Chapter 10

Deepening

          Twelve-year-old Khalil gripped the old man's robe tightly.  "Let go, boy!  Holding on to me won't do the raft any good!"

        "Sorry, sir," he mumbled, embarrassed.  They were out in the middle of the river, bobbing on a small raft.  The punting man chuckled at the boy's nervousness. 

        "Do not fear.  The Anduin does not take lives willingly." Khalil looked at him.  His swart face seemed sinister.  He turned away.

        "Yes, boy…do not fear the water," the old man murmured.  "Ulmo has ever helped those that dwell in these forsaken lands.  Do not forget all I have taught you." Khalil nodded, fixing his eyes on the port ahead.  He did not like the look of that either; shabby and dark. 

        It seemed to him he had been traveling with the old man for ages now.  Ever since he had met up with him on the Harad Road, they had journeyed together.  Khalil enjoyed his company, if only for the reason he did not ask the one question everyone had, but he had no answer for: why had he left his family?  The old man had only nodded knowingly at his account. Besides companionship, he had also told him tales of the Elder Days.  Khalil secretly thought he had lived in them, for he talked as though he had met all the great lords and kings.  He did not ask him though, far too caught up in the amazing stories.  His dreams were filled with heroes and heroines, Elves and Men of days gone by.

        He was jerked out of his reverie as the raft hit the dock, signifying the end of the voyage.  Gratefully Khalil clambered off the raft and ran up the dock to the street.  He turned to call to the old man, but the words died in his throat.  Four brutish men were surrounding the old man on the dock.  Roughly two grabbed him and dragged him to land, knocking Khalil down on the way.  "Hey!  What are you doing with him?!  Let go!" the small boy grabbed onto on of their huge arms, tugging with all his feeble strength.  Laughing, the man shook him off.

        "Stay back, waif, lest you want to be cursed by this wizard!" Shocked, Khalil looked at the old man.

        "What does he mean?"

        "Khalil," he began quietly.  "In truth I am a wizard of sorts, though that means little now.  My knowledge of the ages has been passed on to you." The thugs kicked him and laughed, dragging him on again.  "Run, boy!  Run and do not look back, Son of Eärendil!"

        "Alatar!  Alatar!!"

        Khalil glared moodily out across the dark water that had served to rekindle equally dark memories.  That had been the last time he had seen Alatar.  He wandered the streets of the port town for days on end, begging food, and when that failed, stealing it.  One day, as he wandered the outskirts, he found a familiar robe trampled in the road.  He picked it up, and noticed something other than mud staining it: the rusty red of blood bloomed in large patches.  That night as he sat hunched in an alley, clutching the filthy cloth, his tears came.  Sobs wracked his small frame as the truth finally hit him: Alatar was dead.  He was his first real friend, and as the red sun rose that morning, he swore he would be his last. 

Fiercely he drove his pole into the riverbed, pushed, and then yanked it out.  He repeated the movement again, the anger of his memories driving him. A grunt of exertion behind him woke him from his thoughts.  He turned his head and saw Lasca punting on the other side of the raft with all her might, so that his stronger pushes would not drive them off course.  She had not complained to him.  He smiled slightly at her pride.

        He had traveled with her for nearly two weeks, he realized.  At first it had been because he was interested in her cause.  Later it was because he believed in it also, and thought, however small the chance, together they may achieve their end.  In a way he also felt like an elder brother, responsible for teaching her of the world and keeping her out of trouble.  She often counterbalanced his realism with her idealism.  As a rule he disliked positive people, perhaps because he himself felt nothing to cheerful about.  He had at first dismissed Lasca as childish for this quality, but slowly he was finding she was deeper than that.  Did he consider her a friend?  Time would tell.

Later that night they reached Pelargir.  Not even stopping to tie up the raft, Khalil swiftly led Malak to dry land, Lasca following.  He told Lasca to mount, and he sat behind her.  Talking as low as he could, he guided her through the grungy streets.  The air reeked with the stench of ripe fish.  Mysterious figures hobbled along in the shadows of the ramshackle buildings.  Occasionally pools of light would pour out on to the street from rowdy bars.  Lasca wove her mare around them, not wanting to be seen by the drunken occupants.  There was no sound in that town, save for the creaking of ships and bawdy singing from the alehouses.  They sung in Westron, though Lasca did not make the effort to understand the lyrics.  From one place Lasca heard shouts and cheers, and soon a scream.  She shuddered.

When Khalil told her to stop, she found herself on the outskirts of Pelargir, a few shabby huts dotting the rutted road.  Swiftly Khalil dismounted, and Lasca also.  She winced as her feet squished in the mud through her thin cloth shoes.   Silently he led them off the road.  He looked behind few houses and found what he was looking for when one of them had a small storage shed behind it.  Quickly he ushered Lasca and Malak inside.  He closed the door, wincing as its rusty hinges squeaked in protest.  It was pitch dark and stuffy in the small room, and the smell of rotted fish was so thick the two quickly grew nauseous.  Malak stamped nervously, but remained quiet.  "We'll be safe in here," Khalil stated, trying to sound confident, but failing miserably.

"How are you so sure?" 

"I've used this shed before.  It is more or less abandoned."

"What someone suddenly decides to use it?"

"That is what this is for," he replied, and Lasca heard a sharp tap on metal.  The scimitars.  Tentatively she unsheathed her own.  It was a short sword, the curved blade hardly as long as her forearm.  She ran her fingers down the flat of it, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingers.  From across the shed she heard the steady breathing of sleeping Khalil.  She leaned back against the weathered wooden boards and closed her eyes.  The scimitar lay in her lap, a hand draped over the leather-bound grip.

That morning, not the smallest reprieve from the darkness came.  Both felt their spirits fall even farther as they walked to the market, having need of more supplies.  Malak had been left in the shed, deemed strong enough to defend herself if need be.  As they approached the market at the harbor, Lasca thought there were large, spindly trees there as well, but as the docks came into view, she found they were the innumerable masts of black ships.  "It seems the Corsairs have claimed Pelargir.  Do not ask of them," Khalil murmured as they began their walk down the line of vendor's stalls.  Normally the market would be crowded and noisy, but the darkness seemed to weigh heavily on all, even those who were allied with Sauron.  As quickly as possible Lasca purchased water and dried meat, for there was no good fruit.  She bartered with a spare blouse she had brought.  Its bright color and foreign fabric was enough to purchase everything, but Lasca thought that its normally vibrant blue seemed faded and dull.  While thinking on this, she nearly slipped back into her native tongue, but hastily covered it up.  She had never spoken so much Westron at a time, and it put a strain on her mind. 

When their business was finished, they hastily made their way back to the shed.  To their dismay they found the bay mare outside, having evidently kicked the door down in her boredom.  A swart man passed by on the street, and stopped when he saw the delicate horse, eyeing her with greed.  Silently Khalil motioned Lasca to remain hidden behind the neighboring house.  He crept stealthily onto the road and behind the man.  With swift and practiced movement, he held the cold steel of his scimitar to the man's throat.  The man flinched, but dared not turn.  Lasca could not make out what Khalil told him, but it made him run off as if a mùmak was on his tail.  Khalil looked around for any more potential thieves before motioning for Lasca to come out.   They departed from Pelargir within the half hour, not bothering to look back at the shabby port as Malak pounded North towards Minas Tirith.  Later that day they felt a sudden chill wash over them, shaking them to the bone.  They saw to the west a host passing towards the Anduin.  Behind them seemed to go shadows.  They knew not why, but it filled them with foreboding.  Little did they know they looked on the Dead.

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One thing that really bugged me about the ROTK movie was the absence of the other Dùnedain and Elrond's sons.  Is it really that hard?  And it also bothered me that the Dead went to Pelennor Fields. *shakes head*  Other than that, it was quite spiffy.  They cast everyone really well ^^ As a reminder, I'm following book-canon.  Thank goodness for timelines in Appendix B…

A/N: About Alatar being in the South—He had totally given up on the Easterlings, and was seeking Pallando out.

Eryna Khan—I'm really sorry, but I don't speak French (though I really should, seeing as half my family lives there and I've been to France before…).  Still, I would like to encourage you to keep going on your fic.  There are far too few of us authors writing about the Haradrim!  Thanks very much for reviewing!

Tarock—Ack!  Thanks very, very much for pointing that out ^^;;;;