Chrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrristalmighty it's been a long time since I posted. I'm not sure what happened; it wasn't lack of ideas to work with I assure you. Somewhere along the way I was bombarded by a heavy tidal wave of laziness and since had not been able to make any kind of progress with this story. But I've broken free of the habit and am BACK! A couple of things I mean to work on. A. Working on the length of the chapers. Somehow these things seem much longer in Notepad... B. Getting a Beta reader. *Prostrates before the audience* and so for the all of two of you who were actually waiting for the continuation of this story, I now introduce my whipping-boy/muse: Thoth.
Thoth: GOMEN!
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Blindfolded and with hands bound, Khalim and his companions were made to walk through the plains and fields of Rohan for days and nights surrounded by Rangers trailing the horse-mounted Rohirrim. They stopped rarely and were allowed food and drink scarcer still until, on the eve of the third day, they were unceremoniously dumped by a roaring fire.
When he found his face uncovered, Khalim took note of the fact that the Rangers were gone. He assumed they went to scout ahead. Turning, he took stock of his friends, who returned his weary smile. These men had been slaves. They were no strangers to the lash and to hunger. There was no deed their captors could do to them that had not already been done or threatened to these three. Despite the loss of their treasures, despite the emminent danger they now found their lives in, they trusted Khalim and followed his word without question and Khalim loved them for that.
"How are you feeling?" He asked of Samir when he'd crawled close enough to his side. Samir licked his dry lips and answered "Thirsty," in a voice that cracked. The others, Falsam and Neirmen, nodded their agreement as Falsam suffered a sneezing fit on account of the scratchy wool that had been used to cover his face. Khalim bent his head and turned to face the men that stood a little ways away, feeding and rubbing down their horses. Shame filled him, for he kept forgetting he was the only one among them that could communicate with the western men and be understood.
"Excuse me," He tentatively began, "I don't mean to cause a burden but might we have a bit of water to drink over here?" He couldn't have been prepared for the reaction this simple question would bring. The men as one turned and regarded him with faces covered in turns by shock, suspicion, and anger. One emboldened man with a shock of strawberry blonde hair and a beard to match stode forward and seized Khalim by his collar, dragging him away from the other Easterlings. They gave a started cry but were unable to prevent the Rohan man from bringing Khalim dangerously close to the camp's fire.
"Where did you learn our language?!"
"I'm an ambassador, damnit! I'm supposed to be able to talk to people!"
The man was clearly unsatisfied with the answer to his question. Apparently, rather than speaking common, he'd spoken to the Rohirrim in their own tongue. He seemed almost as surprised as they.
It was pure benevolence on the part of his captors that kept Khalim from falling under the sword that night. He realized now they were a wary people, superstitious some might say though Khalim himself was a superstitious man. He understood that, even if they could've in the beginning, they could not bring themselves to trust him now. The Rangers returned, and the agitated horsemen relayed to them what had happened. Khalim, for his part, remained silent waiting until he was approached before speaking. That approach was not long in coming. The sandy blonde headed man, the one that the arab could only assume was the leader, came forward and sat on his haunches before Khalim where he sat huddled close to the fire away from his friends. He seemed tired, an entirely different man from the one who'd nearly given the order to fire down on the small group of travelling Easterlings. He made eye contact with Khalim, and the arab held his gaze unflinchingly and without guilt.
"The Rohirrim tell me you're quite full of surprises."
"I try to be," Khalim replied honestly, "But I understand they are afraid."
"I would'nt let them hear you say that if I were you. And I think you'd better tell me how it is that you came to learn to speak their language as if it were your own. They are very ready to slit your throat or leave you here bound as soon as look at you."
Khalim sighed and glanced at the men who attempted to look busy by tending their horses. He knew damned well they were eavesdropping. It was there in the way they studiously avoided his gaze. "It is difficult to explain, sir-"
"You had no trouble expressing yourself moments ago."
Khalim lowered his head and chuckled to himself, "You know, you remind me of someone..."
"Oh? And who is that?"
"Haima. A friend from since the war of the one ring," Khalim smiled to see the slight twitch that gave away the ranger's displeasure, "You do not like me saying you are similar to an Easterling, eh? Don't worry, she wouldn't like being compared to you either."
At last Khalim was awarded with a laugh from the man sitting across from him. "A 'she' you say? This can't be good. Pray tell me how you find me so similar to a yellow woman."
"You both talk in the same way. Biting with a sharp tongue. I know now after the rebellion that it's just a way to command attention and respect without-"
"Rebellion? What rebellion?"
Khalim sucked his cheek into his teeth and regarded the man with a mischevious glint in his black eyes. He'd finally arrested the man's interest. "I thought you wanted me to tell you how I know their language," he said with a nod in the general direction of the Rohirrim.
"And so I do. Don't think that I don't know that you were leading our little talk in that direction. So get on with it."
Khalim laughed for the first time since being captured. "Very well, then I will tell you. But first I would know your name." It was a bold step, he'd gotten the Ranger to open up to him thus far but at this moment he could very easily clam up and shut him out again. It was a gamble, but one Khalim had to make. If the Ranger gave him his name Khalim would know then that he had him right where he wanted him. He was a gifted storyteller, accomplished and masterful. It was a second nature to him, one that was honed out of the need to survive when the hierophant "requested" his performance at his court.
The Ranger watched him for a moment, studying him as if looking for the slightest hint of trickery in the arab's demeanor. At length he sighed, ran his fingers through his rackish sandy-blonde hair and answered. "Belen. My name's Belen. And if you say that's a feminine name, I swear I'll run you through-"
"That won't be necesarry," Khalim said, holding up his bound hands in a gesture of appeasement, "Now then Belen, if I may call you that, I will tell you all that you wish to know. But first, may I ask that my companions are given water to drink?"
Belen glanced at the mound that formed the huddled together bodies of Khalim's friends. He glanced back at the arab, almost guiltily, and gestured for one of his men, giving the order to give the captives drink. Once Khalim was certain that the others had been given their fill and were making ready to sleep, he began his tale to Belen. It was slow going at first, the Ranger was reluctant to suspend his disbelief about the nature of the Easterlings. Khalim was relentless however and told his tale with such ferver and emotion, Belen was made in awe against his better judgement. It continued on throughout the night, as the Rangers and the Rohirrim split shifts for night watches and made ready for bed, and well into the morning. When the horizon brightened and the clouds became fringed in reds and pinks with the first rays of the sun, Belen noticed his men making breakfast and packing up camp.
Khalim was in the middle of explaining the better details of rice paddies and their usefulness in ambush warfare when the Ranger stiffly rose to his feet, stretching and yawning. "Perhaps we had better continue this story later. Might I be allowed to rejoin my friends? I think they worry about me- by the RED DAWN!!"
Belen had grasped Khalim's writes and slashed at them with the dagger he drew from his belt. The arab had attempted to wrench his hands away but as he did so he found that his binds had been cut, deliberately.
Thoth: GOMEN!
==S==
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Blindfolded and with hands bound, Khalim and his companions were made to walk through the plains and fields of Rohan for days and nights surrounded by Rangers trailing the horse-mounted Rohirrim. They stopped rarely and were allowed food and drink scarcer still until, on the eve of the third day, they were unceremoniously dumped by a roaring fire.
When he found his face uncovered, Khalim took note of the fact that the Rangers were gone. He assumed they went to scout ahead. Turning, he took stock of his friends, who returned his weary smile. These men had been slaves. They were no strangers to the lash and to hunger. There was no deed their captors could do to them that had not already been done or threatened to these three. Despite the loss of their treasures, despite the emminent danger they now found their lives in, they trusted Khalim and followed his word without question and Khalim loved them for that.
"How are you feeling?" He asked of Samir when he'd crawled close enough to his side. Samir licked his dry lips and answered "Thirsty," in a voice that cracked. The others, Falsam and Neirmen, nodded their agreement as Falsam suffered a sneezing fit on account of the scratchy wool that had been used to cover his face. Khalim bent his head and turned to face the men that stood a little ways away, feeding and rubbing down their horses. Shame filled him, for he kept forgetting he was the only one among them that could communicate with the western men and be understood.
"Excuse me," He tentatively began, "I don't mean to cause a burden but might we have a bit of water to drink over here?" He couldn't have been prepared for the reaction this simple question would bring. The men as one turned and regarded him with faces covered in turns by shock, suspicion, and anger. One emboldened man with a shock of strawberry blonde hair and a beard to match stode forward and seized Khalim by his collar, dragging him away from the other Easterlings. They gave a started cry but were unable to prevent the Rohan man from bringing Khalim dangerously close to the camp's fire.
"Where did you learn our language?!"
"I'm an ambassador, damnit! I'm supposed to be able to talk to people!"
The man was clearly unsatisfied with the answer to his question. Apparently, rather than speaking common, he'd spoken to the Rohirrim in their own tongue. He seemed almost as surprised as they.
It was pure benevolence on the part of his captors that kept Khalim from falling under the sword that night. He realized now they were a wary people, superstitious some might say though Khalim himself was a superstitious man. He understood that, even if they could've in the beginning, they could not bring themselves to trust him now. The Rangers returned, and the agitated horsemen relayed to them what had happened. Khalim, for his part, remained silent waiting until he was approached before speaking. That approach was not long in coming. The sandy blonde headed man, the one that the arab could only assume was the leader, came forward and sat on his haunches before Khalim where he sat huddled close to the fire away from his friends. He seemed tired, an entirely different man from the one who'd nearly given the order to fire down on the small group of travelling Easterlings. He made eye contact with Khalim, and the arab held his gaze unflinchingly and without guilt.
"The Rohirrim tell me you're quite full of surprises."
"I try to be," Khalim replied honestly, "But I understand they are afraid."
"I would'nt let them hear you say that if I were you. And I think you'd better tell me how it is that you came to learn to speak their language as if it were your own. They are very ready to slit your throat or leave you here bound as soon as look at you."
Khalim sighed and glanced at the men who attempted to look busy by tending their horses. He knew damned well they were eavesdropping. It was there in the way they studiously avoided his gaze. "It is difficult to explain, sir-"
"You had no trouble expressing yourself moments ago."
Khalim lowered his head and chuckled to himself, "You know, you remind me of someone..."
"Oh? And who is that?"
"Haima. A friend from since the war of the one ring," Khalim smiled to see the slight twitch that gave away the ranger's displeasure, "You do not like me saying you are similar to an Easterling, eh? Don't worry, she wouldn't like being compared to you either."
At last Khalim was awarded with a laugh from the man sitting across from him. "A 'she' you say? This can't be good. Pray tell me how you find me so similar to a yellow woman."
"You both talk in the same way. Biting with a sharp tongue. I know now after the rebellion that it's just a way to command attention and respect without-"
"Rebellion? What rebellion?"
Khalim sucked his cheek into his teeth and regarded the man with a mischevious glint in his black eyes. He'd finally arrested the man's interest. "I thought you wanted me to tell you how I know their language," he said with a nod in the general direction of the Rohirrim.
"And so I do. Don't think that I don't know that you were leading our little talk in that direction. So get on with it."
Khalim laughed for the first time since being captured. "Very well, then I will tell you. But first I would know your name." It was a bold step, he'd gotten the Ranger to open up to him thus far but at this moment he could very easily clam up and shut him out again. It was a gamble, but one Khalim had to make. If the Ranger gave him his name Khalim would know then that he had him right where he wanted him. He was a gifted storyteller, accomplished and masterful. It was a second nature to him, one that was honed out of the need to survive when the hierophant "requested" his performance at his court.
The Ranger watched him for a moment, studying him as if looking for the slightest hint of trickery in the arab's demeanor. At length he sighed, ran his fingers through his rackish sandy-blonde hair and answered. "Belen. My name's Belen. And if you say that's a feminine name, I swear I'll run you through-"
"That won't be necesarry," Khalim said, holding up his bound hands in a gesture of appeasement, "Now then Belen, if I may call you that, I will tell you all that you wish to know. But first, may I ask that my companions are given water to drink?"
Belen glanced at the mound that formed the huddled together bodies of Khalim's friends. He glanced back at the arab, almost guiltily, and gestured for one of his men, giving the order to give the captives drink. Once Khalim was certain that the others had been given their fill and were making ready to sleep, he began his tale to Belen. It was slow going at first, the Ranger was reluctant to suspend his disbelief about the nature of the Easterlings. Khalim was relentless however and told his tale with such ferver and emotion, Belen was made in awe against his better judgement. It continued on throughout the night, as the Rangers and the Rohirrim split shifts for night watches and made ready for bed, and well into the morning. When the horizon brightened and the clouds became fringed in reds and pinks with the first rays of the sun, Belen noticed his men making breakfast and packing up camp.
Khalim was in the middle of explaining the better details of rice paddies and their usefulness in ambush warfare when the Ranger stiffly rose to his feet, stretching and yawning. "Perhaps we had better continue this story later. Might I be allowed to rejoin my friends? I think they worry about me- by the RED DAWN!!"
Belen had grasped Khalim's writes and slashed at them with the dagger he drew from his belt. The arab had attempted to wrench his hands away but as he did so he found that his binds had been cut, deliberately.