My home and my journey

Your moon, your sun

My night and my dawn

My heart

Where are you?

A ballad of Near Harad.

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He stood before her, his eyes raking over her form, from her still wet hair to the sleeping garment peeking out from under her cloak. He took one hesitant step and her breath caught in her throat.

"Arwa," he whispered, bringing his hand to her cheek. She closed her eyes at the sensation, training all of her senses to his touch. His skin was soft but warm and she felt a trail of heat following his fingertips. He took another step, his eyes wild before his conflicted face registered fierce determination and reached towards her-

"You're quiet this morning," Wigmund observed as they rode.

"What?" she spluttered, her eyes jerking open.

Her companion looked at her strangely as she felt her cheeks redden. Focus! She chided herself, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. The mountains here were eerily quiet. It was almost too easy to close her eyes for a moment and let her thoughts get away from her. Too easy… Not even birds are singing this morning… she thought, frowning at the dead silence.

Arwa was riding next to her former guard, with Éothain on the other side. They had taken to riding together in the mornings at the head of the line and often held impromptu language lessons for Éothain to improve his rather awful command of Westron. Arwa was also slowly learning some Rohirric words, though she was almost as bad as Éothain as she tried to twist her tongue around the strange new sounds.

The Haradrima looked around her, finding Éomer riding not far behind her, studiously avoiding her gaze, and Éowyn further down the line.

"No… this place is too quiet," she said as she cast another look around. Scouts were sent out ahead each time they rode, but she couldn't shake the feeling of dread that was beginning to creep through her.

They were still in the mountains, but closer to Rohan this time. Éowyn had said they would reach the borders by nightfall and she was glad to hear it – after six days in the saddle, it was a relief to know the journey was coming to an end.

"The scouts would have alerted us if they'd seen anything," Wigmund said although he too shifted slightly, craning his neck to look further through the hilly terrain.

It was then that she smelt it. Or rather, them.

As inhabitants of the unforgiving desert, the Haradrim often had to rely on their senses to survive. Arwa was not as talented as her father, who could smell water miles away if the winds were kind, but it didn't take an experienced tracker to smell the faint, pungent stench of Orcs.

She held up a hand, looking back at Éomer and he bid the line to come to a halt. She dismounted and jogged over to his horse.

"There are Orcs ahead," she said softly, not wanting to cause alarm to the injured men further down the line.

Éomer let out a curse before waving Éothain over.

"Wait!" Arwa said as she rewrapped her coverings. She had kept it over her hair in a loose hood for much of the journey, but she tightened it now.

"They would not be so stupid as to attack such a large force. But we don't know if they have any more poisoned arrows and I only have so many herbs," she said plainly and Éomer frowned.

"What do you suppose we do?" he asked and translated quickly for Éothain.

Arwa squared her shoulders. "I suggest you let me prove my worth."

He raised his eyebrows at this and began to protest before she cut him off. "Many of the Haradrim were allies with the Orcs. They would not kill me immediately. I will aim for any archers first and then call for you."

The plan made sense, she thought. With her face covered, they'd think she was just a lone warrior who had escaped the Western armies. It would help that she knew a little of their foul language, though she didn't reveal that to Éomer. There was no need for him to know that side of her.

Éothain laid a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. He knew her plan by now and she was touched by his fatherly concern. She gave him a wide smile and nodded at Éomer before running back to Sekhmet and turning to Wigmund.

"You remember my battle cry, yes?" she asked with a grin.

"I'm not sure I'll ever forget it," he said with a laugh and tightened his grip on his spear. Already riders had come up behind her, forming a solid line. If she were with her tribe, they would have shared a prayer together before the chief led them in with a great battle cry. But as these men were yet to completely trust her, she made do with her own whispered blessing for the plan and guided Sekhmet up the slope of the hill. To her surprise, she recognised the man who had yelled at her during her fight with Wigmund. He rode behind her, watching her with a thoughtful expression.

They followed her almost to the very top but she continued on alone, drawing her scarf over her face until only her eyes were showing. When she reached the highest point, she surveyed the plains below before training her eyes on a shadow at the bottom of the hill.

There weren't many of them, less than fifteen she guessed. She had half a mind to go down herself and finish them off, until she realized another group slinking over. Twenty five, she counted grimly. Even so, she squeezed her thighs in the saddle, guiding Sekhmet to descend the hill slowly. She whispered her plan to the horse and while she knew she couldn't understand her completely, the horse began to snort and pull at the reigns as if she joined with her mistress in the lust for a fight.

About halfway down the hill, she stopped. They hadn't noticed her yet it seemed and she clucked her tongue at the useless creatures. She glanced behind her, pleased at the way the Riders had concealed themselves at the top of the hill and called to the vermin below.

"Mountain maggots!" Arwa cried in their harsh tongue, deepening her voice. "A welcome sight for a tired man!" No need for such filth to think they are looking upon a woman, after all, she thought.

She stayed in her position as the group edged towards her, coming ever closer. Looking them over, she saw no bows or arrows, only pitiful rusty swords.

"What's this aye?" a hunched form emerged from the middle of the group, its face distorted and filthy. "A slimy Southron, so far from the desert?"

Arwa was glad for her face covering as she bared her teeth at their insult.

"Indeed! And what a welcome sight you lot are!" she hollered down at them before grinning widely. "Fancy some company?"

Not giving them time to respond, she lowered her covering for a moment before letting out a loud cry as she had in the fight near the White City weeks before. The Riders appeared at the top of the hill. She savoured the faces of the orcs below her for a moment before hurtling down the hill, the Riders not far behind her.

Reaching behind her, Arwa pulled out another shorter blade from her belt, gripping her scimitar in her other hand as Sekhmet ploughed into the middle of the group, trampling the leader under her powerful form. With a laugh, she brought both blades down on the heads of two nearest to her, before turning to the rest of the cowards that had begun to run from the thundering hooves of the Rohirrim.

With surprise, she found that the men were singing! Arwa had thought she'd dreamt it up when she had gone through her memories of the Pelennor Fields, but it seemed she had been wrong. The Riders sung proudly as they followed her, their swords hacking into any creature in their path.

It was exhilarating! Orc after orc she cut down, reveling in the high pitched shrieks they made as they fell under the swing of her blade. The Rohirrim behind her made quick work of the majority of the group, before galloping with her after those that had run earlier. Sekhmet raced in front of the running vermin, circling around them and herding them back towards the Riders.

"A gift!" Arwa cried to Wigmund who let out a great bellow of laughter and sang even louder as he pushed his sword through two stragglers at once.

There was not much else to do but watch. The Riders quickly finished off the group, each of them grinning widely at the easy victory.

She unwrapped her hair, now damp with sweat and knotted her braids at her neck in an attempt to cool herself. To her surprise, Éomer himself brought his horse over to her. She had not recognised him with his helmet and for a moment, Arwa felt strangely uncomfortable as she wiped a hand over her grimy forehead.

"I did not realise you had joined us, Éomer King," she said with a nervous laugh, covering her hair again loosely.

"You did not expect the King would fight?" he asked. "Surely you don't think so little of me?"

She frowned in confusion for a moment before registering the jest and laughed again.

"I don't suppose there is a river nearby?" she asked as she used the ends of her scarf to wipe the blood from her hands.

Éomer looked her over at her words and she was still in her seat as she watched his eyes inspect her. Finally he nodded and took off his helmet, smoothing back the hair that had gone wild from the fight. "Aye, we'll reach a stream tonight."

She nodded and he rode back to his men, beginning to talk in their own tongue. A debrief, she guessed. Some things didn't change, no matter what language one spoke.

The men dismounted and quickly tossed the bodies into a heap before lighting a fire and holding it to the pile.

Arwa stayed on her horse, running a soft hand over her companion's neck in praise for her fierceness. But all the while she watched, content to silently observe Éomer as he directed the Riders, his bright golden hair shining in the early morning light and his armor splattered with blood. At one point, he raised his head and met her gaze. His eyes widened slightly as he took in her stare before he ducked his head and continued the work.

She had not missed the charge in the air the night before, when they had stood close together at the entrance to her tent. His eyes had followed the line of her cloak before coming to rest on her hands as she held the material together at her hip. When the sounds of the injured man had jolted him out of the trance, he'd raised his head for a moment and she had held her breath at the hunger in his dark eyes.

Then he had hurried out of the tent, leaving Arwa to hold onto the pole at the doorway for a moment, steadying herself as her heart pounded wildly in her chest.

As she brought her horse to the side to wait for the line to reform and continue riding, Arwa continued to ponder the night before. What did he even want with her? He had made his opinion of the Haradrim clear and there was no hiding that she was of the people he so disliked. Was she merely a trophy to parade around his lands as a show of his victory?

That idea seemed ridiculous, though, when she considered that he had apologized to her for his less than kind words. She had never been apologized to by a man before – in Harad, there was honour or death and no one was willing to risk the wrath of her father by speaking with her in such a manner. But Éomer was not party to the laws of Haradwaith and her father was dead. No one would begrudge him for treating her in the way she supposed that she deserved. The thought of her father took her breath for a moment, leaving a sharp pain in her chest.

Whatever it is, she decided, I do not want it.


"You were magnificent!"

"You compliment me too generously, Slayer of the Witch King. Orcs are not a match for anyone who has had even a small amount of training," Arwa replied, throwing her bathing companion a wry smile. "And surely you did not see me?"

Éowyn looked flustered for a moment before lifting her chin. "I will admit to watching."

The two women burst into laughter, their voices carrying over the cool water. Loud, deep shouts in Rohirric floated downstream, seemingly in response, and Éowyn's cheeks coloured.

"A translation, if you would?" Arwa asked in confusion.

"Ah…" her friend cleared her throat. "They are happy to hear our… good spirits."

Arwa raised one of her eyebrows. "Good spirits? I have travelled now from Harad to Rohan, and never have I heard near naked women referred to as 'good spirits'."

They took one look at each other and laughed again, clutching each other as their legs slipped on the rocks beneath the surface, which only set them off again.

Ignoring the louder shouts from further upstream, they waded back to the edge of the river and threw themselves on the bank to dry.

They had reached the borders of Rohan only moments before, but had wasted no time in quickly seeing to their horses before finding a secluded space to bathe. Arwa had grabbed her bottle of rosewater and Éowyn her soaps, and they had spent an hour scrubbing themselves and their thin underclothes thoroughly. Now, as they sat on the bank, Arwa rubbed the rosewater through the long, fair strands of Éowyn's hair.

"If I had a Wizard under my command, I would ask him only for your golden hair," Arwa sighed in envy.

Éowyn looked back at her in surprise before waving her hand to encourage her to continue. "You will have to stay in the Mark, then. The women will be mad with jealousy when they see your black hair and caramel skin. They might skin you alive if they notice your green eyes."

Arwa rolled her eyes. In Harad, her features were typical – high cheekbones, long eyelashes that skimmed her cheeks and small, thin lips. "Nonsense. Let me take you to Harad. The men will fall over themselves for a tall, fair goddess and the women will poison you. At the very least, share some of your height with me?"

"Enough of your compliments. Turn around!"

Without another word, Arwa scooted around on the ground and tilted her head back in submission.

Once they were happy with the floral smell now overriding the scent of horse that seemed to follow them everywhere, they stretched out on the green grass.

Closing her eyes, Arwa smiled into the sun as it warmed her eyelids. "One day, when you have wedded your prince and settled into your new home, I hope that you would join me in Harad for a time… my heart aches for the sand and the winds of the desert. It is so green here," she spoke softly, as if talk of her home land might offend. The two had formed a strong bond in their short time together, but Arwa kept waiting for the breaking point when Éowyn decided that the Southron was no longer a suitable friend for a noble woman.

Éowyn stretched her arms out, arching like a cat as she moved to let the sun dry another section of her shift. "I would love it - truly. Though I know not how much freedom I will have upon my return to normality."

Arwa was silent for a moment, pondering the plight of both herself and the woman she had come to call a dear friend.

"Did you know," she said finally, turning onto her side and supporting her head with one small hand, "men start wars in Harad for insults against their women?"

Éowyn snorted with laughter as her eyes opened. "But you seem like such a passionate people! I read some of the poetry of the South when I was in the Houses of Healing. Would that someone would say even a fraction of those beautiful words about me!"

Arwa grinned. "That's the problem! We're too passionate. A woman's honour is protected by the whole tribe. Last year, we fought with the neighbouring tribe because my brother took a fancy to the chief's daughter."

This time even the stream couldn't contain their laughter, and heads shook in bemusement as the loud, ungraceful hoots of the two women drifted through the camp.

"Éowyn!"

The sound of the King's voice shocked them into silence and they scrambled up, pulling on their clothes and standing to attention as Éomer strode through the trees.

He cast one eye over them, eyeing the grass and leaves caught in their long hair and exhaled in a loud huff before stomping back the way he'd came.

Arwa and Éowyn looked at each other, taking in the others' unkempt appearance and burst into silent laughter.

"Oh…" Arwa sighed embarrassment and began to comb the leaves out of her hair.

"He's seen worse." Éowyn said plainly. "For all his faults, he's glad to have you here, you know."

The Haradrima looked at the White Lady in surprise. "Why?" she asked sharply.

"He wasn't… encouraging of me, before the Battle. He didn't even know that I rode with them. Then once he had returned to Minas Tirith, all of the fine Gondorian ladies that fawned over him could hardly bare to look at me. They thought me…" she trailed off.

Arwa frowned. "Unseemly?"

Éowyn nodded sadly. "He is glad to see us together. And if I am to tell you the truth, I am glad too. I shall miss you, and your friendship, once I leave the Mark."

"But your Prince's home is not all that far from my lands. We can visit each other, or meet in the middle," Arwa protested as Éowyn gave her a long look.

"Do you mean to return to the South?" she asked.

Arwa thought for a moment as she considered the question. She did, of course, hope to return to her homeland. But what if there was nothing left of it?

"I am… unsure."

"Good." Éowyn linked their arms together. "The Mark will need another headstrong, savage woman."

"Ha! The court women called you that too, didn't they?" Arwa ground her teeth in frustration. "I will never understand women who wish to be nothing more than simpering fools. Perhaps we should organise a cultural exchange?" she elbowed her friend lightly.

"They'd simply die at the idea of spending time with such barbarians, my lady," Éowyn crowed, doing a mighty fine imitation of the courtly women she'd encountered in Minas Tirith.

As they walked through the camp together, they shared more humorous stories of their lands. Arwa revealed that her brother had not started one, but three wars over the years and Éowyn had told her of how the King had professed his undying love to a female packhorse after one too many cups of ale.

They were still laughing when they reached their tent. They had elected to share so more of the wounded could rest more comfortably, for while they had left the more serious cases in Minas Tirith to recover, there were some men who refused and wished to return home, regardless of the risk.

It was painful for Arwa to hear them so uncomfortable and after a quick moment to make her decision, she grabbed a pouch from her saddlebag.

"What's this?" Éowyn asked, sniffing the bag and sighing in pleasure as the floral smell settled over her senses like a blanket.

Arwa chuckled and took the pouch back, eyeing the powder fondly. "It has two uses. One: to kill a man, or two: to guide him into a restful sleep."

Éowyn's eyebrows shot up. "How good are you at measuring the doses?"

"Don't look at me like that! One tiny pinch is enough. Now, are you coming or not?" she asked as she tied the pouch closed firmly and headed for the door, grinning as the White Lady groaned and scrambled out behind her.

"Now," she began as they walked quickly to Arwa's old tent, "it takes an hour or so to work, so I need you to make sure they're all fed after I give them the drink, yes?"

"Hmph. You need to work on your Westron more," was all Éowyn muttered as they entered the tent.

"You!" Arwa called out to a young man guarding the entrance.

"My lady?" he stammered as his cheeks reddened.

She smiled sweetly and battered her lashes, tilting her head to let her braids fall over her shoulder as she had seen the young women of her tribe doing so many times. "Would you be a good man and bring me as many cups of ale as you can carry?"

His eyes widened and he nodded, letting out a choked assent as he ran off.

"You shouldn't get his hopes up," Éowyn chided, but her eyes were light with amusement.

"The healers don't trust me, what else could I have done?" she protested.

"I could have ordered him," her friend retorted and Arwa was silent for a moment before pursing her lips.

"Well. Start ordering," she pushed Éowyn inside lightly as she shook her head, hoping no one had noticed her ridiculous performance.


"Sire?" Elfhelm appeared at his side as he lounged against the side of his tent.

"Hmm?" Éomer turned to him.

"You might need to have words with Elric. He's running around like a chicken without a head, getting ale for the injured. Apparently Arwa persuaded him to fetch as many as he could carry."

He shrugged. "I told her to assist the men if she could, it's of no matter." But he grinned as he allowed the Marshal to lead him back into his tent. Elric never stood a chance against the display he'd caught a few minutes earlier. And neither would I, he thought as he sunk into a chair.

She had more than surprised him earlier in the day, taking the lead against the band of Orcs. Éomer would have led them himself, but her argument had made sense. And above all, he wanted them to be on equal footing. He didn't like that she thought she had not proved her worth to them, after she had taken such care of Éothain. But he realized that he had never really told her this and so the blame was on him.

She had him spell bound, with the way she charged into the group, her light blades swinging. She had looked every inch the Haradrima. Strangely it filled him not with the revulsion he'd experienced when he had first met her, but with desire. The sight of her, with sweat caked on her brow and blood drying on her golden armor, had been so tempting that he had thrown himself into directing the rest of the Riders, although they'd done the same clean up at least a hundred times.

He'd distanced himself from her afterwards, but his resolve had already wavered twice. Once when he'd came upon her at the stream as her tunic clung to her tiny form and then again when he'd watched her black braids swing over her thin shoulders just moments before.

If he were still a Marshal, it would be less of a problem. The pair would still be frowned upon, given her history, but it wouldn't have much of an impact on the overall Riddermark. But now, as King? Unless some miracle gave her respectability in the eyes of the people, there was no chance of his desires being realized. And did she even return his desire? He'd caught her watching him a few times and he could have sworn that her breath had slowed at their parting last night, but she could well still despise him.

Perhaps that was a positive thing, though. She was beautiful, to be sure, standing out from the women he'd known before with her exotic features and slender curves. But she was a hard woman. She was too direct, too forceful. He thanked his lucky stars that she was not like one of the skilled vultures of the Gondorian courts, changing their personalities to suit their targets, or else he would not have stood a chance against her.

No, he decided. The excuse was a good one: the majority of his men did not respect her, at least not that he knew. And desiring a woman that the Mark would not approve of was the last thing he needed.

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Author's Note

The excerpt at the beginning is a slightly edited translation of "Leila, law bagi Leila", a traditional Arabic love song.

Carly, your thoughtful review was wonderful to read. I've described Arwa a bit better in this chapter, but if you're still a bit unsure about picturing her (I know we'd all do so differently), then I was greatly inspired by this artwork of a Persian woman. Obviously she'd be darker given the Haradrim generally are, and more slender/shorter, but it's a good example. Just remove the spaces for the link. https: .com