AN: You'll have to take note of the italicized place and time below the chapter titles to keep track of where we are. I made quite a jump between the last two chapters, and a part of this one will try to clear up the confusion, if you had any. This chapter was strangely difficult to write, and I had to scrap what I had written many times before I arrived at this. I'm still not completely enamored with it, but I could don't think I could bear another revision at the moment.

Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!

Warning: Some gore

Chapter 6: Oh Captain, my Captain

Border of Rhûn and Khand; June 3018

The camp was completely decimated. Pieces of what once could have been orcs and men alike littered the sand, collecting in pools of mismatched liquid. The woven grass tents, meant for supplies or dwellings, lay flattened or dented, some suffering scorch marks or intricate splatters of coagulating black and red. Fur pelts were torn and tainted by innards, unrecognizable and collecting sand as they dried and crusted in the noon-day sun. The stench of the festering bodies grew almost visible, like the cloud of black insects hovering in the air. A few pierced and broken chests twitched in death, bloating to an unnatural state. Rhûnic armor lay bent and twisted around poorly constructed blades and clubs. Whatever had happened to cause such a gory skirmish ended the lives of everyone present.

Ev'iyesi wiped his brow with the back of his hand, fighting the urge to spill his stomach onto the ground. They had spent hours searching for tufts of brilliant red hair, finding none. Not even the carcass of the Uruk who carried her off into the dunes could be recognized, although given the state of the others, recognizing much was almost impossible. The sons, similar in appearance yet different in all else, sat next to him, upwind.

"I could not find anything." Vígbataar swatted at the sand between his bent legs, although the force was weakened by his state of physical and emotional fatigue. Bátkhuyag had his head in his hands.

"As much as you may not want to hear it," Ev'iyesi wiped his brow again, "I need to return to camp." He had expected outrage from his eldest, but both were silent. "Your mother will need me, and I must inform your sister of what has passed."

"What has passed, Faiör? We have found nothing!"

Ev'iyesi had to agree, although it pained him. Returning to his wife and daughter with such news almost seemed more horrible than bringing back a lifeless body. At least they would have had something to bury.

"I won't return without her."

Bátkhuyag lifted his head from his hands and sta\red at Vígbataar with widened eyes. "You must be joking. Where else do we search? Behind every dune? Under every rock?"

Bataa glared at the sand at his feet, sifting the fine particles through his fingertips. "If we must."

"This is madness! I care for our dear sister, but how can we go on?" Bátkhuyag stood. His brother would not listen to reason, especially from his often weaker counterpart. "Faiör?"

Ev'iyesi watched his sons, knowing their differences and accepting their weakness as they appeared. Vígbataar would listen to no one, that he was certain. When his mind was resolute, he was simply immovable. Bátkhuyag, perhaps, inherited more sense of the two. He was king and compassionate, although not the first to jump into the fray. If he could not sway his most stubborn son, perhaps both could journey together and overcome the other's shortcomings. "If that is what you wish, my Bataar, so be it. Bátkhu, you will go with him."


Aldburg; July 11, 3018

Barely dawn, with light sifting through the prairie grass from small crescent on the horizon, the sky was partially lit by a strip of gold. A few men stirred by the remains of the night's fire, many sleeping where they dropped from overindulgence. Only two sat beside those renewed logs, as the wood crackled and popped as it was consumed. They spoke quietly, discussing the day's journey over a quick meal. The darker of the two inspected his packs. He would depart as soon as possible, anxious to receive the answer to his riddle.

"Do not be in haste." Éomer pulled a chunk of moist innard from his portion of bread. "Tell me more about your trials. You say the bridge is fallen, but how secure are your borders?" He held the bread to his mouth. "My men and I do what we can, but there will be a time when it is not enough."

Boromir frowned, lightly rubbing the short hairs of his sparse beard with the backs of his fingers. "We patrol the western front, checking for those who seek passage over the river. Although, we too have had difficulties driving them back." He thought of Faramir and the icy waters of the Anduin. "But…we will continue our vigil…and Gondor will be victorious."

Éomer could not be surprised by the confidence of this great Captain. Stories of his strength and valor quickly spread throughout the Mark, although some would say that he was too confident and too proud. But the Third Marshal had respect for such attributes, especially with the rising darkness in the South and the devilry already tainting his land. He hoped to lead his men as Boromir of Gondor might. For, if a Captain did not have faith in the strength of his people, how could he succeed? "I do not doubt you, or the fortitude of your people. Perhaps your journey is not only for answers you seek? Will you also request aid in this Imladris?"

"No, I will not." Boromir, quickly emptied the bowl of warmed stew into his mouth, his vigor punctuating the stern response. This boy, although not untrained but still rather young, might not understand that the welfare of Gondor rested permanently on his shoulders. It was quite a responsibility to bear, especially given its current state of affairs. The Third Marshal's duties were vast, to be certain, but they were also shared among others in the Mark. Aside from Faramir's counsel, and the orders of his father, Boromir endured the weight alone.

The girl sleeping before the fire stirred, and both men paused their conversation to glance at her. She did not awaken.

Boromir tentatively set his bowl aside. "What of the child?" He whispered. "Certainly, with hair so dark, she is not of the Mark."

Éomer nodded at the distinction. "You are right - she is not of my people. My men found her near the Falls, alone and ill." He gave her face, from what he could see peeking out over the edge of her blanket, a swift inspection. Her color seemed close to what it must normally be. "We discovered tracks, but she had no company with her. Either she lost her way, or they abandoned her."

Boromir could not fathom any decent individual leaving such a young thing to survive alone. True, he could not see much of her, to truly guess her age. But her form in sleep, knees curled tightly to her chest, reminded him of a young Faramir who was often found curled in such a way in the library. On that resemblance alone he assumed her to be rather young. "From where does she hail?"

"She could not say." Éomer prodded the fire, which had begun to dwindle. "Her grasp of the Common Tongue is limited, so she indicated rather poorly that her home was quite distant."

"To the South?"

"We believe so, yes."

Gondor had dealings with the Haradrim and the Easterlings, but Boromir had never encountered a woman of either, although her dark hair was certainly suspect. If she was what they believed her to be, her existence on enemy lands would prove hazardous. Boromir wondered if her company would return for her, and how this éored would respond under the circumstances. In such times of war, empathy wasn't a luxury easily afforded.


Mímir awoke with the brilliant light of midday warming her face. She had slept longer than necessary, despite her body's desire for it. Her legs had cramped in the middle of the night, and she found herself near tears as she furiously rubbed them. Such were the effects of traveling too long without resting adequately, and she knew her mother would scold her for not taking better care of her body.

The camp was quiet, and as she pushed herself up on her forearms she couldn't see a single sole at any fire or coming out of any of the roughly built dwellings. Had they left her?

The weight of her pack was resting beside her waist, and she was thankful that the man, Éomer, had been decent enough to leave it be. He could have rifled through it while she was sleeping, she supposed, but it did not seem quite in his character to retrieve information via stealth. He was forward, sometimes brusque, although not quite as much as his companion.

They called him Captain, this man with the smooth voice that rumbled deeply like a hooves of a fleet of her father's best horses on a dry prairie. She did not quite understand the meaning of his name, Captain, only that it resembled a word similar to 'a leader of men'. Like her father. Mímir wondered if this Captain was in charge of his own tribe. Either way, his journey to the interpreter of dreams was intriguing. She had decided during the night, after overhearing and attempting to translate their conversation, that she would follow Captain. He would be disturbed by her presence, she was certain, as all men seemed to scratch and snarl at the interference of women. But her journey was of great importance to the safety of her people, and she had not travelled so long and risked her own well-being for naught.

Mímir pulled out the delicate scroll of parchment from her pack. She had been recording her journey, just as her father had recorded all of the important goings-on of camp, until her fatigue had caught up with her after crossing the waterway. She was ashamed of herself for her exhaustion, and knew Bátkhu would never let her forget the moment if he had known. The nomadic lifestyle they led had made travelling frequent; she should have been able to endure. Although I have never travelled so far from home…

The scroll was weathered, torn lightly at the corners and discolored. It was clearly gained in a trade long ago. She traced her finger over the intricate pictures her father had drawn. Each one told a story of the past, including important births and deaths. Her hand traveled to her own drawings, inferior compared to the others, but understood well enough. Rolled with the parchment was a map. It had been passed down to her father by his father, and detailed the land she was now in with beautifully drawn pictures and words in a foreign tongue. Without it, she didn't know where her wanderings would have taken her.

"You are finally awake."

Mímir jumped, quickly hiding the parchment beneath her blanket. It was Éomer, a bowl in one hand and a skin in the other, grinning down at her as if he knew she was caught. His hair seemed lighter, strangely, and he let it drape across his shoulders untied. His skin was also different, but that perhaps had to do with it being clean. He must have bathed recently. She was glad that her grubby fingers were hidden beneath the blanket.

"Here. Food." Éomer gestured to his mouth and then to the bowl. "Water." He shook the skin and the liquid inside sloshed.

Mímir wondered what he would do if she took the skin and dumped its contents on her head.

"Here, take." He presented both to her at a close enough distance for her to comfortably grab them if she wished. His eyes discreetly glanced at her lap, which still contained the hidden scroll.

Mímir uncovered her hands but left the parchment where it sat. The contents of the bowl appeared slightly different from what she had eaten earlier, but the odor was again not unpleasant. She hadn't realized how thirsty she had become until water was within her reach. The man sat down beside her, legs crossed with arms resting on his knees.

"Am I to believe that you are now well-rested, Mímirovä?"

Mímir chewed slowly and regarded him with steady dark eyes. It was very odd still, hearing her name from the lips of a stranger. She did not fear him, for he clearly meant not to harm her. Although, she did fear his interference with her quest. If he did not wish for her to leave his tribe, she knew it would be very difficult for her to do otherwise. From his build she knew he held great power, and from what he had said to her during her previous meal, he was also a man of rank. A leader of men, like Captain. She errantly wondered where he had gone, which led to a moment of dread at the knowledge that he might have already departed.

She quickly removed her bowl from her lips. "Captain?"

Éomer frowned, wondering if she was giving him that titled. He gestured to his chest with one pointed finger. "I am Third Marshal of the Mark."

Mímir shook her head. "Not Éomer." His name felt odd on her lips as she created the foreign vowels. "Captain." The word was stressed clearly, and if to emphasize what she meant more clearly, she gestured to the spot that Captain had rested when next to her.

Éomer could not imagine to what she was referring, as he watched to furiously point to the ground. Perhaps, through her ignorance of the language, she was confused. "I still do not understand." He forced himself to not find amusement in her frustration, although the stern set of her brow reminded him yet again of another young lady who had also glared at him in such a manner. Although, he noted quickly that this girl seemed to have aimed most of her frustration at herself, as her eyes that had once held his own were staring past him.

"I see she speaks as poorly as you professed."

Both parties had been unaware of Boromir's arrival as they attempted to discuss where he had gone. Éomer chuckled, unsurprised by the Steward-Prince. "Unfortunately it is so."

Mímir willed her mouth to close. She had wondered what face would match the voice she had listened to briefly during the night. And such a face caused a brief moment of fright. His fierce, penetrative stare stirred within her an almost crippling anxiety. She had never seen such eyes. They took her back to her youth, when a strange cloud covered the prairie and the rain floated instead of smacking the dirt. She caught many in her hands, feeling the chill as they brushed her fingertips. They were beautiful, but there remained a discomfort in such beauty. His eyes were the same, like floating rain.

It took her only a moment to register the intensity of his expression, the straight strength of his nose and grim line of his lips. The pride in his stance indicated that he must have been like Éomer, a tribal leader. Although she could almost hear her father say that his beard was not long enough.

It only took those moments to realize that he carried a pack and a strange banner, which held a sort of crest that she assumed indicated the identity of his tribe. Before she could reconsider her response, perhaps readjust the tone of her delivery or redirect the accusing finger she already had whipped toward his chest, Mímir snarled. "Greedy White Tree!"