Alright, I've done it again. I just couldn't help it - I've had this sitting on my brain (and on my laptop) for a while, and never quite did anything with it. So, I'm giving it a go.
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I probably didn't create it. I did create Calil-Gadien Abrazir, but I must admit to using the concept of "The King of Thieves" from Tamora Pierce as inspiration for my own - thought I must admit, it has been changed almost entirely. Still, I thank her for the title.
Enjoy!
It was fifteen years into King Elessar's reign.
The people, while they had rejoiced to again have a proper king, had now lazily settled into a happy place of easy contentment - as so often happens when people are gifted with periods of peace. There may have been small skirmishes and challenges to his authority (outside Minas Tirith walls, of course), but for the most part Aragorn, son of Arathorn's rule was undisputed.
It was not, however, untroubled.
In the aftermath of the War of the Ring, King Elessar knew he had a mess to clean. Orcs and Uruk-hai still roamed the countryside, plundering and pillaging. Innocent people still died, and homes still burned. As a kind and wise king, Aragorn knew it was his duty to protect his people. He began sending out men, both soldiers and Rangers, to hunt down the evil remnants of Sauron and Saruman and eradicate them. As time passed, their raids spread farther and farther, pushing the borders of their country. It was a year into this process, when his men came back speaking of a wily and dangerous new king that Aragorn knew his rule was about to be tested. The King of Thieves, this man was called - seemingly an apt name, for the citizens of his territory (Aragorn refused to consider it a realm unto itself) appeared to be mostly vagabonds and grifters, and other people of an unsavory nature. The soldiers of Gondor had been patrolling on the edge of Southern Gondor (in an area with a curious lack of evil creatures) when they came upon what appeared to be a small village, mostly made of tents. The inhabitants, while not particularly fair of face or garb, seemed generally jovial and friendly from afar - until their borders where crossed. A group of hard-looking men had approached the party, and informed them in no uncertain terms that they were to leave their city under the orders of their king, and that they were very capable of policing their own borders. Gondorian men, being a proud and valiant race, are not prone to accept such orders very well. When matters turned violent, the men proved surprisingly adept at defending themselves, and the soldiers were thoroughly beaten and pushed back.
When news of this reached the King of Gondor, he knew immediately what he must do. No challenge to his rule could stand - Harondor, where these wayfarers had settled, was, after all, his territory. He sent out a small war party of fifty. From the reports of his previous scouts, these drifters were small in number. However, his war party returned, badly beaten. So he doubled the amount of men, not believing he would have to call out his full army for such a small amount of upstart trouble-makers. They returned, beaten and with a message that read, "The next attack party you send to my people, I will return you their heads." There was no signature. Aragorn scoffed at this man's threat. Surely he must know he was no threat to the mighty Gondor! He sent two hundred men.
A single man came back, tears on his face as he delivered the head of his captain to his king. There was no message.
Aragorn began to feel something he had not felt since becoming king - doubt. Perhaps his reports were wrong, and these people had larger numbers than his scouts reported. Perhaps his men had grown complacent in the times of peace. Perhaps these people were some sort of highly-trained warrior race. Perhaps they had some kind of super-weapon. He was not sure, but he did know one thing. He could not continue to send out men when the threat they were facing was largely unknown. At a loss, he consulted his advisors, who all told him to pull out his army. Steadfastly against this, he pondered his options. It was his wife, Arwen, however, who gave him his solution.
"My love, consider if you were this man. He considers himself king of that land, and you have attacked his city. Are you not, as king, sworn to protect your people? Your arrogance has lead you to go about this the wrong way, and you have left him no choice but violence. Go to him. Treat with him in person, one king to another. Show him respect, and you will have an end to this fighting," she told him. Seeing the wisdom in this, he gathered a small group of Rangers - good men he had known many years - as well as his old friends Elladan and Elrohir of Rivendell, and Legolas of the Woodland Realm.
When they finally reached this unnamed city, it was night. Dismounting, they tethered their horses far away so that they could come upon the camp unnoticed, and quietly entered the outskirts of the tent city. As they crept, Aragorn took in his surroundings, noticing that there seemed to be a pattern in the random placing of the tents. He could not say for certain, but he would hazard a guess that as the whole place was set up in a circle, and that the closer to the center they grew, the grander the tents became, until the moniker did not even seem to suit.
The whole city seemed to be abandoned, but in the distance he could hear a great revelry, so he knew this was not true. They were close enough to the edges of the fray to see a large bonfire (needed since the night was just cold enough to feel chilled if you had no source of heat), surrounded by dancing people and music. It was here he knew that his theory about the layout of the camp was correct - and that this was the center of the circle.
They paused, not sure how to announce their presence without starting another fight.
"Nice party, no?"
They whirled, weapons at the ready, only to find a young woman, standing so casually she might well have been leaning against something. She spoke again, her voice quietly amused, "Although somehow I doubt you're here to join in the festivities." Her voice, while one of those that had a natural soft mezzo-soprano quality to it, seemed to carry, and the music died down. People turned, giving Aragorn and his party their attention. "Three elves and seven men make for a strange traveling party. Might I ask who you are?"
Aragorn stepped forward. "I am Elessar, King of Gondor." Something about her countenance seemed to sharpen as he said this, but he continued anyway with a gesture toward the elves. "These are my companions, Elladan and Elrohir of Rivendell, and Legolas of the Woodland Realm." Gesturing toward the men, he continued, pointing to each in turn, "These men are Rangers - this is Fuer, Keveal, Taer, Harat, Leran, and Alohlot." As he spoke, he took her in, assessing her. And though she listened intently, he had the impression she was assessing them as well.
He guessed her age to be about twenty - old enough to be self-assured but young enough to be saucy and impudent - and therefore unwise. She was a woman of singular beauty, although her coloring was the olive and teak of the Easterlings. Black, loose curls brushed just past her shoulders, half pulled back with a few locks falling forward to frame a small, heart-shaped face. Large, slightly almond grey eyes - an oddity, because it was a trait of Gondorian descent rather than from the East - sat beneath fine black arched brows. A small mouth with full, rose-flushed lips complimented a small chin. Her beauty was not hindered by the fact that she was dressed as a man. She wore a black cotton sleeveless tunic that extended to her knees. When she moved, however, it was clear that at her waist were slits that created six panels of fabric - such that would it would flare out if she spun, almost like a skirt. Underneath this she wore black cotton trousers tucked into what appeared to be black boots - if boots were made by using a sole of some sort and then wrapping a length of fabric around your foot, ankle and calf - and a long-sleeve dove grey linen shirt, that had the same skirt-like pattern that would flare at the waist at the tunic. Tied around her waist asymmetrically, so that the knot was over her left hip, was a sash of crimson silk. The only thing feminine about her clothing were the ruby studs in her ears, and a matching ruby pin keeping her hair back from her face. She carried no weapons.
"Who might you be, Lady?" He inquired.
She laughed, a pleasant sound like water bubbling over a rocky creekbed. "I am Calil-Gadien Abrazir, of the Forgotten People."
"Abrazir? That name is of one of the Dunedain, but you do not look like a ranger."
She smiled, amused. "You are correct, I am no ranger. Nor, I suppose, would my name be Abrazir according to Gondorian custom; rather, it would be Abraziriel."
"Abraziriel," he said slowly, staring at her quite hard. "Daughter of Abrazir."
"Yes." She tilted her head, all traces of laughter suddenly gone. "What can I do for you, King Elessar?"
"I come seeking he who calls himself the King of Theives."
A smile spread, joy lighting her face until she was laughing again. She turned to face the crowd of revelers. "He comes seeking the king!" she called out to them, and they returned the laughter she gave them. She turned back to the Aragorn and his men. "I will take you to the king, on one condition. You must leave your weapons here." Her smile asked for their compliance. "You understand."
At Aragorn's nod, several men stepped forward to take all their weapons as the woman waited. Once the men were done, she turned on her heel, tunic bottom flaring and shifting to show the grey shirt beneath it, and took them toward the a tent much larger than the others, which sat thirty feet from the fire. The fabric was a rich brocade with gold fringe hanging where the top met the walls, and as the walked inside they could see that a slightly sheer white fabric had been hung also, creating walls. So grand was this tent that it could not be entirely revealed to the elements; suspended on four poles was a thick sheet of white fabric, obviously meant to protect the tapestry fabric of the tent from the rain and elements. It even had a doorway of sorts, made by panels of the same two fabrics that rolled and retracted up behind the hanging gold fringe. From the looks of it, both the heavy outer layer and the lighter inner layer of fabric were capable of being drawn up to open the tent just slightly, or completely.
As they entered, one of the men closed the tent behind them, and Aragorn marveled at the size and elegance of the interior. Calil-Gadien Abraziri,not fazed, continued in, as comfortable as if she lived there as a tall man seated in the back of the room stood. Tall and elegant he was not - scruffy and ragged, yes. It was easy to imagine such a man leading a horde of ragamuffin thieves and bandits.
Grabbing an apple from a small table laden with bowls of bread and fruit, Calil ungracefully plopped into the large chair the man had just vacated. Propping one foot up on the table in front of her, she slouched lazily as she crunched her apple. "So, what can I do for you men?"
Aragorn's eyes narrowed. "I thought you were taking us to see the king."
She smiled, almost condescendingly. "I am the king."
Oooh, quel suprise! I hope you enjoyed! Chapter two is currently being worked on.
Many thanks,
KiwiChookie