkened expression. “What’re you doing here?”
Duinion felt his heart sink deeper and deeper as he began to recognize familiar signs. Slight slurring, a little unsteadiness in his stance… The man had been drinking. He was still drinking. He had seen this before, with Addhor… and he felt saddened to see it. Still, he didn’t know this man very well, and didn’t feel it was his place to say anything about it, although he felt that Ryn would have been displeased by it. But the man was mourning, after all. Clearing his throat softly, he tried to ignore it. “I’m here because I need to tell you something.” He answered, as delicately as he could manage. He hesitated. “Because.. Ryn asked me to tell you-” He added tentatively, but didn’t get to finish that.
“Ryn?” Damion cut him off, straitened as his glare intensified. “Ryn.. is
dead.” He reminded the ranger vehemently. “He couldn’a asked you to do
anything.” He strode nearer to Duinion. He was taller than him, and more muscular. “Where were
you when it happened, anyway?” He demanded, jabbing a finger into Duinion’s chest.
Duinion stepped back, slightly stunned by the man’s reaction and his words, far more than the jab. For a second, he was unable to speak. After swallowing, he managed to force some slightly strangled-sounding words out. “I’m sorry, truly sorry.. I wasn’t there.” He looked down, took a few shaky breaths, and steeled himself to go on. He looked up again, his eyes brimming with unspilled tears. “I was with him, when he..” He trailed off then, blinking the tears back hastily. What he meant to say, however, was taken wrong.
“That don’t make sense.” Damion cut him off. “You weren’t there, but you were with him?” Damion stared at him. “If you were with him, why is he dead now, and you’re without a scratch?” He demanded, glaring down at the slighter man. “And if you weren’t there,
why weren’t you?!”
Realizing he had been misunderstood, Duinion shook his head, trying to correct this misunderstanding. Meanwhile.. the words cut him deeply. “I meant..” he struggled to draw in a breath without letting go the dam that held back his emotion. “at the end. After.. he was wounded. I was..” He swallowed that lump back again. “I held him, as he..died.” Another shaky breath, while mentally pleading for the man to just listen for a moment, and stop accusing. He rubbed a hand over his eyes briefly. “He spoke to me, in.. his last moments.” He managed to get the rest of his explanation out in a whisper thick with held back emotion.
Damion fell silent, staring at him with reddened eyes, though whether it was from tears or drunkenness, Duinion wasn’t sure. But at least he was listening, now.
Duinion drew in a short breath. “I.. couldn’t save him.” He whispered, wanting to drop his head down, but he kept it up. He looked Damion in the eye, though it was difficult. “But.. I was there to hear his final words.” He quietly drew out a folded paper, though it was slightly damp now. “I.. wrote it down. Word for word.” He had memorized the last words of his mentee, but he had also written it down so there would be no chance he might forget by the time he spoke to the young man’s father. “I.. couldn’t make any sense of it, but.. perhaps, to his family..?” He held the paper out to Damion, in case he wished to take it.
“He wasn’t lying. He does have a brother. Tell them, he, Rip, wasn’t lying.” Duinion spoke what was written on the paper, repeating Ryn’s last message to.. someone. He had never made it quite clear who this message was for, so Duinion had concluded that it must be for his family. If not, they could pass it on to whomever it seemed to be for. “It made no sense to me,” He admitted. “Perhaps, to you, it will.” He took a slow breath. “He.. also asked that I tell his sister something.”
“Cali,” Damion muttered, staring at the note. Some of the ink had smeared and blurred from the dampness, but it was still readable. He sagged slightly against the work table, then straightened and put a hand over his face, hiding his eyes for a moment. He shook his head. “She wouldn’t hear it if you told her.” He grabbed his glass, finishing off the contents sullenly. “She just sits and stares at nothing. Won’t eat, won’t sleep.” His expression darkened. “She’ll grieve herself into the grave s’well, ‘fore long.” He muttered, under his breath.
Duinion barely heard this. But he did hear it. His eyes closed briefly, hearing this. He knew exactly how that felt. He had been there, himself, only a year or so prior. He wished there was something he could say that might help the young woman, but what could anyone say, at a time like this? He opened his eyes again, finding his vision blurred slightly from unshed tears. “Will you tell her, then? When.. when she’s ready to hear it?” He asked.
“If she
ever is.” Damion scoffed, as if figuring it unlikely to ever happen.
“He asked me to tell her that.. he is sorry he could not keep his promise.” Duinion swallowed hard. He didn’t know what promise the young ranger had meant, but he knew it must have been important to him to get that message to her.
Damion nodded, but frowned at him. “Is that all?”
“That’s all.” Duinion confirmed. “Just.. that he’s sorry. He.. seemed to think it was very important.”
“Fine. Now get out of here.” The blacksmith scowled and grabbed his tongs in one hand, hammer in the other, and prepared to get back to work.
Duinion was mildly surprised by the blunt rudeness, but at the same time.. he understood. Damion was certainly not in a social mood. Yet, he remembered him being far more good-natured than this. “I’m sorry.” he said quietly.
“You’re sorry?” Damion rounded on him angrily. “You’re
sorry? That doesn’t bring back my son, does it?”
Silently shaking his head, Duinion felt his heart breaking all over again, this time for the grieving father before him. He knew that feeling. He’d lost his own son.. before he even got a chance to know the infant. And he couldn’t imagine losing his little girl, whom he was so close with. “I wish I could.” He blinked a few times to try and clear the tears from his eyes.
“You being sorry doesn’t bring justice to those murderers, does it? Why aren’t you out there looking for them?” He demanded. “You let them get away!”
“You’re hurting.. I know, but-” Duinion didn’t get any further.
“You don’t know
anything of this pain!” Damion retorted, his voice cracking a little with emotion. “What could you know about it? You
don’t! So stop trying to pretend like you have any idea how I’m feeling. You.. this is
your fault!” He jabbed a finger in Duinion’s direction, accusingly.
Stunned as the words hit like daggers in his heart, Duinion’s lips parted, but no words came out. He stared in silence, trying his best to swallow back the retort that he wanted to let loose. That he
had lost a son too, and his wife.. and not very long ago either. That Ryn’s death had been tragic for him as well, and how he had spent every day since, scouring the forest for the culprit. In the pouring rain, at that. Instead, he said nothing.
Damion scoffed when he had no answer for this, and shoved Duinion in the chest so that he stumbled back a step. Despite the angry words and actions, his expression was more of anguish than anger. “
You let him die, and then you.. you let the killer get away...” He angrily brushed at the tears in his eyes. “Just..
get out!” He shoved him again, this time harder.
Duinion stumbled back a couple of steps. He swallowed with some difficulty, then gave a wordless nod, and backed a few more steps away. “I’m sorry,” The words were barely audible, but he felt the need to apologize again for upsetting the man. Trying very hard to hide his own grievous expression, he turned and walked out into the rain, feeling like such a failure. Glancing back once, he saw Damion pull out a bottle from somewhere, and turned it up as he took a long drink. Saddened even further, Duinion's head bowed as he turned his steps toward the closest refuge from the market; a park he used to come to with Domanol many years ago. He really needed to get away by himself right now.
@Arnyn
Tirdinen Duinion Raedor
Present day; Mid-December
This was one of his
least favorite places to be; the marketplace. There were very few reasons for which he endured it, and also very few reasons for him to ever need to venture here. Mostly, for the sake of people he cared about, since he rarely needed to buy anything. For Dom, he had come occasionally to visit him in the room above that shop of Isys', and sometimes he came to the woodworks shop to see Addhor. But today, he had not come to see Dom. Today, he had come for the sake of Daevion.
The idea had formed months ago, when he first began to befriend the little boy, and while he was sitting around, waiting on his ankle to heal, with nothing to do but make arrows. He had thought on this plan for a long while, and now, finally, he had decided to make his idea into a reality.
He stood outside the blacksmith shop for a long while, trying to gather up the nerve, fidgeting slightly with the bundle of arrows in his hand. He couldn't help recalling the last time he had been there, at this very shop. About six years ago, now, he believed. Damion Dringolben had been the smith there, then. It had been a
trying day for them both, and it had been
one of the hardest conversations Duinion had ever tried to have with anyone. It had been a failure, or at least he considered it to be, and he struggled to make himself go in and talk to this stranger, now. The shop had a different name, these days;
Truesteel Armour and Weapons, run by a man named Ramdir. Eventually, Duinion went in and spoke with the smith, who paused from teaching his teenaged son how to make a knife.
Duinion came out a little while later, feeling he had failed again. Tucking the bundle of arrows safely in the crook of one arm, he sighed and set off walking toward the nearest park, needing a break from the busy, crowded market. He should have come up with a backup plan, but he had really thought the smith shop would be the most likely place to go. But, as it turned out, the man was not very interested in selling arrows, and he did not know of any shops around that would be. His shop, he said, only sold armor, blades, and other things of metal, but not even a great variety of those were on display. Duinion frowned to himself as he left, wondering if it had been a waste of time and effort to come to the market today.
