-Ralph Waldo Emerson
It had been the eleventh day since the girl had vowed for revenge. Or had it been twelve, or ten? By her steady march she had traveled up north far — in fact, farther than she had ever gone. She had heard of the lands up north from the warriors who had traveled and tried to attack the great White City of the accursed Numenoreans.
According to them the lands there were supposed to be unlike anything of the desert, except for some of the animals like the fox, the birds, the wolf, and the hares. It was supposed to be not as hot, but sometimes so cold that some warriors died from it. Lots of tall trees were supposed to grow in bunches, even as big as nations. Strange animals were to roam about, and danger lay everywhere. There was no sand, but rather fresh, greener grass, and not the brown, dull grass of the desert.
Even now she could see the faint, green borderlands of the northern lands and the desert. It seemed to merge together, the green of the lands and the orange of the desert, and in the middle some brownness lay. The girl had heard of them, as well: the grasslands and the mountains. She could see the mountains just now: they already filled her with awe; standing there tall, proud, and relentless.
By now the provisions taken from the ashes were running low, and the girl had to hunt, as she wasn't sure if she could find satisfactory food up north. Hares, birds, even salamanders, which weren't her favorite… She hunted just enough for her to eat each day, and saved the rest of the meat for later. Although the raw meat was bloody and slightly revolting, she was used to it already and gnawed on a hare leg. Raw or cooked, she needed nutrition and energy to continue her journey.
Of course there were some days when she wished she never had thought of the "great" idea of revenge. When she did wish it, she thought of the warriors of Harad lying there, their eyes glazed and burns scarring their faces. That was enough to make her mad, and so she continued, surviving on hatred.
On the nineteenth day — or the eighteenth or the twentieth — she arrived at the grasslands; the mark of the beginning of the northern lands and the country of the Numenoreans.
Like a wolf she circled around the place where desert met the grasslands warily, looking at the unknown territories beyond. Would she see trees as wide as fifteen men across and so tall that they reached into the heavens? Would she find monsters of all kinds? What would she do if she were met with a host of Numenoreans? Where did the Elves' hiding places lie?
It couldn't be more dangerous than the chimera of the desert, which hunted the people Harad and plagued villages occasionally in a century, with its mixed up body parts, and would not go back into its lair until a virgin had been sacrificed, or a bard played the Ancient Song. Murmuring a short prayer to the god of defense war and god of wanderers and warriors, she crossed the border, feeling the grass tickling her beneath her robes.
The wolf ever stalked her gently, not letting her sense her presence or smell it. Instead he purposely lagged behind her some fifteen leagues, as the crow flew. Even so, with his keen sense of smell he could sniff her out. What drove him to follow the stupid two-legger was a mystery — why, she couldn't run as fast as doe and her fangs were too small — but something warmed inside him when he thought of her. She felt like his pack, and since he had lost his original pack and his other pack to that traitor wolf, he would protect the Human. It wasn't that he had been "tamed" like the dogs. He would never be tamed. Idiot dogs, they always fawned at the stupid two-leggers. Never him. He might follow the girl two-legger around, but never show true affection like those — dogs.
The wolf whined again as the hot sand blistered his paws, yet they gradually grew better at bearing the heat. Note to self: never come to the desert once more.
A hawk circled above. Was it a hawk? Or was it a crow? The wolf looked up into the sky, feeling curiously drawn to the dark bird, squinting his gray, slanted eyes as he looked up. Even as he caught sight of the bird, the bird vanished.
The wolf blinked. Vanished? This was against all his instincts. Birds did not just blink out against the sky; it was against the laws of nature.
But magick wasn't nature…. Magick meddled with nature. Magick was not supposed to be but belonged. The wolf knew naught of magick, but had seen it before. It was an aura he got uncomfortable in; never really relaxed.
Did he ever relax? Nah.
The wolf grinned at this thought and pawed on. Onward, toward his one-member pack.
The wolf hesitated. He could smell the scent of grass and men where the two-legger wolf was headed. This was bad. Very bad. She was heading north, exactly the place he had been banished from. Would he cross the line? For several minutes he stood there, cocking his head. Two thoughts rammed against each other — which wasn't common for a normal wolf, but then he was more than a normal wolf — and he stood there.
Why was he even following the Human around? Nothing good ever came from Humans. And how did he know she was his pack?
He just knew. He trusted his instincts, did he not? He had nothing to lose but his life. If he did not follow he would lose his honor against the pack.
Randale could kill him!
He would not. This thought echoed off uncertainly. I can easily evade him. I know places he does not. I will survive.
Life and honor. Life and honor.
What did he know? The wolf cocked his head again, and grinned in the way only wolves could grin. He was choosing honor. He stepped over and made his journey over the grasslands, to the realm of Men and Nature.
One good thing could come off of this for sure. He wasn't so hot anymore. Ah, this is now the temperature I like better!
Randale sniffed the air with interest. From the since Filtarin had seen him last, he had changed quite considerably: for one thing, he was bigger. A lot bigger. Rowdy tufts of dark brown hair grew, and his body was muscular and strong. He had grown into the figure he had always wanted to become — the leader of a pack.
He had already been a leader of the pack. But that had not been enough. He had met a two-legger who could speak with him, and he had agreed to fulfill his service in exchange of leadership among his race. It had worked out well. He lured others into the Tower, and they were transformed, like him, and their minds were twisted. Randale had not gotten his mind torn from him; his mind was already twisted and revolting. He was more than just a wolf. He was a — the leader of — the Wolves of Isengard.
He caught the scent of many things — for instance, some of the black birds the Maia used as spies. Spies, indeed. Bah. What use were those pitiful, weak creatures? They could only fly with their small black wings and caw shrilly at any enemies. Wolves were far more superior. That was exactly why he was at the head of them.
He caught more scents that he were not interested in — dying trees, burning fumes, the not-so-pleasant smell of Orcs… There. What was it? He burrowed his senses far down, deeper and deeper.
He couldn't miss it now. It was the scent of a wolf. The wolf he had banished.
That wolf, with some proper instructions and head-barges, could be changed into a decent Wolf of Isengard. But no — he was too headstrong; he was not a normal wolf. His thoughts couldn't be changed. Perhaps the Wizard could help him break his mind, but Randale preferred to do it alone.
He would hunt down Filtiarn… but not tonight. He had more important chases to lead.
The desert sun shone with warmth — it was one of the cooler days. The girl sat down near the clay houses. The clay houses did not look primitive — rather, more fanciful, as it had been painted and decorated, and larger than most. The clay kept the houses cool by day and warm by night. Some of the people of Harad were nomads, however, always wondering here and forth. And so was the girl's clan — they were traveling northeast to be closer to the realm of the Dark Lord. Up in Umbar the lords ruled with dignity, but now they had made an alliance with the Dark Lord. Who knew, he could be more powerful.
But only the soldiers were really aware. Although the others were aware of this fact, they treated it with a cool distance, though they were quite ready to go into battle if provoked. So the best warriors traveled up northeast and back, often going on small battles before they returned.
The Dark Lord had promised them peace, wealth, and power beyond all of the races, including the detested — but never seen — Elves and the accursed Numenoreans, who had attacked them over and over. The Numenoreans would be killed or enslaved, and the northern and western lands would be free for the Harad people to explore.
The girl looked young, not much older than perhaps seven or eight years old. But her face held a bitterness that no child should have held, a bitterness of a person who had lived long harsh years. To the girl she might have been as well as forty something.
She did not watch the other children at play — at mock battles and house playing. Even if she had been accepted into the crowd, she would not have played at those things anyway. She already counted herself as an adult, and she acted like one: somber and silent.
The adults did not know what to think of her. When the girl got into one of her rages, she could not be stopped, and finally the council of elders and leaders decided that she would be good as a warrior. But they never spoke of this to her, and silently bypassed her. Time would come soon when she would have to be trained professionally, other than the basic training that all the children got.
The society of Harad was divided so it would work for the best. At the lowest level there were the slaves and the servants. Nobody looked twice at them, but nobody mistreated them either. Although they might be cruel in battle, they were never cruel to the helpless.
The Harad kept some livestock: mumakil, for one. The Mumakil — warrior Oliphaunts — were captured and bred separately from the rest of the Oliphaunts, who were used for the scarce farming, building, and other chores.
The girl was watching the Mumakil pen. She loved to watch them. The strong, proud, immense creatures always fought when they first came into the Harad villages, but they calmed down after a few weeks. The toughest ones always took about several moons for them to calm and be tamed, but it was worth it, for they made the best warriors.
This particular Mumakil was a young one — a strong one, as well. Several scars showed up on its trunk and floppy ears, revealing that it was prone to fighting. The ivory tusks were not to their full length yet, which meant good for the warriors of Harad. The younger the Oliphaunt was, the better. For one thing they lived longer, and for the other they were stronger and more liable to be trained easily.
The trainers bound down the Mumakil with ropes and other weapons. "He's a new one!" one of them called out. "Just arrived from outside the borders. They say they found him alone. Must have strayed from the rest of the pack." By "they" he meant the Oliphaunt catchers. To be an Oliphant catcher meant danger and even possibly death from the crunching feet of the wild beasts, but they were greatly respected.
"Watch out!" one of the men shouted, as the Mumakil broke free of the ropes. That was unusual, as the ropes were very tight and strong, but it wasn't if it hadn't happened before. The Mumakil roared with rage, and he proceeded to march and crunch some of the materials nearby.
"Quick, where are the sleeping herbs?" the leader, Scyon, shouted. Scyon was an experienced trainer — the best the Haradrim of the south had ever seen — and he was used to these kinds of events. As one of the apprentices ran to him with a bag full of the sleeping herbs, Scyon grabbed it and jumped onto the Mumakil, using the wrinkles on its body as footholds. His painted face — with black arrows, red dots and yellow staccatos — was grim, but it was calm.
The Mumakil screamed again, and many people stopped their daily tasks to watch. It was not that a Mumakil escaped the ropes every day a new Oliphaunt came in. Scyon got closer and closer to the head of the Oliphaunt, and finally he opened the bag of the sleeping herbs, tying it quickly around the Mumakil's ears. He jumped off quickly — for the sleeping herbs were powerful — and watched to see if it had the desired effect.
It did. The Mumakil swayed for a couple of seconds, its black eyes blinking, and then several moments later, it fell to the ground with a loud crash. Scyon closed the bag and untied it from the Mumakil, and nodded as the others bound it with ropes. They could not move the Mumakil if they wanted to. People cheered for Scyon if it had been a sport, and Scyon, nodding his grim face, walked back into his tent.
After the training the Mumakil would be taught the military tactics, and after it had grown used to one rider a carriage would be set on him. After that, he would be tested out in a mock battle. If he proved to be useful, he was painted with the red marks of the Mumakil and continued the harder part of the training. If he did not, he was either carried to the regular Oliphaunt pens or killed for meat (which was rare, but it had happened in droughts).
The girl had been watching this silently. Suddenly feeling the urge to cry, she ran into her hut barefeet, her dark locks flying behind her. The Mumakil reminded of herself, somehow.
She must not cry. She must not cry.
The girl stopped briefly in her tracks. She wondered if that Mumakil was alive now. Then she resumed walking on the grasslands, still wondering if that Mumakil would like to eat some of this grass now.
At night she sang herself to sleep, a habit that was frowned upon. But her mother had done the same to her, when she had been younger — far younger, and before she had thought it was too childish — and slowly she sang. Her voice was husky and it was unused to singing, but she did so anyway.
"they just do not heed the things and when one life is quenched
they just weep with sorrow
but they also weep with fear of what may come
death may come to them so they are afraid
but do they not understand they should celebrate instead
celebrate and remember the memories of the one who
passed away over the flame and the earth and the wind and the ocean
and met light and darkness and the shadows in between
do they not understand that in the end everything is different
and nothing
is the same do they not
no they do not yet a small part of them still does
but it is too small so they only weep
they only remember a shadow of
the true losses they have lost forever…"
It was only a small part of a song that was remembered scarcely among the people of Harad. It was rumored that it had passed down from the Numenoreans, and perhaps it had, but the calm, bittersweet tune calmed her frazzling nerves.
The night was colder than she had expected, and she covered herself in blankets, and kept all her outer clothes on. She curled herself into a ball and she slept lightly. She didn't know what had brought her memory to that tune. Something just had.