A Captain is taken; one move is opened, another closed: the end game turns

Fall T.A. 3003

One could sometimes anticipate events or be anticipated by them. Or, like a leaf upon a river, swept along in its turbid rush, only their outline could be discerned within the spiral; clearer once caught in a quiet eddy for a moment. Too often, one could only see once the spinning stops.

Sometimes there was a sense upon the land that events were starting to move in greater earnest. A gathering sort of restlessness that could be felt in the slightest of things: a shift upon too humid air, a fall of shadow upon greensward or a bird's song in the early morning. Sometimes it was more personal, an intensity of a father's gaze, growing ever harder, as if the unyielding stone of the mountain has come to settle in a heart.

In the kingdom eying warily a range of shadow to the east the land gathered and shifted uncomfortably upon its bed: beneath its boughs a young Dunadan slept troubled by dreams of green and dying.

Somewhere the land slumbered peacefully still and a carefree village in a softly rolling shire was oblivious for yet a while. Somewhere a city built on air was destined to fade away with the passing of an age. Somewhere a daughter of a blessed but tumultuous elder race watched and moved the pieces with more subtlety than any other. Somewhere a Maia tried to fulfill his duty, while another twisted what it meant.

~~~000~~~

A flash of brown and white sped through the air as the little sparrow darted and dipped, racing across the golden fields in her hurry. She was tired, the wheat stalks looked so tempting to stop and rest, but he had called her and so she came in haste.

The swiftly beating tiny heart fluttered in joy and she trilled to spy him along the road beside the tower dark and high. This day he was cloaked as an old man, stooped and bent; but he has many shapes and colours, of bird and beast, hart and hound, dapple green or fawn brown. Today his clothes crackled like the dried brown leaves of the forest floor, his hair was spider silk and his skin deeply furrowed as the white oaks that grew beside his home.

She circled down to his outstretched hand, warbling a greeting to her brethren on his shoulders and dipped her head to the circling bees and dragonflies. They swooped and dove as ever but did not alight. They were his honour guard and watched ever over him.

Steady on his finger he brought her close, eyes shining great and bright as the wisest of her kin. In song he praised her for not tarrying in the Emnet, he knew her desire too. Joyfully she told of what she saw and heard in the great tower white and glistening. The big one angry, the littler one surprised but not upset, resigned. The grey one stern and certain as ever. She has seen much of them these past months and knew them more than any could have guessed.

With a gentle stroke across her back he released her. The little servant darted ever higher, seeking fresh water and good grain. There was some food left in the scarred land around the tower, but she had to hunt for it amid the turf churned to mud and the clumps of withered stunted trees. Her song was sorrowful. Her kind remembered the green grass of the plain around and river's laughing water, diverted now to feed the fires whose stinking air buffeted her ever higher.

~~~000~~~

Inside the brooding, obsidian walls, the lord and master of Orthanc spoke quietly to his guest. His manner and his speech were as smooth as the tower's glossy surface, his motives as black, they too did not reflect the world's streaming light.

Seeming to be the gracious host, Saruman offered the younger wizard food and drink, professing his pleasure at the news of the Steward and his sons. "I am delighted that Denethor's younger son is well and goes to a new company, Radagast. Ithilien is an honourable commission and will forge a hardy soldier."

Yavanna's disciple sat ill at ease upon the carven chair. Restless hands fingered the grey beard, their movements very like a bird's, sharp yet hesitant. His lips when they moved fluttered slightly. Radagast had had little practise in the rounder speech of men of late. "Yes, yes, perhaps. But the elder brother was not so pleased. He will miss him I am sure but wonderful news that one so high in the Steward's favour will join that company. I am afraid I have had little time and inclination to check on the lavan and aewen there. I hope the soldiers do not disturb them overmuch." The little wizard turned a pained and hesitant stare upon the great cords of firewood laid upon the courtyard stones. Perhaps he should be more concerned about the beasts and birds beyond his woodland home.

Saruman, stilling a sudden moue of disgust, flicked a corner of his white woollen robe away from the dust and leaves that settled always in the other's wake. Radagast the Brown, the Fey, the Fool. He has just the wit to play the part that I have set for him, thinking he aids the council with his efforts. I pray he does that with skill and speed and does not wander farther into his creatured world.

He thanked the wizard and showed him out. Once alone, Saruman turned back to his interrupted efforts in the lower caverns. He was forging another casting, a new ring of power to join the several that glinted darkly on his hand. This time he hoped through subtle and skilful design to craft a tool that would see the One, would yearn for it and aid him in his search. For this he needed something tangible from he who had last wielded it, something that had known the pull of its power and its voice. A slow smile spread across the wrinked face as he lifted the grey and weathered bones with heavy tongs and thrust them roughly into the forge's hungry flames. Their ash and white gold and mithril he would pour into his greatest work.

Firelight flickered across his face as he worked steadily, revelling again in the subtlety of his thinking. Let that old fool Mithrandir wander about the Shire. He alone had found where the son of Elendil lay. Isildur who had no grave, whose body was thought to have washed down Anduin. Askan had done well, scouted every inch of the river and its shallows, asking the little folk along the bank not about graves, but bones, big folk bones. His faithful servant had gathered them and brought them to his master, battered but complete.

There was no doubt. About the skull had lain the Elendilmir, a beautiful thing, a white star of Elvish crystal upon a fillet of mithril, now twisted and bent but gleaming still. This he had set aside to add to his growing hoard About the sternum had hung the greatest prize of all. With a cry of exhultation he had taken up the golden case upon its chain and with shaking fingers opened it. But the ring, eager to return to its anxious master, had fallen out into the River, the case was empty. It had been a bitter blow, but one he strove now to turn to his advantage.

As he moved his tongs and bellows the wizard considered more the import of Radagast's unwitting spying. The wheels of his ordered mind turned around and around a strategy. He knew that the young son, at least for yet a while, would be beyond his reach. The Captains. The Captains on the field must become the target. Theodred it seemed was too much like his grandsire Thengel: Grima could not turn him. Others the wizard hoped could be turned against the Prince, to isolate his threat and isolate his father. Theoden soon would become his servant's focus, his time had almost come. Of Denethor's elder son he must learn more. He was reputed to be valiant but even the greatest warrior had a weakness.

His spies he was certain would find out soon and he would know.

~~~000~~~

.

"This is not right."

"Ealdemóder, Grandmother?…" Morwen started, she had not realized that she spoke aloud. Looking on Eomer's pinched and tired face the thought came again… So much was not right. There should not be lines of fatigue on one so young, sitting vigil while his young mother wasted silently away. Yet she must not pour her own frustration upon the boy, not burden the child more than Bema seemed fit to do. He is still a boy, eleven summers did not make a man. He would not understand: how could he, so young and still grieving for his father? So are we all.

She cleared her throat, lifted a hand to him with the moistened cloth with which she tried to bathe her daughter's fevered skin. "Could you ask Gulfred for another cloth? At this time of night she will still be up." She used the Rohirric. For months now the boy had refused to answer to anything else. The children of Kings, scions of Numenor, Theodwyn had always had them speak Sindarin, just as she had herself had done in Edoras. But here in Aldburg its Lord had always spoken Rohirric, as fiercely proud of Eorl his forefather as any of the royal sons of Brego. The new young lord had chosen to follow suit.

Eomer looked upon his Grandmother sitting stiffly beside the bed. Her white hair was braided neatly, her wrinkled hands gentled bathed his mother's brow but it was her eyes he noticed. The great grey eyes in the deeply lined but still beautiful face were just his mother's. Hers he had not seen now for many days.

He swallowed nervously. He had done something wrong, for surely the look his grandmother bore was her angry face, used for young boys who had tracked mud across her floor or failed to mind their lessons and their manners?

As if she caught the thought Morwen sadly shook her head, squeezed gently his hand that held the cloth. "I am not angry, min swéte, I am sore of heart is all."

He nodded, for he truly understood. His own heart felt so pained and swollen he thought it might burst from within his chest. He knew. Though he would not say it, most certainly not to 'Wyn. He knew what was to come, as surely as he had known, the day the Eored and their mounts came walking much too slowly, a bier swaying gently between the horses, bringing his father home.

Wearily Eomer raised his drooping head and squared his shoulders. Had Uncle not said he was the head of their household now? Morwen pretended not to notice as tears were roughly dashed from reddened eyes. She smiled and nodded when the hand that reeached out and took the cloth was steady.

For many minutes all was quiet but for the sound of slow and laboured breathing from the great carved bed. Outside the dark veil of another night had fallen and beside the Dowager Queen her daughter lay slowly dying.

Theodwyn had become a shell of her once vibrant self, eyes sunken, the glorious golden cornsilk hair brittle and lifeless where it lay about her on the pillow. Thengel's hair, but that too, hurt too sharply to remember.

Morwen could not help herself, she foolishly reached out and with shaking fingers stroked the long blond locks. She could not still a gasp of pain. It hurt so very much. My littlest one, my baby… It is so very wrong to outlive one's children.

Her heart clenched but ruthlessly, with a will of finest steel she pushed the grief away. Anger, anger was what she wanted to feel, needed to feel. Somehow her blazing need had to spark something in her daughter, give her the strength to fight. Morwen wanted to shake her, slap her, shout at her, anything to rouse her little girl from the apathy that had led them to this pass.

Theodwyn had grieved too hard, unable to let go, so much so that she shrunk in upon herself, not sleeping, not eating for days on end, until her weakened body had given in to a simple winter sickness. She no longer had the strength to fight and Morwen could not give it to her. Each day and hour she slipped farther from them.

It was all so wrong. She has given up and I can do nothing to stop her.

Oh, but she was angry at her daughter. It felt almost to Morwen like a betrayal; that a child of hers and Thengel's should be a coward; could not face life without her husband. But no that was not truly fair. It was not cowardice to love or love too much. Only to never try. But how could Theodwyn love him so much that she was unable to make herself care for her little ones, to rise from her bed, do anything but lie? That also was not the way of things. A mother's love should be the fiercest, strongest bond there could be in all of Arda.

Never had she thought to rue letting her laughing, headstrong little daughter indulge herself, to make a love match with the handsome, wild but caring Marshall. Yet she could not bring herself to be so angry at Eomund.

They said he had been reckless, raging, took on too many with too few. But how was that unnatural? It is what the men in her world did; threw themselves into the dangers of the world, dangers that were many and unpredictable. The party of Orcs they had pursued across the east Emnet all the way to the East Wall, the cliffs of Emyn Muil. Perhaps, just perhaps, it had stiffened their evil backs to be up against such a barrier. That was what Elfhelm had thought, hollowed-eyed with grief, bearing his friend and Marshall home. He had also claimed, drunk and raging after the funeral cup, that only the arrow meant for Eomund had been poisoned. How could they ever know the truth of that?

Sitting in the pale golden light of the one oil lamp, she moistened once again another cloth and touched it gently to Theodwyn's chapped and colourless lips. Her own back hurt and limbs trembled with fatigue but she would not leave. Not until it was time to bring Eowyn and Eomer to Edoras, after, would she leave her daughter's side.

She looked over to the window bench, where lay Eowyn, asleep at an awkward angle. The little girl had tried to stay awake, but at last, exhausted, had simply slumped where she had sat. Not for the first time in those dark weeks Morwen wished the girl was not so old. It would be a greater mercy were she unable to remember so well the mother and father both who were now to leave her. That could not be changed, nor it seemed, could she pour her own iron will into her daughter, however much she wished to, to spare her grandchildren further hurt.

Foolish woman, what a waste of energy to think on what cannot be. Better to prepare honestly for what will come.

Looking at the sunken cheeks, dry fevered brow and hollow eyes that were, once, like to her own, the anger flared again. She felt so very tired with it. Anger also took energy and in these hours she felt every one of her eighty years. This winter past she had first begun to feel that to fight the aches and pains had become that more difficult. Her strength had waned and in her very bones she had felt she had but little time.

The little girl stirred, shifted in her sleep and the bright gold waterfall of hair slipped across her cheek, her daughter's beauty wrapped about her son-in law's fierce and passionate nature. They needed her. Motherless, fatherless, they would need her. An anchor in this world that was tilting too perilously and much too fast. An anchor that it would be unutterably cruel to loose too soon.

So be it.

Husbanding her strength, Morwen took a deep and steadying breath. She let it out and with it let her anger drift away; gently as the leaves that settled down upon the cool and heedless land.

She would bide and be angry no more.

~~~000~~~

The two horsemen rode as hastily as they dared along the forest track, eyes alert and scanning always the verge ahead. The road, once wide and carefully kept, was now little more than a straight ribbon of shorter green within a tangle of yew and laurel. Moss and lichen lay as thick upon the hemlock trees as on the trackway underfoot. Orcs had driven the people from this land long ago and although Najir trusted their horses to outrun the scum, it would not do to be in any way complacent. Their errand was dangerous, as was the land before them. And so the land behind.

The young Haradim wound his blue and black keffiyah once more about his coif, dark eyes ever upon the trees. About them the forest lay hushed and waiting; the winter rains not yet begun, the bees had sought their refuge and the birds begun their journey down Anduin toward the warmer coast. He and his companion made little sound as they passed: all decoration had been stripped from the horses' harnesses and saddles, their brazen plate lay muffled under black linen robes. Fearful, in truth, more of their countryman than the Gondorim, they bore nothing that would reveal his rank, that the hereditary Sheikh of the Qahtani rode without a proper escort.

Najir peered behind. Goran, riding close, also looked on edge; his nephew's lips were narrowed, as were his wide-set black eyes. Seeing his ammu touch once his sword hilt, the younger man reached down and loosened yet again the wickedly curved sword within its scabbard. Najir nodded. Great Rider lend us speed.

The farther into the land of the Gondorim they rode the more often Najir felt the need the resettle his keffiyah. The movement oddly brought him comfort. Na'man too felt the uneasiness of his master and shook his small proud head. The trees with their sharply honed and spikey needles were strange and the green about them felt oppressive. Nothing at all like the gentle green of an oasis and its promise of life and bounty. Even the sunlight here was muted, the waning autumn sun shaded by the dense canopy of the overarching trees. He felt hemmed in, wished longingly for open sky and room to run.

Not for the first time in this anxious month of the šutam the young man wondered at his actions. Am I making the right choice? Do I have any choice at all? He thought painfully of his people and Shayana left behind; dark skin, dark hair, dark and endless eyes. His father's still and quiet face. Released from his suffering at last.

Out in the endless desert Suladan's forces conquer all before them: men and horses, riches and women flow only east to the shaven priests of the many temples.

It seems nothing can stop the Black Serpent now that he is blessed by the Lord of Fire. Abaan had spoken, his visions bright and urgent: the Great Rider spurns the Lord of Fire; his priests were evil and corrupted, they practised unspeakable acts upon the women captured. Surely Araw is greater than such a one? Had not the Sea Men had told them so in ages past, as had the Prophets? But for Najr it is always difficult to believe the obvious is the case. He had inherited his father's subtley and shrewdness; he too takes delight in the twists and turns of words, honouring Araw with verses bright and strong. There had to be something he could do to protect his people more than pray?

And so he found himself upon a foreign road in the pale morning light, or what passed for it in this sheltered land. Seeking the help of a foreign people. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Only the Qahtan hold to the old ways, the old gods. In this too, he thought, they have something other than an enemy in common. Or so he hoped. It occurred to him what he might have said when Abaan urged him to seek the hated Gondorim. Foolishness. He'd have to have been a different man, reached a different place with his life to do so. There are forks in every road. He told himself he still followed the path of righteousness.

Once past the Poros they had slept fitfully at night under the forest canopy; unused as ever to a land so still and green. The stars here were also a little off, the Hunter on his side, yet in Najir's desert home they looked just as coldly down, were unchangeable, wheeled oblivious to the struggles of his people and the land. What would Abaan, chief poet as well as shaman, make of this? The question made him smile in the early morning light. Surely the honoured one would say that it was right, that there should be balance in the world: steel with silk; green leaf with yellow sand; cold star with belly's heat.

They rode alone, but not unwatched. Few in these latter days came down the road from Poros, their very presence was unusual. Though a hundred years had passed since the war upon the Crossings, the company of Ithilien watched always the Harad road. They too had heard word of battles to the east. That the fractured tribes of that desert land were fighting amongst each other.

Concealed by shrubs and bracken that grew thickly about the half-wild track, Eradan pulled his hood farther over his grizzled shock of hair and rubbed a hand across his beard beneath the green cloth mask. This served two purposes. It helped the itch (on leave he had given in to his wife's plea for him to shave) and it helped him think. The veteran captain of the Ithilien company was decidedly unhappy with the word from their forward scouts. A pair of Harardrim this far north upon the road in open daylight? Never in his long experience had he heard of such a thing. Haradrim near the crossings, attacking swiftly under cover of the night sometimes, but not this: a bold and open foray in their lands.

The bowmen hidden well on either side the road made no sound as they held their arrows notched and ready. The law was clear, the company was to kill all caught within Ithilien without the Steward's leave. The captain had done so many times: would do so many more. But he much preferred to follow orders when the trespassers were Orcs.

He hesitated. Eradan was always a careful and a thoughtful man. Something here seemed different and dead men could not explain their actions; could not give notice of more to come. A double note of an oriole's song rode lightly on the air. Two intruders coming.

The company watched in perfect, expectant silence as the brown-skinned Southron men drew nigh, black eyes glinting through curious cloth headdresses. They rode with exquisite grace, backs straight, no wasted movement, horses responding to the subtlest of commands. The Captain admired their skill but pondered their apparent naivite, to ride so openly upon the Harad road. Were they truly oblivious to the danger? They carried the cruelly efficient shorter swords of the Haradrim, but these were sheathed. They bore no shields or spears or bows. It made no sense. Yet spies surely would not ride so openly or so heavily laden? He quickly made a gut decision: hold fire.

The whistle and rapid trill of a cardinal erupted from the brush. The shorter Haradrim behind started and then spoke: a rapid burst of harsh words that the captain could not understand. The tone needed no translation; the unfamiliar sound had made the young rider nervous. Two pairs of black and wary eyes scanned over the Rangers heads.

Eradan looked over to his lieutenant crouching low nearby, arrow at the ready, and raised one grizzled eyebrow. Faramir silently shook his head. He knew some Haradi but the rider's words had been muffled by the head-scarf and much too fast. He held his position and his bow, as puzzled as his captain by the exotic sight.

Najir did not reply to Goran's anxious query but he too felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Na'man whickered, nervous and low; he smelled something that was not right. Ala Mahlak 'slow down' he called softly back, as he eased off his touch upon the horse's barrel. The stallion listened and slowed at once. At his master's gentle touch upon the reins he stopped. It is about time, the older man thought, the Gondorim must watch these roads.

A bird he did not recognize called again from beside the road and its mate answered to his left. Suddenly two rows of green-clad men burst upon them, great bows set, arms raised. Startled, Goran's bay stallion threw up his head and took a quick step back, the young man struggled to rein him in. Na'nam, older and more confident of his master's judgement, held steady and accepted as is his due a grateful pat. Najir made no sudden move but looked carefully around, marvelling at the speed and silence of men who now surrounded them. Gondorim. Now perhaps, events would move. Bless Abaan for his wisdom and the Great Rider for his words.

Wetting lips gone suddenly dry, Najir decided that words quickly understood might forestall a nervous hand. He spoke quietly and slowly in halting Westron to the front of the party: he could not decide which green-clad hood to speak to.

"Honoured men of Gondor, we beg leave of you to pass through your kingdom. We seek the City of White and its Sultan, to bring tidings out of the east."

Eradan, standing hidden amongst his archers, was startled to hear words of his own tongue, but in that moment was decidedly unmoved by their meaning. Southrons had not come to Minas Tirith to parley for a century. Why should they think we will let them pass so easily? Green eyes narrowed; he spoke loudly and slowly through the mask. "You need not ride so far to pass on what you know." He caught the dark and intelligent gaze of the rider in the lead. "We do not pay spies for news here in Gondor, nor do we suffer them to ride unhindered through our lands."

Goran uttered a string of imprecations. His Westron, better in fact than his uncle's, had been good enough to understand the insult. Najir, not daring to turn right round lest he startle a nervous archer, chided quickly. 'Tifl.' Child. The young man, chastened, bowed his head. It was a risk bringing a hot-headed youngster to a diplomatic mission, but what choice did he have after all? No other in their tribe but Abaan knew the language. He smiled grimly. He fancied he could hear steam coming out of his nephew's large and hairy ears.

"Not so, esteemed….?" He inclined his head respectfully in query to the tall figure that had spoken.

'Captain…" came the gruff reply. Not a single bow wavered from its target.

" Captain." The Haradrim executed a slow and perfect obeisiance from atop his horse. "We are not spies. It is just as I have said. I am Najir, son of Najram, blessings on his memory, Sheikh of the Qahtani people. We come from Harondar to seek the aid of the Sultan of Gondor." As he raised up again, Najir noticed the steady gaze of one tall, green-clad Gondorim. The man's odd light eyes seemed more merciful: sharp with an inquisitive intensity that boded well. If these were the men of Gondor he must ally with he felt in that moment a little comforted.

The tip of Fararmir's arrow did not waiver from its target as he looked searchingly within the Haradrim's proud and glinting gaze. Surrounded by the headdress, his eyes burned brightly, but the young lieutenant sensed no malice or subterfuge, only wariness and urgency. The Haradrim's manner was careful, collected but perfectly respectful. Either he was an accomplished actor or he was, incredibly, just as he seemed. Lightly Faramir brushed the man's thoughts as Amerith had taught him. Najir frowned and shook his head, sensing the intrusion but not its source.

Faramir looked left and caught Eradan's eye. He nodded very slightly. He had felt no guile or ill intent; it was clear from the man's forward mind that what he said was true.

Eradan, let out a quiet breath, knowing well to trust his young lieutenant's judgement.

"Drop your swords." The order brooked no hesitation. In earnest of his peaceful intentions, Najir unbuckled the scabbard from his saddle and dropped it down. He heard the thud upon the dirt as Goran's fell behind.

"Dismount." With enviable agility the Haradrim at once threw their legs across their saddle bows and slid lightly down. Four bows lowered and they were held tight and fast, though no more roughly than one expected.

Najir, standing proud and tall but dwarfed by every Ranger there, prayed silently that his nephew kept his head.

Packs and bodies searched and stripped of their daggers and their knives, the Captain elected to let their prisoners sit at the camp unbound but not unguarded. He questioned ever more deeply the men's motives and their mission. From Najir he learned with growing concern of the spread of the Black Serpent's forces, his desire to unite all of Harad under one Sheikh of Sheikhs. He learned too of the new cult spreading closer to their borders, of the tribute and attendance to the Lord of Fire. When the Haradrim spoke those words a look of outright alarm crossed Eradan's craggy face, his bushy eyebrows crawled halfway up his furrowed forehead.

To Najir these seemed to be well-educated men. They spoke courteously and well, would know some history and lore. Loosening his keffiyah to reveal his narrow, neatly-bearded face, he stroked his moutache thoughtfully. How to help them understand that his was not an easy choice? That it was made and held with greater purpose, knowing full well how much it would cost them to set aside the old grievances.

"Captain, long have we and the Gondorim made war, each side losing as the other wins, never finding any lasting peace. Our interests have rarely been the same. But here, in this time at last, we judge they march together. You have need of certain peace upon your borders. "

"And your interests truly march with ours?" Carefully sceptical, Eradan gestured for him to carry on..

Najir smiled, pleased to find the Captain had not dismissed him out of hand. "We need more men, more fighters, swords and horses. We are one tribe. Alone, the Serpent will take us swiftly when the winter fighting season begins."

The older man nodded at that last. He had stood at the Crossings of the Poros, dipped a cup and said a silent prayer to Tulkas for the sons of Rohan and Gondor who had fallen there. How ironic that their sacrifice had ultimately mattered little; Ithilien had still been abandoned, her people fled, the green and fragrant land given up to an enemy from the east instead of from the south. A veteran, Eradan understood the exigencies of war, that change came and a good soldier rode with it. In his bones, he knew too that they were already losing ground.

He took in the high proud cheekbones and hawk-like set of the Haradrim's dark eyes. Eradan could well believe he commanded the loyalty of a thousand men as he had said. The though was sobering. How many more are waiting on the sands if he is fearful of being overrun? "I cannot promise anything. But I know well that you should be heard. Then we shall see what the Steward thinks and what we are to do."

Najir completed once again the curious half bow. "Shukran Jazīlan, Captain, I thank you. I can ask for nothing more."

Eradan rose from the low stool on which he sat. Swiftly he gave orders for them to be fed and housed within the camp and for a party to escort them under guard back to the city on the morrow.

There was nothing for the two Haradrim to do but sit and wait patiently as all around them the Gondorim went about their business. They were offered bowls to wash in before meat and handed plates of a hot but listless smelling stew. Najir, comforted to follow his prophet's teachings, turned to the west to honour the Great Rider. He watched dumbfounded as the many tall and grey-eyed men also turned west and stood in silence before they ate. Perhaps it was as Abaan had said: the Gondorim honoured Araw and his brethren well.

He ate quickly but with the little relish, the food had little taste. Goran sniffed suspiciously at an orange chunk of vegetable but tried his best. 'Fit for dogs', he mumbled to his uncle, who chuckled quietly. 'Yes indeed, but better than an arrow through the eye'.

Afterward he pulled a small ornate book from his pack and tried to read: the words of the Prophet he hoped would soothe the anxiety in his heart and head. So passed much of an afternoon in which he had hoped they would move farther on. Goran, deprived of even his writing quill, took a small stick and lazily traced a script upon the dirt.

Patience, he thought, patience.

The sun's westering light was slanting even lower when he felt a presence by his side.

"May I join you?" asked the tall, keen-eyed Gondorim. The man spoke carefully and slowly in an oddly slurred, archaic form of Haradi. Surprised, the sheikh gestured courteously for the man to sit. "Honoured guest. Peace upon your people." The traditional words were ironic in the circumstance.

Mouth quirking slightly, Faramir folded his long legs and settled down beside. He too found humour in their implication. He inclined his head respectfully. "Honoured guest, I am Faramir, son of Denethor, Lieutenant of Gondor."

Now that the green hood and mask of the Gondorim had been removed, Najir could see that the man was about his own age, with a fair beardless face and long black hair. His hands were calloused from the bow and sword, but not aged and dirty. A noble son, he thought. One with access to good teaching and good manners.

Faramir looked with interest upon the book Najir was holding; its swirling script was delicate and elegant, inked with care. The pages at the edge were dipped in gold. A work of art. It was odd to see it here out in the wild; in his experience, such treasures were to be found only in the archive.

He gestured to it and switched to the common tongue. "It is very beautiful, the lettering and decoration are so detailed. We have little like it. Do all your people value books?"

"Very much." A wide smile of purest pleasure split the darker man's face. "It is a way to honour the Great Rider. Art and letters were brought to us by his prophet. My people are nomads; we have no space to carry heavy things or art that is not useful. Decoration, writing and even words themselves become our art."

Faramir smiled. "I can see so, this is skillfully done." Hesitantly, he leaned over and pointed to the inside of Najir's wrist. Dark swirls alike to those upon the book were visible below his highly ornamented cuff. Curiosity got the better of him. He hoped he was not being abominably rude. "And these? You paint words also upon your body?"

Rolling up his sleeve, the Haradrim displayed proudly the graceful arabesques, swirls, and diamonds running in brown ink across his inner forearm. The lines were just as elegant as those upon the book, done by a skilful hand and faded just a little from the sun.

"What does it say?"

"Words from the prophet. 'You are not a grain of sand within the desert. You are the desert within a grain of sand.'" A dark head dipped in silent benediction. Araw fill me with the desert's strength that I may protect my people.

Faramir smiled in evident delight. "We say something quite similar. 'I hold within, a part of all that I have met. And all that I have met holds me.'"

Najir nodded, a slow smile warming his chisled features. "Yes, that is wise and well formed indeed. You also honour your gods with words and poetry?"

"We do" explained Faramir quietly, "although songs are more common than longer prayers." Something about the other man's easiness and gentle grace made him suddenly want to share. "I love words and the way they sound, the ease with which they go together." He flushed. "Most soldiers would not say so."

"Then they miss a chance to serve their spirit with highest honour." Pitching his voice low, the Haradrim spoke haltingly, clearly concentrating to find the words in the language that they shared.

"I said to the night,
"If you are in love with the moon,
it is because you never stay for long."
The night turned to me and said,
"It is not my fault. I never see the Sun,
how can I know that love is endless?"

"That is beautiful" exclaimed Faramir.

Najir held his hands to his heart and bowed his head. 'Thank you. When my heart is still, the Great Rider fills me and I write."

"That is yours?" The young lieutenant was delighted and surprised. "I write a little," he admitted shyly. "But for me it seems to be when my heart is anything but still. More often when it is troubled." A ghost of a frown crossed the lieutenant's face and the Haradim wondered suddenly what troubles had could come to one so young. But do I, he admitted to himself, have troubles any less?

"Faramir!" A call rang across the camp. He looked up. Mablung was beckoning, message scrolls in hand. It seemed he as well, would be sent to Minas Tirith.

"I must go. The young lieutenant hastily stood and after a moments hesitation bowed carefully to the sitting man, trying to imitate Najir's own, far more elegant, obeisiance. "'I thank you learned one for your time.'"

The odd cadence to the ancient words and the heartfelt but awkward gesture made the sheik's mouth quirk in return. It would not do to laugh, the young man was clearly trying, however graceless were his efforts. One's enemies are not always men of lesser worth.

Seized by a feeling he could not name, Najir bowed from the waist right to the soft and grassy sward. "Time flows lightly when one is honoured by good company, Lieutenant."

Najir closed carefully the cherished book of prayer and watched as the tall young soldier strode away. He marveled. This would be, he thought, the first of many surprises on the road. That there would be so little difference at heart between a man of Gondor and Qahtan. For the first time that day he felt more hopeful of his errand.

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~~~000~~~

The possibility that Saruman may have found and desecrated Isildur's bones is noted in The Unfinished Tales by JRR. I have taken liberty a little with timelines here and moved Eomund's and Theodywn's deaths a year later for simplicity.

Najir's poem is by the great Persian poet Rumi: Whispers from the Beloved.

Thank you so much to all who reviewed and followed. Your encouragement is so very greatly appreciated!

Grateful thanks once again to Annafan, Thanwen and Wheelrider for comments and critters and forbearance with my interminable tense changes.

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