Arthur discovered that steel and whispers could shape a man's place in a city as surely as any written order.
Chapter 9 – Lines and Responsibilities
The training yard of Minas Tirith was cold enough at dawn that men's breath showed in thin clouds. Frost clung to the edges of the packed earth where shadows still lay, and the stone walls around the yard turned early light a pale grey.
Arthur stood in the front rank of wardens, practice sword in hand, as Lirael walked the line. She wore no helm, dark hair tied back, eyes clear despite the hour. Her gaze moved over each man in turn, weighing stance and attention.
"Pairs," she said. "Footwork first. If you trip over your own boots, the enemy doesn't need to work hard."
The line broke into pairs with the easy adjustment of habit. Eoric came toward Arthur without needing to be called, wooden sword already in his hand. His mail still hung a little loose on his shoulders, but he stood steadier than he had a week ago.
"Ser," he said, taking his place opposite.
Arthur nodded once. "Same as before. Breathe, and don't forget your feet exist."
They began with simple cuts and blocks, moving back and forth across the dirt. Eoric's first strikes were still a little too eager, but they no longer dragged him forward off balance. Arthur guided, turning his blade just enough to show where Eoric had left himself open and where he had done well.
"Better," Arthur said after a few passes. "You're not chasing the blade now."
"Trying not to, ser," Eoric answered, a quick grin flashing and disappearing as he refocused.
Around them, wood cracked against wood, and men grunted with effort. Lirael watched from the side at first, arms folded, then moved among the pairs. She corrected a stance here, a shield angle there.
When she reached Arthur and Eoric, she watched them in silence for several exchanges. Eoric, aware of her presence, stiffened slightly, but his footing didn't break.
"Eoric," she said finally, "you'd have lost an ear on that last turn. Keep your shield higher."
"Yes, captain," he said, adjusting.
She shifted her gaze to Arthur. "You're babysitting less," she noted. "Good. If you catch him every time he falls, he'll learn to fall better, not to stand."
Arthur gave a small shrug. "I'd rather he learn both," he said. "But you're not wrong."
Lirael let out a quiet breath that might have been amusement. "We'll see if he stays up when it matters," she said, then raised her voice. "Pairs rotate. New partner."
Arthur stepped aside as the line shifted. Men moved past him, and a few chose places a little closer to where he stood, even if it meant crossing the yard. It was a small thing, but noticeable. Arvel ended up in front of him, old scar along his jaw catching the light.
"Back at it, healer," Arvel said, setting his feet. "Let's see if yesterday was luck."
They traded blows. Arvel fought like a man who had survived too many battles to count, efficient and direct. Arthur matched him, not overpowering so much as answering every move with the smallest necessary response. When Arvel feinted high and cut low, Arthur's blade was already there.
After several passes, Arvel's guard slipped open for a heartbeat. Arthur stepped in, tapped him lightly in the chest with the point of the practice sword, then stepped back.
Arvel blew out a breath. "Not luck then," he said.
"Not today," Arthur replied.
By the time Lirael called a halt, most of the men were breathing hard, sweat darkening the collars of their gambesons despite the cold. Arthur's chest rose no faster than it had at the start.
"Form two lines," Lirael said. "We're running formations."
As the wardens lined up, she glanced at Arthur. "You take the left file," she said. "Run them through shield changes and advance under fire. I'll handle the right."
There was no question in her tone, only expectation. Arthur stepped into place at the head of the left line, lifting his shield.
"Listen," he said. "If you move faster than the man beside you, you open a gap. If you move slower, you make him choose between you and the enemy. Don't make anyone choose."
A few men nodded. Eoric, somewhere in the middle of the file, straightened.
They moved. On Arthur's short commands, shields rose and overlapped, the file advancing in measured steps, then falling back in order. The first runs were messy—shields clashed, boots tangled—but with each repetition, the line smoothed out. Men began to adjust to each other, not just to him.
By the end of the drill, Lirael called them in and dismissed them to water and maintenance. As the group broke apart, she and Torin, who had come to watch partway through, stood near the edge of the yard, speaking low.
Arthur caught only pieces as he wiped his sword and set it back on the rack.
"…holds the file steady," Torin said. "They follow him."
"He doesn't push for it," Lirael replied. "That helps. The armor and the rumors do enough shouting."
"And his origin?" Torin's tone was neutral.
"Still unknown," she said. "But I've seen him stand where others would step back, and I've seen men stand steadier near him. That carries weight."
Torin grunted. "Command will ask, sooner or later. They've already sent for you."
"They can ask," Lirael said. "All I can give them is what I've seen."
Arthur turned away before they noticed his attention. There was nothing in their words he hadn't expected. If anything, it was more than he'd had before.
Later that morning, he climbed the familiar steps to the Houses of Healing. The shift from the noise of the yard to the quiet of the long hall was almost jarring. Here, the sounds were muffled—soft voices, clink of glass, rustle of cloth.
He went first to the bed where the southern patrolman lay. The man's face had more color now; the tension at the corners of his mouth had eased. The bandage at his side was clean, the edges no longer seeping.
The man's eyes opened as Arthur approached. "You again," he said, voice rough but stronger than before.
"Me," Arthur said. "How's the pain?"
"Still there," the man answered. "Feels… smaller, somehow."
"That's the wound remembering it's not allowed to tear open again," Arthur said. "You keep still, it'll keep shrinking."
The man huffed something like a laugh, then winced. "They told me," he said, "I'd have been left for the crows if your lot hadn't come when you did." He looked away for a moment. "And that if you'd not been with them, I'd be under a sheet by now."
Arthur checked the dressing carefully before replying. "They're giving me too much credit," he said. "The men who carried you back did as much as I did. I just tied the pieces together."
"Maybe so," the patrolman said. "Still. Thank you."
Arthur inclined his head. "You can repay me by doing as you're told," he said. "No moving more than you have to. No tales about going back to the saddle next week."
"We'll see what the healers say," the man muttered, but the edge had gone from his tone.
Mistress Ioreth appeared at Arthur's shoulder, as she so often did, as if pulled from the air itself. "They come asking for you by name now," she said, adjusting the sheet at the foot of the bed. "The ones who can still speak, anyway."
"They should be asking for you," Arthur replied.
"They do that as well," she said. "But you are becoming the one they expect when it's bad. Expectations are a heavy blanket. Be sure you can breathe under it."
Arthur looked around the hall—rows of beds, faces he knew and others he didn't. "If I stop breathing under it," he said, "you'll be the first to notice."
"Don't make me drag you to a bed," she said. "I have enough stubborn patients."
He gave a short nod and moved on. Ioreth watched him go, eyes narrowed as if trying to see beneath skin and armor to something deeper.
On the way back down toward the barracks, he found Eoric waiting near the stair, a bundle of rolled parchment and a leather satchel at his feet. The younger man straightened when he saw Arthur.
"Ser," he said. "Captain Lirael asked me to bring the patrol reports to Torin and then to you, if you had time."
Arthur took the top roll, scanning the neat but cramped writing—names, injuries, positions. "You've read them?" he asked.
"Twice," Eoric said. "I wanted to make sure I understood who stood where. If I have to carry messages in a fight, better to know the faces."
Arthur considered him for a moment. "Good," he said. "From now on, kit checks before patrol are yours."
"Mine, ser?" Eoric blinked.
"You check the packs," Arthur said. "Bandages, clean water, spare straps. If something's missing when we're out there, it's on you. And on me for trusting you with it. Understood?"
Eoric's back straightened. "Yes, ser," he said. "You can count on me."
"I intend to," Arthur replied.
They walked together for a few paces in companionable silence.
"Ser," Eoric said at last, "can I ask something? Not about drills. About you."
Arthur glanced sideways. "You can ask."
"Were you always like this in a fight?" Eoric asked. "So… steady. Like it doesn't get in."
Arthur thought of operating rooms, of blood and alarms and the thin line between success and failure. "No," he said. "I learned the hard way that fear doesn't help your hands do what they need to. After a while, the body remembers that lesson."
Eoric nodded slowly. "I still feel like my heart's trying to climb out of my throat when they charge," he admitted.
"Most honest fighters do," Arthur said. "The trick isn't to get rid of it. It's to make sure your hands move anyway."
Eoric let out a breath, as if that answer had eased something he hadn't known how to name. "I'll work on that, ser," he said.
By evening, the city had shifted into its softer shape. Lamps lit the streets of the upper circles, and from a high walkway along the wall of the Fifth Circle, Arthur could see the dots of light spreading through Minas Tirith like stars turned inward. The Pelennor lay dark beyond, the faint line of the river catching the last of the sky.
He rested his forearms lightly on the stone parapet. The day's details replayed themselves in his mind: the way the file had moved more smoothly under his voice, the southern patrolman's less-labored breathing, the quiet pride in Eoric's posture when given responsibility.
Footsteps approached from behind. Arthur turned slightly to see Lirael, helmet tucked under one arm, cloak stirring in the wind.
"Torin's been called to a council tomorrow," she said without introduction. "They've asked for a report on the wardens. And on you."
Arthur faced back out toward the fields. "What will you tell them?"
"The truth," she said. "That men stand straighter near you. That you've yet to put your sword somewhere it shouldn't be. That you bleed and don't complain about it."
"Will that be enough?" he asked.
"It will be for me," Lirael said. "For them? We'll see."
She paused. "They'll likely want to speak with you themselves before long," she added. "Best have your answers ready."
Arthur looked down at his hands on the stone—steady, unmarked for the moment. "I don't have many answers," he said. "Only what I've done since arriving."
"Sometimes that's all that matters," she replied. "They can build their stories on top of it if they like."
She turned to go, then hesitated. "For what it's worth," she said, "when we ride out now, I'm less worried about the left side of the line."
Arthur gave a small nod. "I'll try not to make you regret that."
"See that you don't," she said, and walked away.
He stayed at the parapet a little longer, watching the lights of the city below. The weight on his shoulders had not lessened. If anything, it felt heavier. But it also felt more settled, as if it had found a place to rest.
In the barracks, men were already reshaping the day into words. In the Houses, someone would be asking when "the black healer" was coming back. In command rooms, his name would be written on a list and underlined once, perhaps twice.
He could not control any of that. What he could control was simple: where he stood when the next horn sounded, and how many men walked back through the gate with him afterward. For now, that would be enough.