Then, as they writhed in Death's cold grasp,
We cried, "Our choice is made:
These hands the sabres' hilt shall clasp,
Your hearts shall have the blade!"
A battle poem of the tribe of the Black Serpent.
Éomer awoke with a start. It had been the same dream that had haunted him since the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.
Théoden lay crushed, eyes wide and his face crumpled in pain. Éowyn stood before him, dodging blow after blow from the Witch King. The Halfling managed to catch him off guard, before his sister delivered the final blow. The Witch King was dead – but then she crashed to the ground, lying there in a heap of golden hair and blackened limbs.
He always came to at the same time, when his uncle breathed his last and his sister lay unconscious on the ground. Despite their victory on not only that day, but at the very gates of Mordor, the fate of his uncle haunted him. He had not saved him, instead his own sister suffered for days from the dreaded Black Breath.
It should have been me! He ran a hand through his hair and sat up slowly. Downing the glass of water next to his bed, he stood and washed his face, shoving the memories away for the day.
His first thought was to head to the stables and take Firefoot for a long ride, but he walked instead to his study, remembering that he had allowed the Haradrima to ride today. Eothain had gone with her as well as four extra guards that Éomer had ordered he take. His second in command had rolled his eyes and protested that a simple ride didn't need a cavalry, but orcs still roamed the lands and Rohan could not afford to lose any more men.
He lowered himself into his chair with a sigh. The idea of spending the morning behind a desk was an unpleasant one. It did not come easily to him, this concept of ruling – he could lead an eored, but a country? After Theodred had passed, there had been no time to discuss the finer aspects of ruling with his uncle and so he had been nearly overwhelmed with the sheer amount of work he now had. All he desired to do was to ride out with his men, searching for any bands of Orcs he could find. But now, he had to somehow heal his people and guide them into a new age of freedom and hopefully prosperity. How he was going to do that, the former Marshal had no idea.
His thoughts turned to the papers before him – accounts of the woman that Aragorn had left under the care of the new King of the Mark. He still wasn't even sure why she had to stay – his friend had said that he would not risk any further war with the Southern tribal lands, and that letting the daughter of one of their chiefs recuperate in Minas Tirith was a fine example to show them of his peaceful intentions.
But was it really wise? Éomer preferred a more heavy handed approach, but Aragorn, ever the true King when compared to the former Marshal, said perhaps one day they would need assistance from the South and so they needed to tread carefully.
He had then placed Arwa under the official care of the office of Éomer King. It was a clever way of achieving his goal but also of distancing himself from it, at least officially. The people of Gondor had lost many and it would be unseemly for their own King to champion a lone Haradrima. So he had given the task to Éomer.
Neither of them were sure of what exactly they would do with her after Aragorn's coronation. It was clear that her health was improving – the notes from the healer on his desk supported that, as did her ride out this morning, so what would they do with her once she recovered? Underneath it all, Éomer had no idea what to even think of the female warrior – she had thrown herself at him in a blur of long black hair and tiny, slim limbs, ripping into his chest with her small hands so by all means he should despise her. But her light green eyes were black with fury and grief. This was a woman as damaged as he was. She had believed him to be Théoden but when he had said his own name, her tanned face had turned white, as if despairing at all of the death the war had brought to them all. Even though she was a woman of Harad, he couldn't quite bring himself to be the one to order her away.
And so he had ordered Eothain to guard her. The Captain of his guard was a kind, though stern man. He was a father to two near fully grown young women back in Edoras and if anyone could handle such a job, it was him.
It was these thoughts that a sudden shout interrupted, causing his head to snap up in surprise. He leapt up from the chair and ran towards the front courtyard as he heard the Rohirric cries for help along with… No, surely it could not be? As he burst through the doors, his thoughts were confirmed, for there was no mistaking the familiar Haradraic voice that was coming ever louder and closer.
A large black horse suddenly burst into the courtyard. Arwa, in a full suit of golden armor, had command of the horse as well as the reigns of … No! She was pulling the horse of his second in command behind her, while supporting Eothain who was in front of her on the black mare.
Éomer gave a strangled cry as his friends' head lolled to the side and rushed to the pair, calling to his men to help the man off the horse. Arwa jumped down quickly, unhooking a saddle bag and pulled with him, helping to shoulder the weight of the heavy rider.
She cried out something in her own tongue, before cursing and switching to Westron. "Take him inside!" she directed them before running to pick up the bag. Pushing his men through the doors, Éomer turned to her.
"What did you do!" he shouted at her, pushing her back towards her horse. She stumbled and grabbed onto her mount's hair, patting her horse in quick reassurance as it tossed its head at the King.
Looking around her, she quickly shed her heavy chest armor, letting it fall to the ground with a clunk. With that, she shoved past him and sped through the doors, not looking back as Éomer lost his footing and fell against the horse. He tensed as he felt the great animal shift as if to bear down on him, its eyes black and serious.
To his relief, the rest of the guard then came riding into the courtyard.
"Éomer King!" cried Wigmund, "We came upon a group of Orcs, no more than twenty. We killed them all but Eothain took an arrow to the shoulder!"
Éomer pounded his fist against the wall in anger. Would this never end?
"And what of the Haradrima? What is her part in this? Did she organise it?" he growled at the men, already planning for her punishment.
To his surprise, all four shook their heads. "No Sire," said Wigmund, "She led us, if you would believe it. Killed many before we could even get there and took the head of the Orc who shot the arrow. She took Eothain back on her own horse and got here faster than any of us."
Éomer studied their faces in surprise. Realising they were telling the truth, he ran back through the doors, following the sound of loud yelling.
Eothain was lying on a bed in a chamber at the back of the building, surrounded by what seemed like an entire eored.
If it had been any other man and not his Captain, he perhaps would've taken a moment to admire the scene before him. Arwa was crouched over Eothain, yelling in Haradraic at the Riders who had surrounded her. She was a vision, with her wild eyes rimmed with black and her braids whipping around her face as she gripped a Rohirric sword, of all things.
"Stop!" Éomer roared at his men. They shrank back instantly, some sheathing the swords they had drawn against her.
"If your animals would have let me finish," she yelled at them, "I would tell them of the poisoned arrow in his shoulder!" she stumbled over the Westron in her anger.
His heart sank as he noticed the long, thin arrow. The tell tale black feathers were fastened at the end of it and he cursed under his breath. They had never been able to find medicine that would save a man from the poison of the Enemy.
Arwa, it seemed, had other ideas. She was rummaging in her saddlebag, pulling out random small pouches.
He went to her side, tensing at the sight of his friend's pale face. "Can you make him comfortable?" he asked her in a low voice.
She scowled at him. "Make him comfortable? Are you mad?" she hissed before launching into a tirade of Haradraic. Curses, he guessed.
"Even the best healers in Minas Tirith can't stop Orcish poison," he said quietly, his words shocking the room into silence.
She gave him a long, hard look. "What is his life worth to you then, if you would let him go so easily?"
"He is my best friend!" he cried, "My brother! If I could save him, you would not see me standing still here, arguing with the Enemy!" She was utterly bewildering, assuming that he would not save his friend if he could!
Casting her eyes over the room, she looked at the dejected expressions surrounding her. With a roll of her eyes, she pushed up her sleeves.
"What are you planning to do?" He grabbed her arm.
"Do you trust me? Or do you want to continue your earlier assault?" She twisted out of his reach. "You are ignorant of our ways and I do not need to prove myself to you. But he," she pointed at Eothain, "has more kindness than all of you! For that, I will save him."
She went back to his side, continuing to organise the little pouches. Éomer's mouth was open in shock as he considered the possibility that she even knew how to begin helping his friend.
"Can you? Answer me!" he demanded.
She went through her bag again, fishing out a small, curved blade. "We are no friends of Orcs. The healers of the South are strong and have long kept remedies against their poisons." Walking over to the fire, she thrust the blade into it for a long moment before walking back to the bed.
"I need to remove the arrow, then I can continue. If you can trust me," she said pointedly, "then hold him down. He's not conscious but the pain will bring his mind back and he is strong."
Éomer considered it for a moment. There was no animosity in her expression, no hate. Only determination.
"Are your intentions true?" he asked her quietly, searching her face. She met his eyes then and he stepped back automatically in response to the anger and hurt in her gaze.
He nodded once, swallowing the unwelcome guilty feeling that was beginning to worm its way through him.
She pulled the four guards who had ridden with her earlier from the back of the room, guiding each of them to hold a limb. Éomer himself stepped forward to stand at his friend's head.
Arwa worked quickly and efficiently. With a small incision, she was able to wiggle the blade out of the wound. She examined it for a moment before throwing it into the fire with a low oath and grabbed three pouches out of the small pile on the bedside table.
"Give me a cup," she ordered into the air and a rider darted to grab one from the wash basin. Grabbing a small measuring spoon from her bag, she carefully measured water, then different levels of each powder, combining them together in the cup. She gave Éomer a pointed look then as Eothain began to moan, his limbs automatically trying to free themselves from the Riders' iron grips.
Éomer studied her as she worked. Her brows were puckered in concentration and she had bitten her lip as she stirred. One of her braids had come loose, leaving a small strand of jet black hair to cover her eye every now and again. Éomer was distracted for a moment, watching the shine of the strange, foreign colour, but he shook his head minutely, angry at himself and his thoughts.
He turned resolutely then, choosing to grip his hands on Eothain's shoulders instead of his head as his friend tried to rise out of the bed in his pain.
"Eothain!" he whispered, "Listen to me! We will heal you but you must lie still."
Eothain's eyes snapped open, wide in terror but they settled at the sight of his King. Sensing his understanding, he nodded towards Arwa. "Do what you must."
She pursed her lips and brought out a small bag of instruments. Arwa dipped a spoon shaped one into the mix before bringing it to Eothain's lips and tipping it down his throat. He spluttered once, wincing at the unfamiliar taste but swallowed it all the same. Éomer's chest swelled uncomfortably with emotion as the mixture came into effort only minutes later. His friend was already calming, his eyes beginning to flutter closed.
Arwa took another instrument, something he had not seen before. It was a long, thin tube with a small opening at one end and a bulb on the other. She dipped it into the mixture, squeezing the bulb before holding it over the wound. She hesitated, before bringing her other hand onto Eothain's chest to hold him still firmly. He took her lead and bid his men to increase their hold on the man. Taking a deep breath, she squeezed the bulb again and the liquid emptied out into the wound.
The sound of his captain's scream was enough to chill even the strongest of men.
Hours later, the men had left Eothain's room. The change in the man was astounding – his colour had returned and he seemed to sleep soundly.
Arwa stayed beside him, sponging his forehead at first, before returning to her medical pouches and beginning to mix more of the paste. She only needed small amounts and for that she was glad – every Haradrim carried a large amount of the potent herbs, but she was far from the South now and couldn't afford to waste what she had, especially when it seemed that the Western men did not have such things.
A throat cleared behind her and she turned to face the door. The golden haired king of Rohan stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching his friend's chest rise and fall.
Setting her tools aside, she stood and walked to the door so as not to wake the Rider.
"Do you…" he began and coughed again. "Do you require anything, my lady?"
She raised her eyebrows at the moniker. "I will tell you something." Forming a triangle with her hands, she said it first in Haradraic to gather the words, then repeated it in Westron. "Haradwaith is like this. Harad is the top, as it is our land. But at the bottom of the triangle are many chiefs. We do not have Kings, or Stewards like the men of the west. The chiefs lead our…" she studied her hands for a moment, looking for the word.
"Tribes?" the king tried.
She nodded. "The chiefs lead our tribes. My father was a chief. And I am simply his daughter. Do not call me by any title," she finished and looked to the floor, feeling a strange twinge of embarrassment when she realized that her feet were still bare. In her haste, she had left her shoes tied to Sekhmet.
He looked down for a moment and frowned. "Your boots?" he asked.
Shrugging, she walked further out of the door. "You can't climb rocks with shoes on."
He laughed quietly. It struck her that the sound wasn't altogether unpleasant.
"My men told me what you did. How you led them." He looked at her for a moment, studying her face again like he had while she was treating Eothain, not that she was meant to have noticed.
"Thank you," he said finally.
She looked at him quizzically. "You are thanking the 'enemy'?" she quoted him, her voice laced with sarcasm.
"Aye, I am," he nodded at her seriously.
Arwa was taken aback. All of her life, other tribes had often told them elaborate stories about the cruelty of the men of the West. Her father had never believed in any of it, saying that they were all men and every single one of them had faults. But it was strange and uncomfortable to be hearing such words from the very kin of the man who had ended her father's time on this earth.
She looked away, not knowing what to say. In Harad, she would not have the right to carry her anger towards this man. Their ways were simple: if a man was killed, the family had the right to demand the death of the killer. But if the killer was also dead? Then the family must let go of their vengeance and focus on their grief. Her people were fiercely war like and it was this rule that allowed them to still function well as a group, as it wasn't uncommon for death to occur during tribal warfare.
But here, in this city, Arwa did not have the weight of her tribe behind her. She did not have her brother, standing next to her, giving her strength. Instead she was alone, in the hands of a king who so resembled the killer of her father that it made her sick to her stomach.
So Arwa nodded and turned to Eothain. "I will need to give him the mixture several times a day. For how long, I cannot say… It depends on how far the poison has gotten in his blood." She struggled with her next words, numbers not being her fine point. "Perhaps three or four more days?" she said in her own tongue, counting out the numbers on her fingers.
He understood easily. "Will he stay asleep?"
"At first, yes, but as it begins to take more of an effect he will wake," she replied.
He let out a deep sigh of relief and she tensed as she realized how close they were standing together when his breath tickled her ear. They were both in the doorway and for a man of his build, he took up most of the space.
He seemed to come to the same realization as he stepped back from her, his eyes dark against the light of the fire.
Keeping his eyes on her face, he touched her hand gently and she tried not to recoil, feeling his touch like an unwelcome burn. "Thank you, truly. Eothain has a family back home. You have saved a woman from becoming a widow," he whispered, finally looking down. Noticing again her bare feet, he looked at her again in a way that she had come to know as determination.
"I will send for your belongings. If it is not an inconvenience, you will stay here to tend to him easier."
With that, he strode away.
.
.
.
Author's Note:
The excerpt at the beginning is from a very old poem by Jaafer ben Alba, called "On the Battle of Salba".