Youthful Misadventure



Aren races to the waterfront, bounding down steps and across courtyards, weaving between the adults trying to go about daily life and vaulting over market stalls. Ahead, his friend Daenir barrels through a small gathering that had walked into his path and goes tumbling to the floor in a spectacular roll. Aren laughs and rushed past, “Should’ve looked where you were going!” He calls as his friend pushes himself to his feet to give chase.

The young boys continue the race down to the docks, just because Daenir had declared himself the fastest of the two before sprinting off without warning. Not one to allow this sort of cheeky slight, Aren sprinted after him. They enjoyed visiting the docks, they might get some fish to eat from one of the stalls there, or convince the captains of some of the smaller boats to let them come along for a little bit. This was generally what they would do on their days off from their training and work. Along with exploring the city, or sometimes outside it, adventuring through farms and woods. Aren’s favourite was the woods, he loved the world outside the city but there was something about causing mayhem in the docks that satisfied a cheekier urge in him.

Vaulting down some steps, Aren lands victorious at the docks and turns to declare his victory when Daenir bundles into him, not having expected him to stop. Both boys yelp and tumble to the ground with a laugh and quickly begin wrestling. “You may have proven yourself to be the swiftest of foot, but I am the best fighter!” Daenir declares as he tries to pin Aren to the cold stone ground.

“You couldn’t beat off your little sister let alone me!” Comes the retort from Aren. He was taller than his friend, and had better reach which came of use when training with swords, but Daenir was stockier and in a wrestle like this Aren had to rely on wriggling out of any grips his friend might try to get on him. A few of the townsfolk stop to watch the display, some recognising the boys from their other antics around the docks. A couple cheer the boys on and laugh, enjoying the sight of two lads wrestle and having fun.

Daenir pins Aren on his stomach, and stands up placing his foot onto his back. “Victorious!” He declares boldly, “I am the champion of champions! The mightiest fighter of Pelargir and the greatest- ACK!”

Daenir was cut of short, Aren had reached round and grabbed his ankle and yanked, pulling his friend down to the ground. Rolling on top he pushes his friends hands out the way, trying to stop him getting out. “You are the weakest of the weak! Lamest fighter in Pelargir and still the slowest!” He says with a laugh, jabbing him in the ribs. “Race you to the crab stand!” He jumps to his feet and bounds off towards one of their favourite stalls that they affectionately called the crab stand. It didn’t just sell crab, but it was their favourite delicacy from the stall and the docks. With much tripping and shoving and other general foul play, they make it to the stand fairly level with each other, and they beam and call it a draw.

“Good morning boys! You’ll be wanting the crab I don’t doubt?” The kindly old man who ran the stall says to them. It was barely midway to noon and the two boys were panting, sweating, and covered in dirt and bruises, the old man smiles at this, remembering his days as a young boy. He had never had the luxuries that the boys before him had, but they had the same spirit as he had at that age. Ten more years and they’d soon be well on their way to knighthoods he didn’t doubt, and fine knights they would make too if they kept the attitudes they currently had.

The boys nod, taking some of the crab each and digging in hungrily, it was hot, so much so that they burnt their tongues. They didn’t care, it was delicious. They thank the old man and pay him generously before making their way to find a spot where they could dangle their feet in the water as they eat the crab and watch the many boats go past. Brightly coloured sails of every hue go by on the wind. From the smallest fishing vessel to the biggest warship they watch them pass, making up where they might be going. “That one! With the purple stripe in its sail!” He says and points to a huge battle ship, soldiers moving across the deck as it moves with speed on its many sails, a winged prow cutting through the water smoothly. “She’ll be going South she will! Raiding the city of Umbar to return with corsair prisoners for us to pelt with tomatoes! She be fending off a thousand of the enemy ships at once! Her ballistae lighting all her foes on fire and sending them to the depths!” Of course, this game is one of one-up-manship, each story had to be more elaborate and fantastical than the last. There were fishing boats that would row to where Numenor had once been before it sunk, and would haul it back up with their lines, or trading vessels who would sail to the deep south and return crewed by the apes of the jungle.

They finish their crab and their stories, and look to cause some mischief, as they always do at the docks. It doesn’t take long for Aren to be inspired by the passing smell of fish. “What if,” he whispers to Daenir, “we took some fish, as smelly as we can find, and put it in some Ladies bag? Then she’ll stink of fish but won’t know why till she looks in her bag.”

Daenir laughs at the suggestion, and they agree to it as they begin formulating a plan. Not long later, Aren approaches a lady he doesn’t think he’d seen before, maybe she had arrived on a ship from somewhere else like Dol Amroth. “Can I help with your luggage please Ma’am?” He asks sweetly. Of course, many people might be suspicious of strange ten-year-old boys wanting to go near their belongings, but being of noble birth Aren was extremely clean and neat looking, despite his tussles with Daenir and the poor woman finds herself trusting the sweet smile and bright blue eyes. With many thanks and the offer of a thank you reward, she hands him her bags and continues on her way along the waterfront.

Not far from there, they pass a stall, and Aren pretends have trouble with the rather large bag, when he was just shielding it from view as Daenir shovels a couple of raw fish into it. They quickly shut it and Aren continues on his way, Daenir disappearing into the crowd. All in all it took only a few seconds, a slick operation by all accounts. Another short distance later, before the woman could realise the smell of fish wasn’t just because they were at the docks, Daenir rushes up to Aren. “I’m so glad I found you! Your father is looking for you! Get home quick!” He says with urgency in his every action. Aren apologises to the lady, hands her the bag back, and the two boys rush off away from her. Out of sight, they loop around, tailing the woman at a small distance, waiting for the inevitable.

It takes some time, a few hours gone midday when they finally see the results of their efforts. The woman was getting an increasingly foul look on her face, looking about for the source of the stench. She was no longer at the docks, why would there be a smell of fish. The merchants at the market look at her as though she is disgusting, and keep their interactions short with her. Finally, she opens her bag and looks in. She screams, a large fish was staring back at her with its dead eyes and the stench wafts up to her. She retches, and empties the contents of the bag onto the floor. Her belongings plus the few added fish tumble to the ground, all smelling of fish now. She looks about angrily, as though demanding some kind of answer from those who were looking at her in bewilderment. No answers from them, but she does spot two young boys, rolling on the floor and laugh their heads off, tears streaming down their faces.

She storms towards them, demanding answers, becoming even more angry when she recognises them. They scarper, leaping and bounding through the market till they can get away from her and have a proper laugh together, discussing their favourite parts about her reaction as boys would after a successful prank.