Author's Note: Wow, it's been way too long since I last updated. My writing style has changed so much since I first began this story. For this reason, I am committing myself to revising all seventeen previous chapters, a goal which I shall hopefully achieve sometime in the near future. For more information about my revision project for Lost Tales of My Father, please check out my author profile. Also, please read the new-and-improved version of Chapter IV, which has undergone some intense revision.
Thank you all for your incredible loyalty, mellyn nin, and I hope you enjoy the plot twist that occurs in this chapter! I've put a lot of hard work into this sucker over the last few weeks. It features a little more political intrigue than the earlier chapters, but…well…I think you'll like it. ;) - Minyasta
Chapter XVIII – The Men of the South
"The mines of Khand are the private property of the royal family of Gondor, and I'll have it no other way," says King Elessar in a tone that brooks no argument. "The Haradrim are, as always, welcome partners in our endeavors in Khand, but I cannot grant your Amir joint ownership of the mines."
"The War was never Gondor's affair," replies the emissary of Harad sneeringly, his voice thick with a Southern accent. "The mines are the blood right of my people, as a part of the bounty seized from the Variags. My Amir demands that you either offer him joint ownership or pay him a direct semiannual tribute in raw mithril ore."
"Unacceptable," Elessar counters. "Your late Amir demanded no tribute from Gondor! My armies protect the borders of Harad and support her warriors in battle. Does the freshly ordained Amir of Haradwaith expect Gondor, whose steadfast commitment to the War has endured for over half a century, to give aid without receiving payment in kind?"
Heated retorts are exchanged across the table as I write furiously to record it all, listening and trying to comprehend what I know must be a complex diplomatic issue. It has been three weeks since I arrived in Minas Tirith to take up my place as Steward, and with time I've found myself slowly gaining insight into the problems that our nation faces on a daily basis. Finding solutions to those problems, however, is a slow and arduous task, and one that gives me no respite day or night. I was almost relieved when Elessar summoned me early this morning to inform me that there would be a meeting with the emissary of Harad, for which my presence was required. It would at least provide a reprieve from the monotony of my everyday work, and in the times that I have met with the Harad envoy I have found them to be decent, if rather uncivilized, folk.
But my interaction with the diplomats from Harad occurred before the death of the High Amir of Harad, and the succession of the new Amir, who recalled the late Amir's envoy and replaced it with his own. Now together in a room with the new emissary, I cannot shake the feeling of foreboding and distaste that I get when I look upon these men of the South.
At the Council table, usually filled with bickering lords in varying stages of decrepitation, there sit only four individuals: the King, myself, the emissary of Harad, and his aide. The last of these is a man of far fewer years than myself, and his skin is such a dull, swarthy hue that it seems as though he has smeared himself everywhere with wet mud from some dirty riverbed. Cloaked in raiment of fierce golds and crimsons, with a black mane like a lion's and bright, dark eyes like a hawk's, he is a savage and untamed creature. He and I contrast like Night and Day—I the Night, pale-skinned and pale-eyed, dark-robed, sophisticated, refined, subtle, intelligent; and he the Day, brown-skinned and brown-eyed, bright-robed, wild, uncouth, demonstrative, violent.
With difficulty, I force myself to return my attention to my notes and the debate at hand. Still, my thoughts drift towards the two Harad bodyguards who stand at the door opposite their two Gondorian counterparts. Bedecked similarly to the aide, but with the supplement of maille hauberks, gilded shields, and slender, arching scimitars, the swordsmen of Harad are a force to be reckoned with. This I know well, as I have seen them do battle on the front in Mordor. When other men draw back to regroup or strategize, the Haradrim charge full-force into the midst of their enemies. I glance surreptitiously at the bodyguards, and I see in that moment of eye contact that they are staring at me strangely, as though they recognize me. That is unfortunate indeed, for if a soldier of Harad remembers my face, it is probably not for a good reason. Dismayed, I look down once again as the emissary and Elessar continue to speak.
"You dishonor the pact between our two nations to suggest that the terms of the Treaty of Umbar should be re-evaluated for a second time this term," Elessar is saying, growing ever sterner of mood as the conversation deepens. "It was agreed that the Treaty would be reviewed by a council of both countries' representatives once every seven years. Two years ago, that council convened, and the Treaty was reaffirmed in its entirety. Amir Esfandiar is now but a few weeks in his grave, and already you would have talk of appealing the decision made by the well-respected officials of his court?"
"Unfortunately for my people, your Majesty, Amir Esfandiar was unaware of, or chose to ignore, the secret dealings of your Council when Gondor decided to go to war with the Haradrim against the Variags." The look in the emissary's eyes seems almost to challenge Elessar. "You and your Councilors knew of the existence of the mithril mines in Khand, but no mention of them was ever made to Amir Esfandiar or his emissaries—not until after they had been seized and secured by Gondorian troops. Since then, through military occupation, Gondor has expanded her territory well beyond her borders, and even now she extends her grasping hand into regions where once she held no claim. One might well wonder if Gondor's motives in going to war were not as pure as she would have her allies and enemies believe."
Elessar and I exchange a fleeting glance, and in it I sense his desire for me to remain silent. I can feel my pulse begin to quicken as silence falls over the table for a long moment. How did the Haradrim discover the truth about the mines? No one except the lords of Gondor who were present at that Council should be able to tell the full truth, and many of them are now dead or else soon to be. Could one of our own have betrayed us, or did perhaps a chieftain of the Variags make the discovery and sell it to the Haradrim?
"I do not declare war lightly, and I certainly did not do so sixty-five years ago when I declared war on the Variags," says Elessar tightly. "Gondor will be treated as an ally of the Haradrim, not as a tool to be taken advantage of by your Amir. Surely, Ambassador, you understand that compensation is owed Gondor for the deaths of her sons in combat alongside the Haradrim."
"I do understand, your Majesty," says the emissary. "From my Amir's perspective, it is compensation enough that Gondor has a friend rather than an enemy in Harad. It would be unfortunate if High Amir Arsalan of Haradwaith were forced to withdraw his oath of loyalty to your Majesty."
Elessar rises from the table, his face white with fury. "Are you threatening me, Ambassador?"
"I am merely making you aware of the potential consequences of your refusal to submit to my Amir's demands," the emissary replies haughtily.
Unable to contain myself any longer, I say, "If your Amir believes that his armies have the manpower and discipline to confront the military strength of Gondor and Arnor, then he is a fool."
Sternly, the King orders in Sindarin, "Elboron, ú-pedo!"
Incensed by my words, the emissary rises from his own seat. "It has been done before, during the Dark Lord's War. What makes you so confident, Steward, that it cannot be done again?"
"So you would return your people to the days of darkness under Sauron's rule?" I snap back. "How like the Haradrim, to put on an act of being cultured and civilized men, only to revert back to heathen savagery when put to the test!"
"Elboron!"
The King's booming voice rings threateningly around the chamber. My body is tense, and my eyes flicker back and forth between those of the emissary and those of his aide. In each gaze is a look of total hatred and loathing, a look that fills my soul to the brim with disdain. How dare these primitives come into our city and treat us as folk to be manipulated? It would have been better for all if their vulgar race, and all others of the East and South who consorted with the Dark Lord, had been exterminated at the close of the War of the Ring.
"Please, Ambassador, let us be seated so that we may continue the negotiations," says the King entreatingly, but the emissary only sneers at him skeptically.
"I have nothing more to say in this council," he says, gesturing to his aide to gather the sheaves of paper in front of him. "I can promise you that my Amir will not take kindly to Steward Elboron's insult, or to your refusal to hand over a partnership in the mines." Without another word, the Harad bodyguards escort the emissary and his aide from the room, slamming the huge oak doors shut behind them.
Elessar looks to be overwrought with displeasure as he shuffles through the papers in front of him. I sit in silence, fuming, waiting for the reprimand that is sure to come.
"It was not your place to address the ambassador as you did," he says at last, his tone brusque. "You will apologize in person to the emissary of Harad, and you will compose a written apology to the Harad Amir."
"You would have me humble my honor before these barbarous tribesmen?" I demand, throwing my quill onto the table.
"Your honor is not as important as Gondor's diplomatic relations with Harad, Steward." The King's voice is colder than I have ever heard when directed towards me. "I do not know where you think you are, but this is not a battlefield in some remote, forsaken outpost in the East! You may be an experienced general, Elboron, and I understand that you are accustomed to pulling rank over subordinates who must obey your every command, but when you are seated at my Council table, you would do well to remember that I am the King of Gondor. You will not disobey a direct order like that ever again!"
Stunned, I do not know at first how to reply. It has been long indeed since someone last gave me an order, since I, the Captain-General, am the highest-ranking military officer in Gondor, the with exception of Eldarion and, of course, the King. Horror dawns on me along with the realization of what I have just done—I disobeyed the command of a superior. When did I become so confident in my rank that I lost my grasp on the very principles that comprise my notion of self? Discipline, order, respect… Where are these things in me now?
"Yes, sire," I say with difficulty, too ashamed to meet his gaze. "I am sorry that I acted as I did. But I do not understand how you can tolerate being spoken to in such a manner—as though you were beneath him! You are the King of Gondor and Arnor! Surely you have power enough to do whatever you wish and ignore the petty squabbling of the Amir of Harad!"
"Yes, Elboron, I have power enough," says Elessar sternly, "but it is unwise of you to underestimate the damage that could be done to our country should the Amir find reason to turn against us. Your father and I worked tirelessly to secure peace for this nation after the destruction of the Ring and the end of the War, and I grieve now to see Gondor's sons marching off to death in battle. We are fortunate to count the Haradrim among our allies, but if ever that should change, Gondor will be in great peril indeed."
"What? Do you think that Gondor's might could be so easily overturned by the whim of a Southern chieftain?" I ask. "It would take long indeed for any such tribesmen to muster an army worthy of confronting Minas Tirith!"
"As always, Elboron, you think only with your sword and not with your mind!" Elessar interjects sharply. "It is true that the Haradrim do not have armies enough to have any hope of defeating Gondor in battle, but there are other ways to deal out retribution! Despite what you may think, the peoples of the South are shrewd and cunning. They know that by far the easiest method of persuasion is achieved through focus on a single, well-chosen target. It would be easy enough for a Harad bowman in Nurn to single out my son, or yours, or the son of any Gondorian lord. Your cousin Prince Alphros of Dol Amroth makes an even easier target, as he is currently living in Umbar with the Gondorian delegation. Do you suppose that good manners would prevent Amir Arsalan from holding him hostage until I agree to meet his demands?"
My eyes widen at the implications of what Elessar is saying. "He wouldn't dare!"
"Oh, yes, he would dare." The King's voice is now dark and heavy. "I fear it more than aught else at the moment. A message must be sent at once to Eldarion, and another to Alphros." His eyes bore into my own as he looks towards me. "Ever have you looked down upon politicians, Elboron, yet now you see that the job of a politician is often no less dangerous than that of a soldier. Now, come with me."
His words echo in my mind as I follow him from the chamber and down the steps leading from the Council chambers. Could I have just endangered the life of my son, or of my dearest friend or cousin, by my petty rudeness? Is it possible that the rashly-spoken words of one man could cause such a chain reaction? If that is how the inner machinations of politics work, then to the Void with politics and politicians! Any man who would seize a hostage or dispatch an assassin before confronting his enemy with his own strength and will is a coward. Despite Elessar's words, I cannot believe that politicians and soldiers are equals. I cannot, and I will not.
The King and I reach the base of the Tower of Ecthelion and the throne room of Minas Tirith, with its vaulted ceiling supported by somber ranks of stony pillars. A few clusters of lords and their squires stand about the hall, talking amiably with one another, and they look up to see the King and the Steward stride by in haste and with a single focus of purpose.
"Firion! Elenar!" calls the King, summoning two guardsman who stand tall and still like another set of pillars beside the great doors of the Tower of Ecthelion. The two simultaneously raise their arms in salute. Their faces are like granite; their eyes, like those of twin lions. In their hands they clutch two-meter-long glaives, the blades of which glimmer with the cruel sheen of hardened steel. They are members of the King's Guard, the most elite division of the Tower Guard of Minas Tirith. Chain maille hauberks extend to their knees beneath long, black tunics that bear neither emblem nor charge—simple attire, but recognizable enough that no foe would underestimate their precision with a blade. I am proud of Firion and Elenar, and I have every right to be, since I personally trained them.
"Go with Lord Elboron to find the Harad emissary. He is to meet me in the throne room at his earliest convenience. If there is any trouble, I trust you to take care of it," Elessar instructs. Immediately the doors open wide, and I motion to Firion and Elenar to follow me out into the Citadel. Just before I leave, the King catches me by the shoulder, saying, "Elboron, you are a diplomat now. I expect you to act accordingly."
I say nothing, too full of doubt in myself to give the response Elessar expects. Instead, I simply nod, and my heart clenches when I see Elessar's dubious frown.
The Citadel is bustling with folk at this time of day, and it might be difficult indeed to find a small group among the throng, but fortunately the Harad emissary and his escort have not yet gone far. I see them standing a short distance from the Tower, apparently waiting for their horses to be brought up from the stables on the sixth level so that they may ride back through the city to their quarters. When the two Harad bodyguards see me approaching flanked by soldiers of the King's Guard, they reach automatically for their blades. Firion growls and clenches his own weapon more tightly in his fist.
"No," I say brusquely, holding up my hand to stay the tempers of both pairs of guardsmen. "Firion, Elenar—wait here, and look on from a distance." Though neither man likes the idea, they obey my command, watching as I step forward unaccompanied to face the Harad emissary.
"Ambassador," I say tightly, bowing awkwardly at the waist. "I would speak with you privately, if you will permit me."
The flash of some unidentifiable emotion flickers through the eyes of the emissary, but nonetheless he nods and motions to his aide and bodyguards to stand aside. He and I meet halfway between our respective entourages, and for a moment we stand in silence, exchanging wary glances as though testing one another's mettle. Finally, I shift my gaze and clear my throat uncomfortably.
"I wish to apologize for my less than courteous behavior in the Council chambers earlier today," I begin. It takes every ounce of my dignity to go on as I see the emissary's eyes glow with the haughty air of a wild jackal who has cornered its prey. Somehow, I find my inner reserve of calm and continue: "Since the end of the War of the Ring, the Haradrim have been loyal allies of Gondor, and they have proven themselves ours equals in battle. I was out of line to speak as I did, and I ask your forgiveness."
"Well, Steward," drawls the emissary. "Gondorians in their infinite superiority may easily forget when they have been slighted by a commoner, but we mere 'commoners'do not so easily forget when we have been slighted by a Gondorian. My guardsmen tell me that you, Lord Elboron—or, should I say, General Elboron—were responsible for the torturing of innocent Harad men who stood accused of treachery on the front."
Automatically, I stiffen, and my eyes flicker towards the Harad bodyguards who clench their teeth spitefully and mutter between themselves. After a moment, I return my gaze to the emissary. When I speak, my voice is steely and void of all emotion: "I follow orders. It might be noted that the Harad soldiers in question later confessed to their treachery."
"Men will confess much when subjected to torture, I find," comes the emissary's sharp reply. "Perhaps you, General, have had no personal experience on the more unpleasant side of the interrogation room."
"Conveniently, I have," I answer, my eyes hard. "Not that it is any concern of Harad's."
"It is the concern of the High Amir when it appears that a Gondorian commander is executing his 'orders' against Harad soldiers with particular enthusiasm."
"Well, if I happen to encounter such an instance, I will be sure to inform the High Amir personally," I retort, barely concealing the derision in my tone.
"Unfortunately, General, you won't be given that opportunity."
Perplexed, I begin to ask what exactly he means, but I stop abruptly as the glint of sun upon metal catches the corner of my eye. Somehow I dodge the blade that was aimed for my stomach and seize the emissary by the wrist, yanking him forward so that he loses his balance and stumbles. In the split moment's advantage that I have over my attacker, I plunge my hand inside my robes to seize the hilt of the dagger hidden there. Just as the emissary begins to right himself, I thrust the dagger into his ribcage with a grunt, enjoying the sound of cold steel slicing through his body. When I release him, he staggers backwards, stares at me with eyes full of shock and loathing, and collapses onto the flagstones.
The Harad bodyguards leap forwards, scimitars bared, only to be checked instantly by the crossed glaives of Firion and Elenar. Firion calls out to the nearby Tower Guard for aid as a fight breaks out between the Haradrim and the King's Guard. Women in the encircling crowd cry shrill warnings and snatch their children out of harm's way. Forgotten until now, the emissary's aide shouts something in Harad and runs to kneel beside his fallen master.
"Massoud!" cries the aide, tears welling in his eyes as he shakes the emissary's inert corpse. "Massoud!" Gradually, he realizes that the man is already dead, and he jerks his head up towards me and screams, "Murderer! Gondorian filth! You murdered him!"
"He tried to kill me!" I snarl in return, feeling the adrenaline rush drain from my body as I slide my dagger back into its sheath. "I acted in self-defense!"
"Murderer!" the aide shrieks, lunging towards me with his bare hands outstretched, eyes bulging crazily with hate. I step backwards clumsily, unprepared to confront the vengeful servant of my would-be assassin. Elenar, perceiving the threat, leaves his fight with the Harad guard to restrain the violent aide. Now safe from bodily harm, I stare at the aide as he begins to weep bitter, spiteful tears, yelling insults at me in rapid Harad. The faintest stirrings of empathy pull at my heart—a bizarre emotion that is quite foreign to me. Yet I cannot but pity the creature, here in a land so far from his own, and now bereft of his comrade and master.
Suddenly, the aide arches his neck over Elenar's arm and spits into my face, and the compassion I felt just moments ago vanishes in an instant.
"You murdered Massoud Amjad, emissary of the Amir!" the man hisses. "You will pay for this, Gondorian! You, and your country, will pay dearly indeed!"
Disdainfully, I wipe the spittle from my cheek and turn to glower darkly at the prattling aide. "We shall see which country will pay dearly when my King learns that your Amir's emissary made an attempt on my life."
By now, the Tower Guard reinforcements have arrived, and the two Harad bodyguards are forced to stand down. Elenar maintains a firm grip on the aide, who is still struggling to free himself. Breathing hard, and bearing a long but shallow cut on his arm from the quick fight, Firion turns to me.
"I saw the whole thing, General," he says, nodding sternly. "You were almost skewered by that savage."
I nod, a little shaky now that the situation is under control and I have a moment to consider what almost happened just a few minutes ago. "Yes, well, retrieve the weapon. We'll need it as evidence when we take these three to stand trial before the King."
Firion crouches beside the body of Ambassador Amjad and first checks his vitals to be sure that he is truly dead. After that confirmation is made, Firion gropes near the body. He frowns, and I ask, "What is wrong?"
"General…there is no weapon," Firion says to me, stunned.
"Impossible," I growl. "I saw it with my own two eyes!"
"As did I, General, but…there's nothing here."
"Murderer!" cries the Harad aide once more, now laughing brutally as Elenar and the Tower Guard begin to drag him away to be detained. "Filthy murderer!"
A flicker of fear passes through my heart, and I kneel on the pavement next to the corpse, searching for the blade that almost took my life. It was there! I saw it just moments ago! Yet now, as I fumble in the man's pockets and under the folds of his robes, I find nothing.
Slowly, I stand, turning to face Firion and the trio of guardsmen who remain. For a moment, everything falls deathly silent, save for the cackling laughter of the dead man's aide as he is led away. Finally, Firion bows his head and steps forward hesitantly.
"General Elboron…" he begins incredulously. "…I'm afraid I have no choice but to put you under arrest…for the murder of Massoud Amjad."
I say nothing, simply watching as Firion binds my hands and gives orders for a prison cell to be prepared for me. The onlooking crowd whispers and murmurs, their disbelieving eyes flickering towards me, their General and Steward. Before I am led away, I cast one last, wild glance backwards towards the motionless figure of the emissary of Harad. I am certain, absolutely certain, that I saw him attack me with a blade. Firion, too, saw the emissary draw a weapon against me. But where could the weapon have gone?
As my mind begins to speculate about the only remaining conclusion, I start to feel the tightness of panic in my chest. Is it possible that Firion and I could both have been…mistaken?
Oh, Eru…
Have I just murdered an innocent man?
ú-pedo!
(do not speak!) – imperative form; a.k.a. "shut up!"
Author's Note: My description of the Haradrim in this chapter, and my use of the title "Amir" and Persian names, was inspired by my own belief that the Haradrim were intended by Tolkien to represent the peoples of North Africa and the Middle East. (After all, they do come from the South, with the understanding that Middle-Earth is the counterpart of modern Europe, and come on—they ride giant elephants into battle!) Any racist undertones you may have picked up on in this chapter were indeed placed here intentionally, but ONLY so as to emphasize Elboron's disdain for the Haradrim as a "lesser" race of "heathen" tribesmen.
For those of you seeking an explanation for this, who believe that surely the son of Faramir is incapable of racism or bigotry, consider this: No one is perfect. Everyone has faults, and one of Elboron's (and of many men of his time, I would imagine) happens to be holding certain prejudices without justifiable cause. Consider how 19th- and 20th-century colonial Europe viewed Africa and the Middle-East—as regions full of uncivilized barbarians who needed to be subdued and disciplined. (I highly recommend Chinua Achebe's novel Things Fall Apart if you are interested in this topic.) Now think of post-Sauron Gondor as the Tolkienian equivalent of colonial Europe. The Fourth Age is the "Age of Man," and as such men will exercise their newfound power and privilege as is their wont. This means that colonialism was probably a high priority for politicians such as those on Aragorn's Council who got Gondor involved in this sixty-five-year-long campaign that I have called the Great Eastern War.
Additionally, I would have you consider that Elboron has served in the Great Eastern War for many years since his youth. While the Haradrim are Gondor's allies against the forces of Khand and Nurn, I imagine that they are none too friendly towards Gondorian soldiers who wander into their lands or challenge their honor, being a very territorial and protective people. Elboron's experiences with Harad soldiers have hardened his already prejudiced view of the so-called "Southrons" as inferior, uncouth, and untrustworthy.
Finally, the emissary Massoud Amjad and his little band here may seem to be portrayed in a very negative light, but bear in mind that they do not represent the majority of the men of Harad. But I don't want to ruin the story. You will learn more about them later. ;)
I would like to make it clear that Elboron's views of the Haradrim DO NOT in any way reflect my own views of individuals of Middle-Eastern descent, African descent, or any other folk whose skin pigmentation happens to be a little darker than my own. We're all sisters and brothers here on this Earth, and we're all in this together whether we like it or not, so we might as well be nice to one another and coexist. Am I right? :)
Finally, I would like to mention that my depiction of the Harad and Gondorian soldiers' armor in this chapter was inspired partly by the incredible artwork of Jan Pospisil. Find him on deviantART, where he goes by the name of Merlkir. You'll be blown away by some of his work on LotR-related concept design. Go check out his gallery!
Thank you for bearing with me through this incredibly lengthy Author's Note, but I believe you will agree that it was both informative and clarifying.
- Minyasta