Oh traveler, where are you going?

Eventually you must come back

How many ignorant people have regretted this

Before you and me

Rachid of Khand.

The days passed slowly in a blur of dawn, dusk and black nights. After her meeting with who she now knew to be the new King of Rohan, Arwa spent a week mostly in solitude and mourning. It was the way of her tribe to mourn for forty days, and so she would wake early each morning with the sunrise and make her way to the grave of her father. As the sun rose higher in the sky, so would her voice as she called out to her father and the spirits, asking them to ease his transition to the next life and request that his soul would rest well.

Every morning as she passed the gates to the city to begin the trek to the grave, she would be met with a single Rider of Rohan. He was tall, like most of his countrymen, and bearded, though where Eomer was young, this man was older. He seemed stern, but quiet and would walk behind her and wait silently during her rituals. She complained often to her father of the guard, whispering curses against his yellow hair into the wind.

"At least send me a hapless boy soldier of Gondor, instead of this golden haired brute!" she would mutter each morning as he fell into step behind her.

In truth, their treatment of her was bewildering. They had indeed returned her armor, although what good that was without her weapons, she wasn't sure. The sight of her scarf had warmed her heart and she took to wrapping her hair in the way of the warriors of Harad when she would make her visits to her father. She kept her face uncovered though, not willing to become a target of an angry peasant without her weapons. Her clothing had been washed regularly, of that at least she was glad for she had only her scarlet warrior garment and a long black tunic she normally wore under it. Today she had donned the black in honour of her mourning.

Her mind often drifted as she sat on the dry ground next to her father. This morning, she had been pondering whether her horse had survived. She'd swallowed her pride earlier and asked the guard, but her thick accent and his poor command of Westron had wielded little answers. Her horse, Sekhmet, was a fierce mare of Khand, the best in Harad after her own father's stallion.

Bergil had not been to see her at her chamber for a number of days and so, on the walk back to the White City, she tried again to ask the guard.

"My horse?" she tried in her own language, unsure whether Rohirric could share some similar words. He shook his head. Frowning, she tried in Westron. "My horse? Animal?"

He stared at her strangely. She clucked her tongue in frustration before trying a new tactic.

"If you speak of this to anyone, I will cut off your head myself," she hissed at him as she grudgingly mimed holding reigns and riding.

He let out a bark of laughter before coming to his senses and resuming his stern expression.

"Lô?" he asked, his voice deep as she tried to make sense of the strange sounding word.

She shrugged and repeated her mime. "My horse," she said, pointing to her chest.

He nodded slowly and gestured for her to follow him. "My horse," she heard him repeating to himself as they walked.

They walked for a long time, circling the city as they headed upwards.

"How long must I walk? This city is ridiculous; such is the folly of you Western men," she huffed. Her body was not in the condition she was used to, thanks to her injuries and long period of unconsciousness. It was unsettling to know that she was not as fit as she should be in this city surrounded by enemies.

The guard seemed to echo her sentiment, letting out an unmistakable complaint in his own tongue in agreement. Arwa raised an eyebrow, amused at his antics.

They climbed further, finally reaching the same level as the dwelling of the King of Rohan. The guards of this gate studied her for a moment but her guard seemed to placate them and they waved them through. As before, the people inside these gates stared at her harshly but she held her head higher now – she had wrapped her hair as she did in deference to her father's memory and she felt protected in the garb of her people.

The guard stopped outside of a large wooden building, watching her for a moment as she took in the familiar smell: horses! She looked at him then, pointing a finger to her chest and then spreading her hands in a question. He said nothing, instead opened the doors and watched her closely as her eyes surveyed the horses, checking each one before –

"Sekhmet! Sekhmet, my Queen!" she cried as she ran, half stumbling, towards the end of the stalls. There stood her beautiful horse, tall and proud. Her coat was as black as midnight, such was the colour of the famed horses of Khand. Sekhmet stared at her for a moment before snorting at the familiar sound of Haradraic endearments that flooded from her mistress's mouth.

Arwa stepped forward and touched a hand to her beloved's neck. It was a common misconception that the Harad favoured their mumak – the huge beasts were a useful tool in battle, but warriors of Haradwaith much preferred horses. They were steadfast and loyal, everything an enemy would not be and so she had spent more company with Sekhmet than she had any person, save her brother and father.

Casting her eyes around the stall, she let out a sigh of joy as she found her familiar black saddle, engraved with traditional motifs from her tribe. Much to her surprise, her leather saddlebags were still attached to it and she unhooked them, clutching them to her chest and whispering a prayer of thanks.

"I want to ride," she said to her guard, who had stayed at the entrance to the stall. "I want to ride." she said again in her language. He seemed to understand her but shook his head, pointing to the now darkening sky.

She thought for a moment. "Tomorrow?" she asked, miming the sun rising.

The guard frowned. It would have been comical had he not been golden haired like the Kings, ever a reminder of her father's death. He touched his mouth, before spreading his hands like she had before. He would ask.

She nodded, touching her heart in a gesture of her people. She wasn't quite ready to thank this man who had intruded on her grief for the past week but she wouldn't do anything to jeopardize the chance to ride her horse.

Turning to Sekhmet, she stroked her neck again and whispered her goodbyes, promising to return.


The next morning, she awoke earlier than usual. It had now been three weeks since the Battle and just over a week since the death of Sauron. The city was still full of refugees, but they'd slowly started to begin their journeys back to their own homes to begin rebuilding. Bergil had told her that the Orcs were still somewhat of a threat as they had raided a number of villages, but their numbers were small and each group had been easily overcome.

She had shrugged with indifference. Her people never cared for the parasites of the Enemy, and Arwa herself had ridden out countless times in battle against them as they fought to control the tribes. She was glad to know of their defeat.

She turned now to her saddlebags. Emptying the contents of one onto her bed, she took what she would need to prepare. First, she traced black kohl onto her eyelids; used by the people of Haradwaith to protect their eyes against the fierce desert winds, though over time it had come to distinguish the men and women of Harad from other peoples, so they wore it often. She then opened a small leather pouch filled with gold thread. She had bathed in the evening, taking the time to wash her long hair so it would be ready to be braided for her ride. She weaved the thread through her braids, tying it off with a leather band.

The rest of the contents of the bag were keepsakes, food items for her journey (now spoiled) and clothing. The second bag contained what every Haradrim carried: medicine. The bag was stocked with many pouches of powders and dried plants, as well as some small, well crafted blades used in treatment. Not many had ever bothered to familiarize themselves with the Southern ways, so their talents in healing were unknown. Still, it was a source of pride and she set the bag aside to bring with her.

First she slipped on her thin, black tunic. It was long, down to her calves and split at the front for ease of movement. A pair of black, loose pants followed – Haradrim did not wear the light leggings of the West, preferring loose garments for the heat of the desert. She followed this with her scarlet tunic before heading to her armor stand. She eased on her light mail shirt, then her golden, scaled chest piece, a brilliant example of Harad skill and art, before fastening her arm and shin guards. Perhaps it was too much for a simple morning ride but she wanted Sekhmet to carry her warrior rider with pride. She also needed to get used to the feeling of full armor again. Arwa had allowed herself to grow weak and a weak Haradrima was a dead one.

She stuffed her head covering into the saddlebag in case it was needed and fastened her scarlet cloak over her shoulders before exiting the building.

Arwa jogged around the city walls, climbing ever higher. Slowing to a walk at the second highest gate, she strode purposefully around the streets until she came to the last gates and moved straight for the stalls before stopping in surprise near the door.

There was not only her guard waiting there for her, but four others.

"Five guards?" she asked hers, with one eyebrow raised. He smiled slightly and coughed awkwardly.

"Sorry," he muttered. They'd come to an unspoken agreement it seemed, speaking in whatever language worked at the time. At least he knew one word in Westron.

She surveyed the rest of the group. They were all tall, all broad shouldered and strong looking. One had reddish hair but the rest were all fair.

"This is a nightmare," she said in frustration and stalked past them into the hall. Must they constantly summon up reminders of her father's death?

Readying her horse, she ignored the offers of help from her guard and mounted easily. The other men all had fine horses, but next to Sekhmet they were plain. She smirked in pride and patted one of the only friends she had left in the world.

Clucking her tongue, she ordered Sekhmet into a slow walk and they began the descent. Her guard rode by her side, his four companions bringing up the rear.

As they descended, she turned to look at him. "What is your name? Name?" she asked in both languages. At his blank expression, she pointed to her chest.

"Arwa," she said.

"Arrrrwa?" he spluttered and she bit back a grin.

"Arwa," she repeated, slowly rolling her tongue at the 'r'.

Taking her lead, he pointed to his chest. "Éothain," he said slowly.

She pursed her lips, considering the sound. "Eotaayn?" she tried. He gave his first full grin that she had seen and nodded, spreading out his hands with a shrug: close enough.

They moved through the final gates and she looked at Éothain, not wanting to ask permission but not knowing how to avoid it. He barked an order to the rest and looked around the plains before spurring his horse forward with a yell.

Sekhmet charged after him. Arwa gave her the lead and threw her head back, laughing into the wind as they sped along the ground. How she had missed this!

They galloped for miles, until the White City was a pleasing speck in the distance. On and on she went, and wide open plains soon met rolling hills that connected with the mountains towards the west of the city.

Arwa was ecstatic, though she wrinkled her nose at a familiar, fell stench on the air. Any warrior of Haradwaith was well trained in distinguishing scents; water, approaching sand storms, orcs.

"Éothain!" she cried, bidding him to stop. The group of guards whirled around to face her as she silently held out a hand for quiet before pointing to the hills alongside them. She locked eyes with Éothain and pulled her covering from her bag, wrapping it around her hair and pulling it over her face, leaving only her eyes visible. The sight of her readying her scarf told the guards all they needed to know. With a panic, she reached for her scimitar only to find her hand drawing a blank but her guard hurried to her, shoving the hilt of his sword at her hand.

"Take it," he said roughly and gripped his spear tightly. She nodded and held up a finger to the group of men, before hitting her chest and pointing to the hills again. Éothain frowned, understanding her meaning but she squeezed her thighs against Sekhmet's powerful form without waiting for a reply and raced to the hillside, galloping at full speed towards a large group of boulders that she knew was hiding foul Orcs.

She lowered her face veil for a moment, letting out a loud ululation in the style of her tribe, before replacing it. Behind her, the guards cried out in their own tongue as they raced to catch up.

She wished her father could see her now, yelling battle cries along with these golden haired men. What would he think of her? Regardless, in the Harad ways, these men were victors and as a survivor, she would show them her worth.

She burst onto the camp of the Orcs. They numbered less than twenty, and unprepared for her assault, they scrambled to their feet like the cowards they were.

"Despicable!" she cried as she cut the heads off two in quick succession. She swung the long, heavy sword, moving almost in a blur as she cut down two more before springing from her horse and launching herself at another.

"Five!" she counted to herself. Turning to face the rest, she noticed the Rohirrim were all still mounted, skillfully using their spears and swords. Charging towards the guard nearest to her, she ran her blade through the back of one Orc's neck. "Six!"

There were five more alive, all engaged in single combat with each guard. She stood watching each man fight, not wanting to intrude unless extra hands were needed – she was a Haradrima after all, and Southern warriors hated to be bested unless it was absolutely needed.

After a time, all of the orcs were dead. The guards all let out heavy sighs, their shoulders sagging. Perhaps she was not the only one whose strength had lessened slightly since the fall of the Darkness.

"Time to go?" she started to say, but froze at the tell tale whistle of an arrow. She ducked automatically, twisting to make out the shape of a lone orc who had climbed on a boulder. Racing behind the rock, she quickly took off her boots and held the sword between her teeth as she silently scaled the large rock. It took her breath away for a moment, how similar this was to their tribal warfare in Harad. But the similarities ended there – orcs were never a match for hardened fighters and she snuck up on the assailant easily, slicing off his arm first as he went to release another arrow, then removing his head with a clean blow.

She climbed back down the rock and picked up her boots, running over to Sekhmet. "We need to leave!" she shouted at the riders. They had all huddled together, but at the sound of her voice they parted. She jogged over to them, shoving one aside –

"Éothain!"

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Author's Note:

Excerpt at the beginning is from "Ya Rayah", a song by Rachid Taha.

You'll notice I've reduced Éothain's Westron capabilities for the purpose of the story.