The first thing that Eomer was aware of as he began to awaken was that he was very hot and sticky, which would have been a good thing if he had had a companion, a female companion, lying beside him. But because this was not the case, and because the second thing he realized was that he was chewing on sand, he decided to go to sleep again and pretend that the heat and stickiness and sand were all part of a bad dream.
Unfortunately, one of his captains chose that moment to open the flap of his tent and let himself in. A wretchedly bright shaft of sunlight snuck through the opening and aimed itself directly at Eomer's face.
"Eomer King!" hailed the captain. "I apologize for awakening your royal self at such an early hour, but King Elessar has need of you."
"Peace, Eothain," muttered Eomer, covering his eyes with his hands and thinking to himself that this particular captain had always been too uppity for his own good. "What does Aragorn want? He certainly does not need me to help plan today's route, as he is the only one who knows where on Middle Earth we are anyway."
"Near Harad, my liege."
"What?" Eomer blinked blearily several times. "I thought we were already in Harad?"
"Er...we are. In the region known to us as Near Harad. As in, closer to us than Far Harad." Eothain paused uncomfortably.
"I knew that," Eomer answered irritably, and left the tent to find Aragorn, dismissing his errant captain on the way out.
"Ah, Eomer! I trust you rested well?" queried Faramir with a faintly amused smile.
Eomer decided that telling him to go to Mandos would not be civilized, even this early in the morning. Or afternoon. Whatever. Eomer's sleep cycles had been completely disrupted by their practice of travelling principally during the cool hours between dusk and dawn and resting during the hottest part of the day. It was the only practical thing to do, but that didn't mean he had to like it.
"Aragorn," said Eomer shortly, "this had better be good. Why did you call this meeting?"
The king of Gondor looked up from the map he had been studying and regarded Eomer carefully.
"Bad night? I mean, day?"
"Just get on with it."
"That I shall," said Aragorn, who tapped his finger on a spot on the map. This meant little to Eomer, as he had no idea where they were, but he made a cursory attempt to look interested anyway.
"Our long-range scouts have reported that an army of Haradrim has ammassed at this location and are headed toward us. They bear the standard of the Pro-Sauronites," reported Aragorn, sounding a little too happy about the fact. "They are at least five thousand strong. A good portion of those are mounted riders."
Eomer perked up a little at this news. He liked horses.
However, Faramir's countenance of a sudden became grim; Eomer wondered if he did not like horses. Bastard.
"It seems the Haradrim who once fought mindlessly against us at Sauron's behest see little need for negotiation," said Faramir. "But what do our Haradric allies--"
Eomer snorted indelicately.
"--what do our Haradric allies have to say about this? Do they wish for us to engage the enemy?" finished the Steward, patently ignoring Eomer.
Aragorn cleared his throat embarrassedly. "Er, to tell you the truth we have not been able to contact them. You know those gamey birds we had for dinner last night? The ones I told you were a rare breed of desert grouse?"
The other two nodded.
"Those were our carrier pigeons...they died of heat stroke yesterday. In retrospect, perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to cover their cages with the black standard of Gondor...."
"Then, how do we contact our allies?" demanded Faramir.
"Oh, no matter," said Eomer heatedly, "We're only embroiled in a foreign war, on foreign soil, hundreds of leagues away from our dubious foreign allies, facing a horrendously large foreign army that no doubt wants to kill us and use our skins for tents so they can get out of this stupidly hot foreign sun, and the only thing we aren't doing is eating foreign food, because there is no food in this Valar-forsaken desert. And now we have a diplomatic nightmare on our hands because someone decided to slow roast our carrier pigeons for dinner! With all due respect, Your Majesty," he added belatedly.
There reigned an uncomfortable silence after Eomer's admittedly immature outburst. It crossed the king of Rohan's mind that he ought to feel slightly chagrined. It also crossed his mind that chagrin was for the weak and the wrong.
Faramir broke the silence by coughing and murmuring something like "...rather discriminatory, what?" then saying loudly, "Then we shall have to deal with the army of Pro-Sauronites as we see fit, without consulting our allies."
"Oh goody," said Aragorn cheerfully.
It also crossed Eomer's mind that Aragorn had planned this whole mess, the war-mongering bastard.
They spent the next few hours strategizing and scratching their heads over what sort of nefarious schemes their enemy might have in store. Aragorn, the only one of them who had ever previously been to Harad, offered much sage advice such as "They like to throw sand in your face" and "We could hide behind a sand dune and hope they don't find us" and "There will probably be a sand storm five minutes after the battle starts anyway" and "Did I mention there's sand?"
Eventually, they must have gotten something done because Eomer was allowed to wander back to his tent, give orders to his men to tie him to a horse if they were to move out, and fall into a well-deserved sleep.
"I hate this," Faramir griped.
"What was that?"
"I said 'I have waited for this,' Your Majesty," said the Steward loudly.
Aragorn grinned blithely and replied, "So have I."
It wasn't that Faramir disliked fighting. Okay, he did, but that alone wasn't sufficient cause for grumbling. He really had no right to be a whiner when he had chosen to come along after being offered the choice of staying at home and running the kingdom. But when he had had to make his choice, he had thought about it for a while and realized that the field of battle, distasteful as it was, was infinitely preferable to dealing with the last stages of Eowyn's pregnancy and Arwen's no doubt iron-fisted command of the council of Gondor. Moreover, he really didn't want to let Aragorn and Eomer fight this war alone.
"Faramir, do you think I am more dramatically backlit here or more to the left?"
For more than one reason.
"I think," said Faramir grimly, "that they will want to kill you from any angle." He nodded at the horde of armed, armored, and ornery Haradrim that faced them in well-ordered and lethal-looking lines of pointy iron.
"They look remarkably healthy for a purportedly starving nation, don't you think?" remarked Eomer.
"Hm," said Aragorn, "I think I'll ask them about that."
And before Faramir could laugh at this joke Aragorn had walked forward, formally hailed the leader of the Pro-Sauronites, complimented him on his health, and asked him how come they weren't starving?
The Pro-Sauronite's translator rendered Aragorn's words into Haradric; Faramir resisted the urge to tackle him before it was too late.
The Haradric commander listened intently and then answered something matter-of-factly, which the translator interpreted as follows:
"We have been raiding and pillaging many villages lately and have restocked our supplies in very efficient manner. Thank you kindly for taking interest in our health."
Faramir quirked an eyebrow in astonishment. Maybe Aragorn really did know better than anyone else how to deal with the Haradrim.
"But we must ask you, who are you?" the man continued.
Aragorn, though taken aback for a few moments, pronounced in one of his more royal moods, "I am King Elessar Telcontar of the reunited kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. And this is King Eomer of Rohan, and this is Prince Faramir of Ithilien, also Steward of Gondor."
The Haradrim murmured among themselves for a while, though it wasn't apparent whether they were confused or impressed.
Finally, their leader said:
"Never heard of you, though the others are familiar to us. Could you give a full account of your lineage, if you don't mind? Just for the records."
Aragorn was beginning to develop a nervous tic.
"Elessar is a name I have taken but lately," he began. "I am also known as Aragorn, son of Arathorn, son of, erm, Marathon, son of Paragon, son of Ar-Pharazon, son of Arrowroot, son Arrowshirt, son of Arrowhead..." *
Eomer nudged Faramir and asked, "Is that really Aragorn's pedigree?"
"No, he's just making it up. His grandfather Arador ran up a few debts whilst in Harad several hundred years ago, and their economy was doing quite well back then so there was this nasty compound interest rate..."
"...son of Arrrrsomething, son of Arrrggghh--you get the idea."
Once again the Haradrim were murmuring amongst one another. A relatively scrawny man, whom Faramir took to be a scholar or scribe, showed a bit of paper to his leader, who nodded and finally said:
"All right. Your story checks out. Your great-great-grandfather is wanted for mass murder, but we'll let it slide. For now."
Aragorn acquired a look on his face that was both relieved and worried at the same time, then he pulled himself together and said, "Anyway, shall we get on with business?"
"Of course."
"We have come to warn you," declared the King of Gondor, "that we must take offense at your action against our allies. Unless you immediately surrender and offer recompense, we will be forced to engage your people in battle."
It was hard to tell from far away, but the Pro-Sauronite leader appeared to shrug.
"Well, you know how things go. We came here to fight you anyway, although we expect a sandstorm to start in five minutes."
"Then we go to battle!" cried Aragorn, raising his sword. His soldiers hastened to do the same.
But the Haradrim were waving their hands wildly and crossing their arms above their heads and yelling something that Faramir took to mean "No no no no no!"
"Cowards," said Eomer under his breath. Faramir wasn't sure what to think.
After both sides had settled down sufficiently, the Pro-Sauronite leader spoke once again.
"We will fight you soon, however, it is not right that we should begin until the proper ritual functions have been fulfilled in the most correct way possible."
Aragorn grimaced, apparently having knowledge of these rituals, and said, "Make it so."
In spite of himself, Faramir grew interested; there was precious little scholarly writing on the subject of Haradric culture in Gondor, so perhaps this would actually be a chance to learn something new and enlightening.
The Pro-Sauronite speaker cleared his throat loudly and then, bewilderingly, abandoned the pleasantly modulated pitch he had been using in favor of a screaming rant.
"Your stupid country has so much water that you all periodically dunk your heads underwater until you have not enough air provided to your brains and so you are all mentally deficient! Your women look like fat placid cows and your children and old people are so ugly as to make one cry in mortal agony! And don't get me started on the hideousness of your cows--" yelled the translator breathlessly, trying to keep up with his leader.
Faramir blinked and asked, "Are you sure that this is a ritual and not simply an excuse to abuse us?"
"I honestly don't know," Aragorn confessed, laying a steadying hand on Eomer who had gone red in the face and looked like he was about ready to charge.
"Do you hear what they are saying about us?" he demanded.
"Yes, and it's all rather creative," answered Faramir mildly.
"Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of elderberries!" **
"Now this is just getting personal," said a peeved Aragorn.
"You have to admit it's different."
"And now for something completely different!" ***
And before anyone knew it, an arrow had been released somewhere from among the ranks of the Haradrim. It flew, straight and true, its black shaft gleaming in the harsh sunlight, and buried itself deeply in the translator's back.
Utter, shocked silence suffused the air.
Privately, Faramir thought, That would have made more sense if the man were our translator.
Then, as one, the Haradrim began yelling indignantly and thrusting their weapons in the air. And lo, they charged.
Argh, argh, though Faramir.
"Argh, Aragorn!" shouted Eomer. "What sort of diplomat are you!"
"I have no idea!" the King of Gondor replied.
After that, there was no more conversation for a while, except for the "I'll kill you!" variety.
Aragorn and the Pro-Sauronite leader had not been kidding about the likelihood of a sandstorm. It took longer than five minutes, but just as if it looked like the day had been won for Gondor the wind speed began to increase dramatically and suddenly the sand was everywhere. Fighting no longer being an option, everyone scurried away to take what shelter they could. The Gondorrim and Rohirrim, as luck would have it, had passed by a large cave earlier in the day and withdrew to it before the worst part of the storm had begun.
"What a bother," groused Faramir, trying to rub the sand out of his eyes. Someone had thrown a fistful of the stuff into his face during the battle. "This war shall last for months at this rate."
Aragorn had to agree, for as much as he enjoyed the prospect of having a lot more battles, he did not like the thought of having them rudely interrupted all the time.
"I hate the desert. Even the horses and women are ugly," commented Eomer in frustrated disgust.
"What, you saw women?" said Faramir.
"Didn't you? They were all over the battlefield!"
"There were no women!"
"Eomer is confused again," Aragorn chimed in. "You see, in his country the women are rather manly, so -"
"You take that back!"
"Yes, please do. My wife, as you should remember, is of his country."
Fortunately, Aragorn was saved from having to make any sort of embarrassing apologies when a field medic approached him and coughed discreetly.
"My liege, forgive me for interrupting--"
"Not at all, good Sir! What is your errand?"
"We dearly need your help, Your Majesty," said the man earnestly yet cheerfully. "The hands of a healer are the hands of the king, or is it the hands of the king are the hands of a healer? I can't remember which, but you get the idea."
"Yes, of course," said Aragorn. "If you'll excuse me, Faramir, Eomer..."
The medic led him to a spacious cavern that was relatively well-lit by their precious supply of oil lamps. The room was filled with a seemingly endless sea of wounded and dying men, all of them (or at least those conscious and able to turn their necks upwards) looking up at him hopefully. He really didn't want to be embarrassed in front of this many people.
"Perhaps we should start in that corner over there," Aragorn said delicately, pointing out a very shady area to the medic.
The medic, who seemed permanently euphoric, beamed and said that would do perfectly, as the man in that corner was in terrible shape but still salvageable for someone so proficient in the healing arts as the king.
As they approached the corner, Aragorn glimpsed the injured man and realized he had gotten in way over his head. The soldier had so many gashes across his body that it seemed like he had more blood on the floor than inside him. But his eyes still gazed steadily at the king.
"Oh, bless you, King Elessar!" he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks, though whether from pain or joy was unclear.
"Well?" said the medic expectantly.
"Er...this is very bad," Aragorn stated unnecissarily. "I shall need hot water and some athelas."
"Come again?"
"The athelas plant, also known as kingsfoil."
"Oh, that! Where do we get that?"
Aragorn began to panic. "Um. In Gondor?"
"Really."
"You have none in stock?"
"No, I had not been aware that it had any healing properties. Listen," said the medic sympathetically, "would you like me to tell them that your abilities do not work in Harad? I can make up a story about your connection to the land fading or something like that."
"Yes, please," returned Aragorn thankfully.
As the medic tottered off to make the announcement, the king pondered the day's events and tried to make some sense of what the heck had happened and were there any nice and neat lessons he could learn? The only thing he could come up with was this: War was not as fun as he remembered. He missed Arwen, as odd as that sounded, and he missed Miriel and little Anariel. He wondered how they were doing.
As if his thoughts had conjured up his wishes, a soldier approached Aragorn and said, "My liege, I have a message for you."
"What is it?"
"My message is--that is, that there is a message for you. A letter, to be precise, from the queen. It was delivered to us on horseback just before the battle, but we were instructed not to give it to you until--"
"From Arwen!" Aragorn exclaimed. "Well, where is it? Let me see it!"
"Of course, but the queen expressly gave orders to make sure that you were in a calm state when--"
Aragorn was no longer listening. He almost grabbed the letter from the man then tore it open and began reading quickly. Perhaps an accident had befallen one of the children! Perhaps she had taken ill! Perhaps--
"She is pregnant again," moaned Aragorn, and immediately fell into a dead faint.
The messenger sighed and set about reviving his king, realizing now why the queen had sent smelling salts along with the letter.
It was going to be a long war.
* "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, son of, erm, Marathon, son of Paragon, son of Ar-Pharazon, son of Arrowroot, son Arrowshirt, son of Arrowhead..."
Yes, all of these names aside from Aragorn and Arathorn are wrong. Ar-Pharazon was the last king of Numenor. Arrowroot and Arrowshirt are names borrowed from, Bored of the Rings, that great parody of parodies.
** "Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of elderberries!"
The line is from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Like, duh.
*** "And now for something completely different!"
Also from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
Author's Note:
Cor, that took a long time to write. Quite sad, considering that this chapter was supposed to be part of the last one. I'm afraid to think how long the next one is going to take, considering that I've got practically nothing planned for it except "Something to do with Aragorn and Arwen's kids, maybe."
I actually came up with four different titles for this chapter before I settled on one. I liked certain things about all of them so I've listed the alternatives below:
Fear and Loathing in Near Harad
Operation Desert Storm
All's Fair in Love...(as the previous chapter's title) ...And War (As this chapter's title)