By the time I woke, the fire had died down to embers. Faint light still shone from the cave worms and the moss lantern, under which Dwalin sat carefully studying a worn map. Kili and Bofur were asleep nearby, two darker shadows against the near-black of the tunnel mouth. The sound of the water was soothing, and I nearly slipped back into sleep, until the arm across my chest jolted me awake.
Altynai had wedged herself against me, an arm over my chest and a leg thrown carelessly over mine. Her face was buried in the sleeve of my tunic, and she muttered querulously in her sleep. I thought back to the maids I had tumbled in the past and chuckled; any of them would have been mortified at the thought of such an unbecoming position in their lord's bed.
But I'm not her lord nor her king, I thought. She is Haradrim, and once I am wed she will return to her duties to the East. Perhaps she will patrol the deserts and grasslands of her Chieftain's territory, or maybe she will ride farther south to the jungles of her kin. I will likely never see her again.
To my surprise, the thought dismayed me. It appeared I had become accustomed to the prickly captain. I would miss her when her duties took her home. I toyed with the thought of offering her command of one of my eored. My wife- I winced at the thought- might feel more at home if she had more of her people around her, and it would not be a bad idea to tie our lands closer by adding their cavalry to ours. I would broach the subject once we returned to Edoras. If we returned to Edoras. Between us and safety we still had unfamiliar mountain caves and an unknown number of bandits searching for us. Our only hope were a trio of dwarves that I had not seen since my formal adoption by my uncle when I was a boy, and who appeared as lost as we.
Lost in thought, I touched Altynai's hand absently. A heartbeat later, my wrist was pinned to the ground and a scimitar was at my throat. Altynai's lips were drawn back in a snarl, and she stared at me for a moment before awareness flooded her eyes.
"Oh. It's you," she mumbled sleepily, then rolled over and fell back asleep, scimitar still in hand. I lay there stunned, almost afraid to move again.
"It's good you're not marrying that one," Dwalin laughed softly. "Reflexes like that, you wouldn't survive your wedding night."
"As contrary as she is, I doubt we'd make it through the ceremony," I replied, easing myself gingerly off the bedroll.
"Get yourself some soup," he offered, gesturing toward the fire with his map. "We saved the rest for the two of you."
"Have you figured out where we are?" I asked, ladling out a bowlful. Dwalin grunted.
"I think so," he said, moving to sit beside me. "You see here? We followed the Merling Stream to Halifrien, and traveled the dwarven paths north. We were aiming for Irensaga, which would let us out close to Edoras. But we took a wrong turn under Dwimorberg, right here. Right now we're on the edges of the Paths of the Dead. Now, we could try to retrace our steps, but I'm not sure enough of my bearings to do that, and it seems to me that not all of the passages we passed by were unoccupied."
"What do you propose then?" I asked, chasing the last scraps of meat around my bowl with a spoon. Never had simple rations tasted so good.
"Well, you're not going to like it, but we'll be following the Paths of the Dead through the mountains and come out the Dark Door at Harrowdale. We'll have to pass through the underground refuge of the Dunlendings. Now, the ghosts of the Wildmen may be gone, but who's to know what's replaced them. Once we emerge we can follow the Snowbourn to Edoras."
"It seems the river took us farther south than I thought," I mused. "We can requistion horses at Dunharrow. I'll also need to send a messenger raven ahead. It's imperative that I inform my sister that I live."
"Can't have your wife thinking you've run off with cold feet either."
"Right now all of me is cold," I muttered. "I thought caves were supposed to be warm."
"Only when they're not situated beside a cursed massive lake," Dwalin said, rolling up his map. "Don't you worry, the Paths will warm up the further away from here we get. It'll be a different sort of cold we'll have to contend with."
xxxXXXxxx
Burok lit the lanterns in the glorified alcove the horse men generously called a library. Less than a hundred scrolls filled the wooden slots lining the stone walls, and he sighed dejectedly. There was little chance that what he searched for would be among them. Seeing no sign of organization, he chose one at random. It proved to be an archaic guide on equine husbandry. The next eight were histories of the Eorlingas and Calenardhon. Another ten contained epic poems pertaining to- what else- horses.
His forty-first scroll gave him pause. Though ostensibly written in Westron, it was an older dialect, one he was having trouble deciphering. He recognized the name Numenor and teased out a few words- massacre, burning, doom. He shook his head in bewilderment. The map sketched at the bottom of the scroll matched the one hidden in Mayaya's chest. But what would his lady, who had never before now stepped foot out of Harad, have to do with the dead cities of a long diminished people?
Aragorn King will know, Burok thought. He will arrive in only a few I should ride out to meet him. My sweet child, what have you done...
Burok never heard the hiss of the dagger leaving it's sheath, nor did he have time to feel more than a single moment of stinging iciness as the blade opened his throat to his spine. He was dead even before he fell.
xxxXXXxxx
Legolas was on his feet and running before the screaming bootsteps assured him that Gimli and the guards were right behind him as he sprinted through the halls of Meduseld to where Frea stood sobbing.
"Are you harmed, my lady?" Legolas asked, looking her over for wounds. She shook her head, and grabbed his hand.
"Burok," she choked out, and pointed to a tiny chamber barely large enough to hold two men. The massive Harad ambassador lay crumpled on the stone floor, his dark eyes staring sightlessly at the rafters. His throat was a ruin, and blood had pooled beneath him, nearly indistinguishable in the dim light from his black robes. Frea fell to her knees and stroked his head.
"He's dead," she whispered, and sobbed again.
"Come away, cousin," Eowyn said gently, appearing at Legolas's side. "Come away now, there's nothing to be done." She pulled Frea into her arms and let her cry into her hair.
"They became close friends during their time together in Harad," she explained to Legolas. "I don't understand, how could this happen in our own Hall?"
"And to a seasoned fighter such as Burok," Gimli added, kneeling beside his body. "Hmm..."
"What are you seeing, my friend?" Legolas asked. Gimli shrugged.
"A single cut," he replied. "Deep as balls in an Umbar whore. I can see bone through the blood."
"Charming. Any other injuries?"
"Well, I don't bloody well intend to find out," Gimli bristled, rubbing his hands together. He took a step back and motioned for Legolas to take his place.
"What is happening?" asked Mayaya from the edge of the crowd. Her voice was thick with sleep, and she irritatedly brushed her loose hair from her eyes. "I woke to screaming. Has my cous- my king been found?"
"I am sorry for the disturbance, my Queen," Gamling said from beside Eowyn. "The Harad ambassador has been killed."
Whatever Eowyn was expecting, it was not her sister-by-marriage's reaction. Mayaya's face froze and she stumbled past the gathered guards. She sank to the ground and, with shaking hands, she gathered Burok into her arms, unnoticing of the blood staining her cerulean silks. She buried her face in his chest and screamed, a wild sound that raised the hair on Eowyn's nape. Mayaya rocked back and forth, clutching the corpse to her tightly. Blood oozed sluggishly over her shoulder.
"He was my friend," she whimpered, her voice muffled against his chest. "He was my armsman before he was my father's. He used to be my pony before I was old enough for one of my own, and he was my dragon and he would let Altynai 'slay' him in order to rescue me. He'd sneak me spice cakes when my father punished me, and when I fell and hurt myself he'd hug me until the pain went away."
The raw pain in Mayaya's voice shook Eowyn, who had come to the, perhaps ungracious, conclusion that Mayaya felt little for anyone aside from her own kin. She handed Frea off to Gamling, and knelt beside her new queen.
"My Queen," she said hesitantly, touching her arm. Mayaya's head snapped up and Eowyn stumbled backwards. Her face was heavily masked with Burok's blood and her eyes were mad with fury. In that moment she was inhuman.
"I want to know who did this," she growled. Her voice, normally light and playful, was low and discordant. "I want him brought to me. Have a sharpened stake erected in the courtyard. If the murderer confesses before nightfall, I will be merciful and take his head before mounting it on the stake. If he does not, when he is found, I will have him impaled and I will skin him alive myself."
Mayaya cuddled Burok's body once last time, and stood.
"Take him," she ordered. "We will build him a pyre at the water's edge, and we will give him a Haradrim funeral. Now, before the sun sets on his last day. I expect every person in this godsforsaken hovel, man and child, to follow. I will have them know why they will talk, by choice or by force."