Though None Go With Me
In the year 1050 of the Third Age, in the thirty-fifth year of Ciryaher, King of Gondor, Harad was besieged and defeated. The Haradrim were forced to pay the Westrons homage in both gold and flesh, and the sons of Harad were sent as slaves to the king's court. Chosen for their comeliness and their intellect, the king decreed that they were to be educated in the literature and language of the West, given daily rations from the king's choice food and drink and at the end of three years, enter the king's personal service.
Among these was Na'man, the younger son of a tribal chief. Considered the least among his brothers, not only for the accident of being last born, but also because he was inept at the war games that delighted his older and stronger siblings. The soldiers of the Western invaders chose him, pulled him away from his family and from the burning, sun-swept plains of his homeland, and sent him to the White City of the mountains.
T.A. 1078
One day. One day more and he would be home. Was it still home? He had lived longer among the people of Gondor than he had lived among his own kind. Sufyan had chosen to stay, rather than return to Harad, although Na'man suspected that had more to do with the maid that came to clean the Halls of Record in the evenings, than any national or political feelings. But Sufyan was free to do as he chose. His father was not a chief, and he had not been promised to marry a daughter of one of the tribes to the far east of their land.
Three days earlier the returning company had crossed the Harnen River and traded their western clothing for the looser tunics and head coverings of his people. The sun reflecting off the sand was hard on skin no longer accustomed to the glare and the heat, and his exposed cheeks and the tip of his nose felt sore where they were burned. He rubbed his nose ruefully. Not the best impression to make on a new bride, but there was nothing he could do about it.
"Sir?" came a quiet voice to his right. "This is your last chance to change your mind. We can turn around right now and head back to Minas Tirith. I can send word that our company was attacked by bandits and you were killed. No one would have to know."
Na'man sighed and shifted in the saddle. The scrolls secured in the pack slung across his back were not unusually heavy, but they were precious. Years among the library and Hall of Records in Minas Tirith had revealed to him a disturbing truth about his people, and that was the real reason he now returned.
"Do not tempt me, Borndur. I have set my mind to this task, and I will not be deterred. Too long have my people been in bondage to the darkness of Morgoth."
"But will they listen? You no longer look or sound like a son of Harad."
"My path is chosen. I will trust my fate to Eru Illúvatar."
They came to a stream, only a trickle this time of year, and two boys playing by the bank jumped up with shouts and began running toward the village, half a mile east. Their company left the Harad Road and followed the trail of the boys. Now he could see the precise square homes of the desert oasis, their clay walls bleached white by the unforgiving sun, columns and fountains decorated with bright patterned tiles, and the elders of the village gathered at the city gate under the date trees. One older man broke off from the group and walked toward the approaching horsemen. Two younger men slowly drew curved scimitars as they fell into step behind him.
Na'man handed the reins of his horse to Borndur and slid from the saddle, pulling off his head covering and bowing low before the village elder. "Greetings, most honored father," he said, slipping easily into the tongue of his childhood.
The man stopped and stared. "Na'man? Can it be? We did not expect you for another week…" The two younger men behind him exchanged glances and returned their swords to their scabbards, as the older man hurried forward, his hands outstretched. "My son! Let me see you!" His hands grasped Na'man's shoulders as his eyes ran over him and then searched his face. "Haha! Those Westron demons have not taken your spirit have they? Your eyes are as bright and curious as ever, my little scholar. But not so little now, eh? A big, fine man. Come," he said loudly, clapping his son on the back. You must see your mother."
"My men," interrupted Na'man quietly. "Where might they rest and water their horses?"
His father scowled for a moment. "They will remain outside the gates. I will have slaves fetch them some water and bring your belongings to the house. Surely there is still enough light for them to start the return journey now?"
Na'man dropped his voice to a whisper. "Father, you would not have them take back word that the Haradrim are inhospitable? Let them camp inside the gates and share in a feast tonight. Then they can return to their king rested and with a favorable report for our people."
His father hesitated and then grinned, white teeth gleaming from his long beard, now with far more gray than black. "Good! Good! My son the schemer! You play the long game with the white devils." Switching to a heavily accented Common Tongue, his father waved to the men and yelled, "Come! Come in men of Gondor! For returning my son tonight you will enjoy the hospitality of my tribe!"
It had turned out to be a glorious evening, and Na'man thought back on it often with some fondness. Comfortable food from his childhood, eaten as they reclinined on large cushions around the low table. He had acted as translator when stories were exchanged of the Godorian and Haradrim feats in battle, both sides being able to appreciate the exaggerations and occasional outright lies that helped make a good story.
And at the end of the evening, Na'man was presented for the first time with his intended. The girl was rather plain, but her large eyes had been made up expertly with kohl, and her beautiful purple gown brushed against the tops of sandaled feet. She shyly offered him a plate of sweet pastries stuffed with dates, and Na'man's father grinned at the brief exchange. "A treat for the eyes, is she not? She has been with us almost a year learning at your mother's side. Now that you are home the wedding plans can begin!"
His father had been less enthusiastic to have him home the first time the scrolls had made an appearance. As Na'man had related the story of Ainur learning the music of Ilúvatar, his father had huffed in impatience and left the room. But Na'man persisted. It was a mark of their people to tell a story well, and if nothing else, he could weave a tale. Week after week he shared the stories, how the Elves and Men were awakened, how Manwë had not recognized the evil in Melkor who brought war and darkness to Arda. And finally, how during the Second Age the Númenóreans had come to Harad and their people were deceived by the influence of Sauron.
The people were offended. They were not deceived. It was those white devils, Men of the West who had come after their land time and again. His betrothed watched him with wide, worried eyes. His mother fretted and fussed over the time spent on the scrolls instead of real work. His brothers scorned and mocked him. But there were some who listened. Some who gathered to hear the stories again. Some who began to question the rituals and traditions that their tribe practiced for generations.
Until finally, he was brought before the elders.
"Na'man, son of Nawfal, you have been accused of spreading lies about the history of our people, claiming we have been corrupted by the spirit that dwelt in Mordor, the spirit of Sauron that had time and again brought defeat to our enemies in Gondor. What is your answer to this claim?"
He had known this moment would come, had tried to prepare for it, but now that it had arrived he felt his heart thud in fear and clenched his fists to keep them from trembling.
"My answer, o honorable fathers of our tribe, must be yes, that I have made this claim, but they are not lies. The honor that belongs to the Valar and the worship that belongs to Eru Ilúvatar alone has been usurped by Sauron the Deceiver, servant of Melkor the Corruptor."
A stunned hush fell before the men erupted with shouts and accusations. His father stared at him in furious disappointment. "Why have you betrayed your people by bringing these poisonous ideas from the Westrons? he hissed.
Na'man swallowed and took a shaky breath. "It is not a poisonous idea, most estimable father. All Men, Gondorians and Haradrim alike, are the Children of Ilúvatar and the influence of Morgoth has caused us to deem him a myth and behold other Men as enemies rather than brothers."
His father drew himself up and shook his head. "I have lost you, my son," he declared, dark eyes solemn. "The only corruptors are the Western Invaders, and men like you… Sons of Harad that were stolen from us and sent back with malicious ideas to ensnare our people and keep up subservient to Gondor!"
"Treason is punishable by death," proclaimed the assembly.
Na'man was thankful that in his tribe execution at least would be by the sword. He had heard of another son of Harad who brought the truth of Ilúvatar to his people, and had been burned at the stake for his trouble. His father walked him back to the house, where the disgrace was pronounced before the family. His eldest brothers nodded their agreement with his judgement. His mother wept and tore her robes, bemoaning the shame. But there was uncertainty in the eyes of the middle brother, and a gleam of understanding and pride on the face of his betrothed.
They gathered at sunset to watch him die, Na'man son of Nawfal, the stroke of the blade swift and sure in the hand of his own father. The scrolls were taken and burned, to protect the people from any further deception by the Westerons. But a few were secreted away, translations to their own Haradrim tongue that Na'man had labored over. The daughter of the neighboring tribe was given to the middle brother as recompense for the dowry already paid, and it was with them that the scrolls survived. As the couple traveled among all the villages of Harad, merchants of the painted tiles crafted by their tribe, they shared the scrolls with any of their brethren who would hear, and in hearing, believe.