Chapter twenty-five: Betwixt and Between
From The Mind of the Past: A Social History of Gondor, F.A. 12 to 62, by Ioriston of Isengard, F.A. 358
My tale is one of people, not wars. I know little of swords, only of those who wield them. I know little of strategy, the preserve of captains and kings. Let others, who love such things, fill pages with their accounts of battles and troop movements. Let them describe how Elessar ordered his army, and how this flank moved forward, and that flank stood firm. Let the singers of the Rohirrim tell us how Éomer ordered his famous cavalry charge. Let the poets of Umbar, the scattered few who remain, list the names of those many thousands who never came home again.
For my part, I see war as an unpleasant interlude in the tale of our glorious Age. I am a historian, and I cannot ignore it, but let us move swiftly past it, and carry Gondor back to peace.
Barely two dozen Corsair ships attacked the coast of Lebennin and Belfalas, and some were hardly ships at all, merely fishing boats packed full of armed men. Most were captured or sunk with little loss to the defenders on the shore. Along the whole length of the coast, two hundred and ninety-six men died, many of those sailors on a single ship that ran onto rocks while attempting to capture a Corsair ship.
By the time the army from Umbar passed the Crossings of the Poros, they were exhausted from their long march. It was a far smaller force than Umbar could have mustered just twenty years before, and all along, the lords of Umbar knew that their only hope lay in surprise and misdirection. Halfway between the Poros and Emyn Arnen, King Elessar awaited them, along with five thousand men. The men of Umbar rushed in to engage with them, and it could have been a fierce battle, were it not for King Éomer and his Rohirrim. Having previously fallen upon a strike force from Umbar who had been making their way by stealth into Ithilien, Éomer led his men in a wide loop, and came upon the army of Umbar from the rear. Caught between Elessar and Éomer, the army of Umbar crumbled.
Many were slain. Many more tried to flee, and were allowed to do so, for they were not in themselves evil men, just men who had been given no choice but to follow their lords to war. As for the lords, they fled on swift horses as soon as the outcome of the battle became clear. Some were taken, but some had chosen not to risk themselves at all, but had stayed behind in tall ships far behind the line of battle, or stayed behind in Umbar itself. There they remained, and brooded, and plotted their revenge. It would be another dozen years before the threat of Umbar was finally eliminated, and more would die before that day came.
But for now, let this be the end of it. For some, there was grieving. Some had ruins to rebuild, and some had wounds to heal. Men marched home who had never seen battle before. Some had forged new friendships with comrades met over a campfire. There were weddings, too, as the fear of death in battle led men and women to realise that they never wanted to be parted again.
There was peace, and my tale is the tale of Gondor at peace. Life resumed its normal course, with all the joys and hopes and fears that daily life entails. A thousand tiny wars of the heart are fought every day. Those are my tale, not this.
The war was swift, and the war was won. Let it end there, and let my tale begin.
All through the Citadel, people were waiting. Faramir had unrolled a map of southern Gondor, and marked the armies with tokens, here, here and here. Battle would have been joined yesterday, or maybe today. If it didn't happen until tomorrow, that meant that something had gone wrong and the forces of Umbar had evaded the net.
"How fast can a messenger gallop?" Pippin wondered out loud. "Or will he come by boat? How long before we know?"
"We had an eagle last time," Merry said. "I don't expect we'll have one this time, though."
They were leaning against the battlements, standing on tiptoe just to see over. The city was invisible below them unless they scrambled up the wall and sat on the top. Pippin had tried that once, but the sheer drop below him had made him feel a bit funny. It was better to stand with a wall between you and the drop, even if it meant that you couldn't look down. They could see outwards, though. They could see the road that led to Osgiliath and the road that came from the harbour. If messengers came, they would see them.
"It would be useful if we could, though," Pippin mused. "Imagine it! A nice, friendly eagle that we could send out any time we had an urgent message."
"A singing eagle," Merry said. "It was a singing eagle."
"Or any sort of bird." Pippin looked up, and watched the swallows flying, darting this way and that in search of insects. "Remember the thrush in Bilbo's stories?"
Merry said nothing, and seemed to be lost in sad thought. He'd been left behind the last time, too, of course. Pippin had gone away with the army, but Merry had stayed behind. All he had been able to do was stare out at the endless darkness in the East, and wonder when the end would come. Or maybe the end had already come, but they just hadn't known it yet.
Pippin pushed himself away from the wall. "Shall we go down into the city?" It was too quiet here in the Citadel. He had already asked Arwen if she knew what happening across the river, but she had shaken her head sadly, and told him no. He wanted to ask her again. Again and again, he wanted to pester her: did she know now? Had anything changed? Whenever a door opened, he whirled round to see if they had missed the messenger somehow, and here was Faramir come to break the bad news.
"Yes." Merry nodded gratefully. "Let's do that."
Would the people in the city even know that battle had probably already been joined? The malicious rumours seemed to have stopped. Nobody outside the Citadel knew about the attack on Faramir, and that was a good thing, because it showed that there were no more agents of Umbar left to spread panic and uncertainty. Down in the city, Merry and Pippin might be slower to hear any news, but at least there would be distractions while they waited. There would be bustle and chatter; food and drink and smiles.
They left the Citadel and descended into the sixth level. "I wonder if Seregon has any news," Pippin wondered. Merry hadn't met Seregon yet, and it might be fun to go out for a bite to eat and a quick pint, just the three of them. But Seregon wasn't at the gate, and there was no sign of him loitering outside the guardhouse. Maybe later, Pippin thought, but then he heard someone speak Seregon's name, and he turned round, expecting to see him there, after all.
"…still no trace of him," he heard them say. "It's been three days now. I think…"
"What?" Pippin hurried up to them. "You're talking about Seregon? He's gone somewhere?"
There were four of them outside the guardhouse. Three of them fell silent, clearly reluctant to answer him. "You were in the tavern with him last week," said the fourth. "Were you friends, lord?"
"I drank with him a few times," Pippin said. He knew hobbits who would claim a lifelong friendship on no more acquaintance than that. "Has he disappeared?"
The guardsman told him the truth of it. Seregon hadn't been seen for three days. As under-captain, he had a private room, and when he failed to report for duty, they had opened his door and found it empty. His uniform was hanging up, and all his weapons were laid out on the neatly-made bed. Most of his other clothes had gone from the wardrobe, along with his pack.
Pippin went cold all over. They'd thought it was over. No more agents of Umbar left in the city. No more spies. No more murders. A guard from the sixth gate had been murdered a few weeks ago, hadn't he, on the day the army had marched? This was another one, another death. It wasn't over. It wasn't over at all.
"The captain isn't saying much about it," the guardsman said, "but he thinks… I mean, we all think that he left of his own accord. It's not like last time, like it was with Hastor. I mean, he's taken his clothes. But why would he leave his sword? I think…"
One of his comrades cleared his throat pointedly. Another muttered something about duties to attend to, places to go. "Can you blame them?" Merry said, when they were through the sixth gate, and well on their way to the fifth. "Imagine how you'd feel if a Took had disappeared, and some great big Man came blundering up, asking questions."
Pippin thought about it for a while, and nodded. "And he called me 'lord,'" he said, rather sadly. It was always a little strange in Gondor. Some people saw their size and lack of sophistication, and treated them like children. Others knew that they were friends with the king, and treated them like great lords, heroes from legend. It was why Gondor would never feel quite like home. Wherever he went in Gondor, he could never be just one of the crowd.
"But why would he leave?" he wondered. He remembered the last evening he had spent with Seregon. Pippin had been quite distracted, distressed by the attack on Faramir, and had prattled quite shamelessly about the Shire. In truth, he hadn't paid that much attention to Seregon himself. Had Seregon seemed worried? Unhappy? Yes, he thought now, looking back at that night. Perhaps. He remembered how tightly he had gripped his tankard, his knuckles white.
"I hope…" he said, but by then they were passing through another gate, and they got caught up in the bustle of people going to market. He caught snatches of their conversation: "Umbar," they said, and, "on the coast." But others were busy gossiping about all the usual things: shopping and food and friends. Many of them stared at Merry and Pippin, although most at least tried to be discreet about it.
"Do you know anything, lords?" a woman cried, grabbing Pippin by the sleeve. "Do you have any news from across the river?"
Pippin had to shake his head. He was gentle about it, but he had to pull his arm away. This is how Arwen felt, he thought, when I asked her. Throughout the War of the Ring, he had felt so little and ignorant, surrounded by people who knew more of the world than him. Arriving home afterwards, he was one of the Travellers, full of tales of great deeds and distant places, the fount of all knowledge about the world. Now he was… what? he thought. Somewhere betwixt and between, caught between Gondor and the Shire.
"But I am glad we came," he found himself saying, "even though we haven't been much help. This is our world, too. If things have ended badly, imagine what we'd have felt like if we'd only heard about it months later, in a letter."
"It hasn't," said Merry with desperate confidence. "It hasn't."
They walked on, down through the gates, all the way to the lowest circle of the city. "I wonder how Captain Daerion is," Pippin said, because that at least was something useful that they'd done. They'd saved a man's life, or helped to save it, anyway. "Should we try to find him, do you think, or go to that nice tavern near the gate?"
Merry didn't answer. He was gazing along a side street. Pippin wondered what he was looking at, then realised that this was where the assassin had hidden himself on that dreadful day that had started everything. That was the high window, and that, there, was the cobbled road where he'd died.
Perhaps he wasn't in the mood for an inn, after all. "Let's look for Captain Daerion," Pippin said. A few more steps, and they saw him, on duty at the Great Gate.
Pippin began to hurry forward, but as he did so, a horseman appeared at the Gate. He was red-cheeked and windswept, and his clothes were grey with dust. Captain Daerion went forward to speak to him, and the horseman bent in the saddle to give his news in a low voice. Pippin was still moving forward, slowing with every step. "…tell Lord Faramir before it is spoken abroad," he heard, "but it is news of victory, yes."
The captain nodded once, and stepped back to allow the messenger to pass. Pippin turned to look at Merry, but Merry was a dozen paces behind him, and hadn't heard.
He read the truth in Pippin's face, though. He always did.
Once the decision had been made, Samir's army moved swiftly. "Smaller horses than ours," Cenred said, "but fast ones. Good ones. But they don't ride them the right way. Look at the length of their stirrups and the way they hold their reins!"
Mablung checked to see how he was holding his own reins, and looked to see if Cenred was holding his differently. He knew little of horses, but he was glad to be mounted. For the first two days, they had travelled with the baggage train, confined to a wain. During the day, the horsemen and chariots had galloped on ahead, while the wains had trundled up slowly in the rear, catching up after dark. On the third day, they had been allowed to ride horses of their own. Mablung took it to mean that they were now too far away from the forces of Gondor for anyone to be afraid of a rescue attempt. Gondor was forgotten now, unimportant. All that mattered was the enemy that awaited the clans at home.
"It might be that you men of Rohan are the ones who are doing wrong." Lasdir said it casually, not even looking at Cenred, but Mablung was riding on the other side of him, and caught his smile.
"Wrong?" Cenred cried. "Wrong? We…" He trailed away, and gave a laugh. "Different, then, not wrong. They hold them differently. I expect…" He said it stiffly, as if the words were hard to say. "I expect they think the way we ride our horses is wrong, too." He turned to Lasdir. "Less wrong than your way, though."
Lasdir looked at him serenely, the picture of an unruffled elf. When his horse had been brought to him, he had both amazed and horrified the clansmen by removing the saddle and harness, and now he appeared to command the horse without a word. As for himself, Mablung knew little of horses, and had no opinion about stirrups or reins, but he was pleased to hear Cenred talking like this to Lasdir, and even more pleased to see Lasdir's smile.
"As far as I'm concerned, you're all strange," he said. "Saddle or no saddle, long stirrups or short, they're still horses. I have little time for horses."
Lasdir turned towards him, arching one elegant brow, but Mablung still remembered that smile of his. Cenred huffed and blustered, but there was a smile beneath his outrage, too. Ah, yes, Mablung thought. I think we might emerge from this as friends. A man of Gondor, a man of Rohan and an elf, finding friendship amongst enemies in the east? It sounded like a story, but what did that matter? This was his life. The friendship was what mattered, and smiles where you had expected to find none.
He let his horse carry him onwards, while Lasdir and Cenred tried to provoke him with tales of the foolishness of Rangers of Gondor who insisted on walking everywhere. Around them and ahead of them, the armies of the clans were moving eastward. A quarter of the army had gone on ahead, he knew, travelling as swiftly and lightly as they could, without being slowed by the baggage. Were they home yet? Had they encountered their enemies?
All too swiftly, the sun neared the western horizon. Another day gone. The king had once drawn him a map in the dust, but Mablung hadn't fully comprehended just how far Samir had brought his armies when he had brought them into the west. Their homeland was many days away, even when riding fast, and that was only the very nearest of the lands that the people had Gondor had called "the East." Thousands of leagues of unknown land lay to the east of them, far beyond even the Sea of Rhûn.
"We rode against them as enemies," Cenred said. "Now they're riding against enemies of their own. I should wish for their defeat."
"Yes," Mablung agreed. If Samir was defeated, then he would never again come against Gondor. The outposts would be avenged. Even if he wanted to renege on his agreement with the king, he would be unable to. Let him know what it was like to return home from the wilds, and find only a smoking ruin and the bodies of women and children scattered like autumn leaves!
"The enemy of an enemy is a friend, they say," said Lasdir.
"Yes." Cenred nodded. "But we have seldom found it so.
"No." Lasdir gave a fleeting smile, and then turned grave again, seemingly lost in memories.
"But I find myself hoping that they get back in time, even so," Cenred said. "I find myself hoping that they win."
Behind them, in the west, the sun was sinking. He should be spending every moment wondering what was happening in Gondor. Was the army back in Ithilien by now? Had Umbar made its move? Were the bridges of Osgiliath even now under attack by the black ships of Umbar? Will I ever see Gondor again? he wondered. And if I do, how changed will it be? How ruined will it be by war?
Far to the west, and out of reach. Forgotten. Unimportant. Mablung and the others were barely guarded now, and Mablung was the only man of Gondor within several hundred of miles.
"Yes," he confessed. "So do I."
If they did, he thought, it would be the start of better things. It would prove to Samir that the king had told the truth, and even if he chose not to admit it, he would know in his heart of hearts that his people owed everything to the warning that the king had brought. A few weeks ago, Mablung would have taken no comfort in that, but already he was beginning to understand these people amongst whom he was pledged to spend the next year. Some of his lords might push for renewed war against Gondor, but he thought that Samir would honour the truce.
If he won, of course. If he returned home in time to keep his enemies from destroying everything that his people owned. Everything rested on that now.
"Yes," he said again. "So do I."
The food was quite lovely, but Pippin kept forgetting to enjoy it. He would eat a few mouthfuls of cake, put it down on the plate, and then find himself sitting there many minutes later, the plate forgotten in his hand. I wonder… he kept on thinking. Could it be…?
Everyone else seemed happy, though. That was good, of course, but it also made him reluctant to talk about his concerns. Faramir had had a difficult time of it these last few weeks. Pippin hadn't realised it at the time, of course, but Faramir had been planning the defences of the whole of southern Gondor, forced by necessity to do it all alone. Faramir didn't like keeping secrets, Pippin thought; he was like a hobbit in that. How good it was to see him smiling! He wasn't the only one, either. The children were laughing, chasing each other around the gardens. Pippin had gone down into the city several times since the news of victory had come, and everywhere he went, people were beaming.
"Have you tried the lemon cake?" Struggling to balance a glass of wine and a plate of cake, Merry sat down beside him.
Pippin nodded. There was a crumb of it on a fold of his shirt, he noticed. He brushed it away. In a nearby tree, a pair of sparrows watched him with interest, doubtless trying to remember where the crumb had landed. Then Faramir came limping over to them, and the birds flew away.
"Do you need my shoulder this time?" Pippin asked, but he stayed where he was, his hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun. Faramir no longer needed crutches, but it obviously still pained him to put too much weight on his foot.
Faramir smiled. "I think I can manage," he said, sitting down carefully. Of course, Pippin thought, the ground was further away when you were as tall as a Man. That was why they littered their gardens with chairs and benches. They wore shoes, too, so didn't know the pleasure of feeling fresh grass against your feet.
"When will Strider and the others get home again, do you know?" Merry asked.
"It will be some days yet," Faramir said, "if not longer. They are still beyond the river."
Pippin took another bite of the cake. "I wonder if lemons would grow in the Shire," he said, "or if it's too far north for them." He busied himself with licking his fingers clean.
When he finished, he found that Faramir was looking at him searchingly. He wasn't saying anything. He didn't need to. He was like Gandalf that way, in that when he looked at you just so, you found yourself wanting to confess all your secrets. "I keep on thinking about Seregon," Pippin confessed. "He's a guard at the sixth gate. He's…"
"Disappeared," said Faramir. "I know."
Pippin nodded. Of course he did. Faramir always knew everything. "At first, I was afraid that it was Umbar at work, but the other guards think he chose to leave. He didn't leave a note, though, or tell anyone. Why would he go?"
Faramir said nothing, but just sat there, inviting Pippin to carry on. No, he wasn't like Gandalf at all, Pippin thought. Although Gandalf was usually kind, there were times when you were terrified to admit what you'd done. Fool of a Took! he had shouted, and that was before the thing with the palantír, and the things that had resulted from that. But once you'd confessed things, you knew that Gandalf would put things right. So maybe Faramir was like Gandalf, after all, because it was the same with him.
"I thought he might have run away to join the army across the river," Pippin said. "That's where the fighting is, after all, and the glory, while he was stuck in the city, guarding the same gate day in, day out."
"Yes," Faramir said, and Pippin remembered that he, too, had been stuck in the city, and might have wanted to be off fighting elsewhere. Faramir didn't like war, but he loved Gondor and he was a great captain, and if war had to happen, then he probably wanted to be part of it.
Pippin almost apologised, then decided that this would only make things worse. He took another bite of cake, the last one left. "But if so, why would he leave his sword behind?" He shook his head. "And then I started to remember things. The questions he asked. Again and again, he kept on asking me the same thing. The way he was so quick to befriend me. The way he looked. He was so tense at times, almost angry."
Merry was looking at him intently. Eldarion and Elboron ran past, one of them quiet, the other shrieking with joy. A butterfly landed on Arwen's skirts, spread around her on the grass. She and Éowyn were talking together, their words too quiet to be heard.
"And there was that guardsman who was killed," Pippin said. "He was stationed at the sixth gate, too."
"Yes," said Faramir. He shifted position, wincing. "There is more, too. The man who attacked me used a token to gain entry to the Citadel. It was stolen from its previous holder. Few knew that he had it, but earlier that day, the previous holder had shown it to the guards on duty at the sixth gate."
"Oh." Pippin swallowed hard. His mouth felt very dry. Could it be true? When the idea had first occurred to him, he had recoiled from it guiltily. It couldn't be true! Not a guard of Minas Tirith! Not Seregon! Not a man who could almost have been a friend. But if it was true, then Seregon had only sought him out because…
He shook his head. "Do you really think so?"
"It has occurred to me, yes," said Faramir.
"Then why…?" Pippin shook his head from side by side. "He's deserted so he can go back to Umbar?"
"Perhaps," Faramir said.
"Then you're searching for him, surely?" Pippin asked. "He knows your passwords."
"We are," said Faramir, "and the passwords have been changed."
"Or maybe he's gone to ground in the city." Pippin clenched his hand into a fist to stop it shaking. It couldn't be true! He hadn't wanted to say it out loud, but once he'd started, he'd been so sure that Faramir would tell him a dozen reasons why he was wrong. "It's all going to start all over again."
Faramir shook his head. "If he is still in Minas Tirith, he will be found. Everyone in the City Watch knows him, and if I choose to share my suspicions with their captains, they will find him. They will consider it their duty to find him."
Pippin chewed his lip. A horn sounded down below: Seregon's comrades changing their watch. "But if I'm wrong… It's only a suspicion. And it shouldn't…" He laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "I prattled quite shamelessly that last night. I kept babbling on about how lovely the Shire was, and how terrible it was that there were people out there who wanted to ruin everything with war. I said… I said that everyone probably thinks that his own homeland is the best, and he said yes, yes they did, but he didn't sound as if he meant it. He was deeply troubled that night, I think, but I was too busy babbling, and didn't really pay much attention."
Nobody said anything for a while. Pippin put his plate down beside him, and the sparrows returned, watching him hopefully. Picking up the plate, Pippin scattered the crumbs outwards, and first one and then the other bird hopped down to eat them.
"It was things like this that I was talking about," Pippin said. "Gardens and growing things. Good food and the freedom to enjoy it with friends. All those things that Umbar wanted to destroy."
"Maybe you changed his mind," Merry said, "if you chattered about it as much as you say. Maybe you made him realise that he was wrong; that Umbar was wrong. Maybe that's why he's left: because he didn't want to do it any more."
Pippin laughed. He knew that the happy chatter of a hobbit could cheer people up when they were anxious, but to change an enemy's heart and turn him away from evil deeds…? Oh no, he thought. That was for heroes of stories, not for hobbits like him.
Kabil had not been chosen to go with the swift force of horsemen and chariots. His lord was dead and he had nobody to command him. He had been taken prisoner, and he had no right to push himself forward and beg the right to play a warrior's part. Some of his fellow prisoners felt differently, and were desperate to erase their shame with bold deeds. Others, like him, hung back, expecting to be shamed. At first, he had been reluctant to mingle even with them. They hadn't told a terrible truth to their lord of lords.
But then the hostage had said what he had said. Was it true? Could it be true? Could he believe it? Instead of feeling shame, should he feel pride? He had told an unpalatable truth, but because he had told it, Samir were racing home to thwart a cunning attack by their old enemies. If he hadn't… If he hadn't…
No, it was too soon to believe it. It was just too soon. They were still too far away, and they still didn't know if Samir would arrive in time. They didn't know if anything could be salvaged, or if they'd arrive home to find burning halls and desecrated barrows. "No fault of yours," the hostage might have said, that grey-eyed man of Gondor. He was a prisoner, too, but there was no shame in his captivity. He had chosen it willingly, a sacrifice for his people. He had given up his freedom in the hope that it would bring peace between their peoples.
Again and again Kabil found himself drawn to them. Again and again, after the army had made camp, he found his steps taking him towards their compound. Tonight they were laughing, the pale-haired man lounging backwards, resting on his elbows, and the elf sitting cross-legged on the grass. The dark-haired man from Gondor saw Kabil coming, and walked across to meet him.
"Why are they laughing?" Kabil asked. It wasn't what he had meant to say. Most of all, he wanted to talk about what the hostage had said the other day. If he heard it enough times, perhaps it would be true.
"Cenred said Lasdir laughs too much," the man of Gondor said. "Says not proper elf. Says elves are… sad." He shook his head. "Not right word. Not sad, but…" He pulled a solemn face, his hands pressed against his cheeks, dragging them down.
"Solemn?" Kabil suggested. "Grave?"
"Grave. Yes." The hostage nodded. "Lasdir says some elves grave sometimes but some elves..." He finished it with a word that Kabil didn't know.
Kabil repeated it questioningly. The hostage nodded, then gave an exaggerated laugh and smiled around him at everything he could see. "Merry?" Kabil suggested.
"Yes," said the hostage. "Merry. And he is merry always."
Kabil repeated that strange word, the word for 'merry' in the tongue of Gondor.
"Yes," said the hostage, and then said another word, which Kabil presumed was 'yes' in his language.
"Teach me," Kabil found himself saying. "Teach me your tongue."
The hostage was silent for a while, and Kabil wondered if he had offended him. But then the man smiled. It was a strange smile, Kabil thought. It occurred to him that he was not the only person wrestling with fears and regrets. These three people were far from their homes, and although they weren't bound, they were not free. What would inspire a man to volunteer to become a hostage? What would drive a man to such an act?
He didn't think he could do it. Perhaps he was just a weak coward, after all. But, No, he told himself. Perhaps the hostage was right. Perhaps he had shown courage when he had admitted that Hasad was wrong; when he had admitted that their enemies from Gondor had been kind. Others were undefeated in war, but when commanded to tell the truth, Kabil had done so, without considering the cost to himself. When the tale of this summer was sung, perhaps his name would be sung as one of the bold.
If the hostage was right. If Kabil could let himself believe it.
If they arrived back in time. If their homes were saved.
"Yes," the hostage said, saying it so late that for a moment, Kabil couldn't remember what the question had been. "Yes," he said again, this time saying it in his own tongue. He pressed his hand to his breast, and gave a slight bow. "Mablung," he said.
He was saying his name, Kabil realised. Yes, he decided. If they arrived home in time to avert disaster, then he would learn how to feel proud of his part in the affair.
He bent his head in a bow of his own. "Kabil," he said. "My name is Kabil. Hasad was my lord, but Hasad is dead. Now I am myself. I am Kabil."
"Kabil," Mablung said, and clasped him by the hand.
Seregon was over a week away from Minas Tirith now. He had started off on foot, constantly looking over his shoulder to see if he was being pursued. He wanted to hire a horse, but thought it would be too obvious a step. Instead, he walked until his feet were blistered, heading far away from the road. It was only then that he dared to approach farms and houses and ask if they had a horse that he could buy. It took six attempts, but at length he was able to buy one.
Money was no difficulty. He had served as a guard for twelve years, with no wife and no children, and no ties. He had never bothered to acquire many possessions, because he had known all along that this life was a temporary one, and "Seregon" was just a part that he was playing, and not real.
Wrong, he knew now. He had been wrong, but there was no going back. You could never go back.
So instead, he rode forward. He could not stay in Minas Tirith. He had no desire to go to Umbar. Instead he would go north. He would shed the name of "Seregon," just as he had shed his old name, but this time, he would inhabit his new name wholeheartedly.
He knew that he was a coward, oh yes! He had committed one murder, and come close to committing a second. By stealing the token, he could have caused immeasurable damage to Gondor itself. Such things could not be forgotten, and should not be forgiven, but…
He shook his head. He was riding through Anórien, heading towards Rohan, with the mountains rising to his left. At sunset and sunrise, they were so beautiful that sometimes he found himself weeping. But strangely, what haunted him most often were the words of the hobbit, Peregrin. Why do so many people like to destroy lovely things? The lords of Umbar, in their spite, wanted to do just that. Seregon, too, had wanted it. For years, he had wanted it, but now…
No, he thought. Not any more. His crimes couldn't be forgiven, but he could atone for them. There were many wild places in the south of Arnor, and although the roads were safe, foul creatures still roamed not far from them. He would find a village in need of fighting men, and offer his services. He would labour long and hard to tame the wilderness. Perhaps he would marry; it wasn't too late. If he had children, let Umbar be a distant name to them, and nothing more.
No, there was no going back, but why would he want to?
From The Song of Samir, by Mesud son of Murat, F.A. 704
Samir was a man with vision. Alone of his people, he could see that if the lords continued with their constant feuding, the clans would be swept away like sand. The best way to unite a divided people is to offer them an enemy, and Samir believed that Gondor was a true enemy indeed. It was a hard battle, but he prevailed, and took them with him far further to the west than any of them had ever gone.
But it was there that he showed his true mettle. Had he led his armies to victory against Gondor, we would sing of him now as a great leader, the first to unite the clans. But Samir was greater than that. For when it mattered most, he was brave enough to take a chance on peace. He was bold enough to stand up and say, "No. I was wrong. Gondor is not the threat that I told you it was." He was courageous enough to turn his back and walk away.
Had he not done so, nobody would be left alive to sing his story. Taking a chance on peace, he headed home as fast as he could. Even so, he was almost too late. Thinking that they would be unopposed, the tribes from the east came sweeping down on the halls and homes that Samir and his army had left behind them. Only women and boys defended them; only the old and the sick. Even so, they did not lie down and let the enemy trample over them, not without a fight. Many enemies did they slay, but many of them, too, were slain. Many halls were burnt and many fields lay barren and salted for many years to come.
But then, just as it seemed as if the enemy would take possession of all the lands that rightly belonged to the clans, Samir returned, glorious in his chariot. Much had already fallen, but more remained. By coming when he did, Samir came in time to avert the end of everything we had ever known.
The war was fierce, and many were the songs of sorrow that were sung when it was over, but we prevailed. The tribes were routed, and our homelands saved. The ruined halls were rebuilt, and the dead could lie at peace, beneath barrows still tended by their kin.
Samir, of course, went on to become the first of the clans to wear a crown. Because of his courage, our people were saved. It would be a foolish lord who tried to challenge him after that! Some tried, of course, because we are who we are. They died.
With the halls rebuilt and the enemy repulsed, many wondered what Samir would do next. With his own house in order, would he turn once more against Gondor? Some lord counselled that he should do so. Some, proud and arrogant, even proposed to ride against Gondor by themselves.
But once again, Samir had the courage to take a chance on peace. To hold the clans together at a time of war was to walk the easier road. Samir chose the harder. He chose the path of peace. Many now speak harshly of him, and accuse him of squandering the ancient pride of our people, and turning us into mere allies of Gondor's king. But they are blind. Samir was indeed great, the first and greatest of our people's kings.