*****A/N: A little revision made at the end of the last chapter!
Chapter 12
Olòrin
"[Who are you?]"
The leader of the dark men turned to see the Southrons riding beside him. "[Watch what you say, boy. You are no longer on your land.]" His face wore no expression. "[For now, I will tell you I am Halbarad of the Rangers.]"
With that he urged his horse into a rolling canter, leaving the Haradrim to follow. After a while, they approached the outer wall of Minas Tirith. Despite its damage from the siege, the White City was majestic in the fading evening. Not far from the wall were tents grouped together. Halbarad bid they wait there while he questioned Gandalf's whereabouts. Many men were walking among them and most looked at the passing Southrons, and none of their glances were friendly. Khalil, wearied from the events of the day, dropped his gaze in submission. Soon Halbarad returned. "[Gandalf is busy right now in the City, tending to the wounded in the Houses of Healing. You must wait here until he returns.]" He made to walk off.
"[But sir, where shall we wait? Certainly not sitting on our horse for hours. Please, sir, is there a tent where my companion may rest?]"
Halbarad turned back to look at them. The girl certainly was exhausted; her head drooped and her eyes were red from crying. He sighed. "[Very well, follow me.]" Khalil dismounted and gently lowered Lasca off, supporting her for fear that she would collapse. Leading Malak, he followed Halbarad. Halbarad continuously questioned men and looked into tents, finally stopping in front of one. He paused. "[It seems all of our other tents are filled with the wounded. You must stay in the King's tent— though I have misgivings.]" Wordlessly Khalil tied Malak's reins to the hitching post and followed Halbarad inside. He barely noticed the rich furnishings, eyes dulled with tiredness. He collapsed into a dark corner, and Lasca beside him. Halbarad stepped out and told the guards about the two foreigners, informing them they were to see Gandalf, and not to let harm come to them. "[However, keep a sharp eye on them, and if you have any suspicions, come to me,]" he said quietly before striding off.
Later that evening Khalil woke to the low murmur of voices. His blurry eyes met the warm orange glow of a lamp. He rubbed them and sat up. There was a small square table set in the tent, and several men stood around it looking at a map laid out on its surface. One he recognized as Halbarad. A man to his right resembled him strikingly, though Khalil felt an air of graceful authority about him, and his blue eyes glittered in his dark face.
The white-robed man across the table from Halbarad was peculiar. His long hair and beard were pure white and his face and hands weathered with age, but the vivacity in his sharp eyes and movements suggested otherwise. Khalil felt a spark of recognition in his muddled mind, and when the old man turned his piercing gaze on the flaxen-haired youth, he knew.
"O—Olòrin!" Khalil gasped, stumbling to his feet. Lasca, who had been leaning her head on his shoulder, snapped her eyes open at the sudden jerk. She sat up and looked around at the crowd of men now staring at them. She stood quickly, beads of nervous sweat appearing on her brow.
The man Khalil addressed gave them an odd look. "[Do I know you, boy?]"
Khalil's face fell. "[Don't you remember? It was some years ago, and you were in Minas Tirith.]"
The old man paused, and seemed to be groping for a memory. Both Lasca and Khalil felt it was an eternity before he spoke "[Yes, I was there some time ago, looking for old manuscripts…]" Khalil felt heartened. He pressed on.
"[Do you remember? Do you remember the little ragged boy, staring at the White Tree from the shadows of the stairway? Looking at it as if it was…]"
"[As if…as if it was the one thing in the world he had been searching for.]" The old man finished, gazing at Khalil in wonder. "[Yes…yes I do remember you, Son of Eärendil.]" His face broke into a warm smile. Many of the other men looked incredulous. They began to murmur to each other.
"[What do you mean, 'Son of Eärendil?!']" bellowed Halbarad. "[Does this Southron waif share blood with our great ancestor, who now bears a silmaril and sails the firmament?]"
"[I, too, wish to know the meaning of this, Gandalf]" said the other dark man softly, though his low growl carried more foreboding than Halbarad's outburst.
"[Calm yourself, Aragorn]" said Gandalf, waving a hand dismissively. "[I do not literally mean he is a descendent of the Mariner. Have you not heard the tale of those born under the light of his silmaril?]"
The men paused. A sudden look of surprise came over Aragorn's face. "[You mean to say that Eärendil shown down on his birth? Yes, I have heard the legend, though how are you to prove that this Harad boy was born under the star?]"
"[After speaking with him, or should I say Khalil, all those years ago, he told me the most peculiar thing, especially for a boy no older than eleven or twelve: he could not be at ease without wandering. Doe the legend not say that those chosen as a Son of Eärendil cannot rest in one place for long? Indeed, his love of far off places drew him to this city, to the White Tree of Nùmenor itself. For is it not also said that those blessed by his light share his love for his kin and the wonders they create? Yes, this was enough to convince me, though there is one other peculiarity about this boy not given in any legend: his hair is stained purest white before his time, touched by the light of a silmaril.]"
Lasca turned her head slowly to look at the boy standing beside her, and suddenly felt she hardly knew him, for now he seemed like the stuff of myths; untouchable, beyond her and the petty world to which she belonged. Every man in the tent now gazed at him, some with respect, others with bewilderment. Khalil himself did not know what to say. He felt embarrassment, but more than that, he felt pride that he could stand with these great Men of the West and somehow be counted among them. To his right he suddenly sensed the presence of the Southron girl cowering slightly at his side, and felt himself hurtling back to earth.
"[Now, what brings you here, boy?]" Gandalf questioned. Khalil closed his eyes, breathed a plea for courage, and raised his head once more. After a quick glance at Lasca for reassurance, he spoke.
"We come to beg pardon; for us, and all of Harad."
+
Well, hi. No, I am not dead, though my absence of so-long-I-don't-want-to-think-about-it might suggest otherwise. Hey, you did get a big revelation in this chapter, right? I got the idea for Khalil's thing from The Book of Lost Tales, which basically shows Tolkien's first concepts of Middle Earth, and that legend was (a small) part of it. I believe his character Ǽlfwine was a SoE. If you are very hard-core, I suggest reading Lost Tales, but I warn you, Christopher Tolkien's commentary (of which nearly half the book is compiled) isn't exactly spellbinding ^^; I'll try to get a new chapter up sooner, but a few weeks ago I got a puppy (we're up to two dogs, two cats, and one beta fish now ^^), so needless to say she takes up a lot of time. I swear, even though she's a toy breed (Papillion), I'm convinced she has warg blood in her. The world is her chew toy!
