Disclaimer: not mine. not making money off of it.
Author's notes: Because my short stories get maybe 5 reviews tops, I'm going to group all my short E/F drabbles into one big anthology.
This first story is based on a challenge issued on the boards at Challenge: (Posted by SEAmaiden)
"I'm giving you a title and the story is yours to write. The title is: The Haradrim.
What you have to do:
1. Eowyn & Faramir is in the story alright, don't worry. MAKE SURE THE HARADRIM IS A SUPPORTING CHARACTER TO E/F.
2. How E/F met the Haradrim, what's the plot, how you want to characterise the Haradrim, let your imagination soar... but on 1 condition - DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT MAKE THE HARADRIM A VILLIAN! If the Haradrim is made a victim in some scheming ploy, or a misunderstood/prejudiced individual, go ahead. Do give the Haradrim some sense of good in him/her.
3. Wordcount? Quite flexible really. You can either write in:
a) A single story (1 chapter only) not more than 2,500 words.
b) A story in chapters. Wordcount here is unlimited. Given the dateline's is April's end, I encourage you not to write more than 5 chapters. If you think you can make more chapters + be on time for the closing dateline still, by all means fire away the ink
The Haradrim
by Jenni
Primus
Crows.
The ravenous birds had anticipated the first arrivals into the square, and sat perching on the shoulders of the great bronze statue of Anarion like caricature epaulets.
Even when the square became so crowded that people had to push and shove from the edge in order to find a good view of the scaffold, the birds did not depart. They were waiting for something, hovering over the square like storm clouds on the horizon.
No one paid them any attention except for one woman, who was watching from afar on one of the high parapets of the city's second circle. She was clothed in embroidered white silk, and round her she had wrapped a sable mantle decorated with white blossoms so finely made that there could be little doubt of her rank. If the richness of her attire was not telling enough, an ignorant bystander could also have guessed it from the presence of the two men flanking her on each side, each of which boasted the field-less crest of the White Company.
Her hand clutched at the stonework before her in order to support her trembling legs as she watched the spectacle below. To her, the crows were the only figures on which she could focus. The crowd and their ruckus drifted in and out of her notice. Occasionally she could hear the enthusiastic shout of some child as he darted past her and onward to the lower level of the city. As the minutes wore on, the late-comers began to surround her, who were unable to find a place in the lower level and wished to look on from the second. Her guards and the people's awe of her kept them at bay for a while, but as the moment grew closer they jostled her and pinched her against the wall.
It was difficult to breathe in the mad press of people. In fact, it was difficult to breathe at all.
Her eyes fell upon the statue, its majesty ruined by the ugly birds resting upon it, and she kept them fixed on one spot and one spot alone. She wouldn't look down at the scaffold until the very end.
They had bound the prisoner with heavy ropes and tied him, kneeling, to the cart with his hands clutched together at the railing before him as if he were in prayer. Sticks and bramble lined the cart's bottom, scratching and raking his knees with every bump in the road. As the tumbrel lumbered through the tiers of the city, the steep decline often forced him to fall forward onto his hands because he no longer had the strength to support himself; but he always tried to sit erect.
They brought him from the fourth circle of the city where the new jail was located.
Often members of the crowd hurled rotten oranges at him, an import from Harad. Some remained in the cart so both man and stench descended to the lower level together. The insult was obvious, and the prisoner felt it more cruelly than he did the spittle aimed his way. Even the little bits of dried offal he did not mind so much as those cursed Haradic oranges.
Not once did he allow the fear to creep into his eyes. Defiance alone was on display for these people. It blazed from his eyes, silver as the Western sea, like fired steel upon the anvil where overhead the blacksmith's hammer was poised.
He hated all of them.
A youth, egged on by his friends, sprinted up to the tumbrel as it wheeled past and spat upon his face. Without blinking, he repaid the injury and was punished by the mob with a barrage of missiles: oranges, pebbles, rocks, cabbages, sticks. A stone struck him hard on the forehead, and he emitted a dull groan before slumping forward over his bound hands. He bit into the ropes with his teeth in an attempt to steady himself as his world began to disappear into fog. He would not meet death hunched over like a crippled man, but with all the dignity and honor he ought to have received in his miserable life. Only this kept him conscious.
When he managed to right himself at last, the cart was entering the second circle of the city. Mounted guards had arrived to stay the fury of the mob, and they pushed the rabble backwards with their ceremonial spears. The task was difficult considering how thick the crowd had packed itself. The cart progressed slowly with occasional stops and starts.
Only one place lacked the density of the remainder of the street, and it attracted the prisoner's attention; for over the heads of the common folk jeering at him, he could see the dancing, snowy horsetail crests of his former comrades from the White company.
He stretched up as far as he could manage, hoping to catch a glimpse of their faces. Had they come to see him in his last hour or were they on duty? Could they be guarding someone? Could that someone be the White Lady?