Well, I'm back

Well, I'm back. Some minor changes: while this fic will still be pretty short, each individual chapter from here on out (except the last) will center around one of the four characters originally introduced. Also, unless something unexpected happens, there should end up being a grand total of six chapters to this story: one for the intro, one for each of the four characters, and a closing chapter.

This chapter seems to be a bit longer, and is Haytham-centric. He has surprised me…he started as just some random Southron, but then I decided to make him young…and he kinda developed into an actual character. So…hope you guys enjoy!

NOTE: This is totally unrelated, but I do in fact take requests. Just nothing slash. Ever.

Chapter Two: Son of the South

Haytham remembered the first time he had gone hunting. His uncle, of course, had taken him. He remembered crouching behind sand dunes, the harsh desert sunlight fading with the evening. They had hidden there behind the dunes, waiting for the nocturnal creatures of the southern wastes to emerge in the twilight from their hidden burrows. Foreigners who looked upon the vast sand desert thought it desolate and uninhabitable, but those who lived within its borders knew otherwise. Though barren during the day, the desert at night was full of life. Small birds, foxes, and desert hares emerged from their daytime hideaways to hunt food. The people of Harad, just as resourceful as their animal kin, spent their days resting in their cool tents, emerging at dusk to hunt what small game they could find upon the dunes.

Khalid had shown his nephew how to bury himself in the dunes to keep still, how to listen, with his ear pressed to the sands, for the telltale heartbeat of animals hidden in their burrows, how to aim a spear to kill prey with a single, clean thrust. He had smiled when Haytham, then a young boy, had killed his first fox. His face had been hidden by the headscarf he wore to protect him from the desert heat and blowing sands, but the smile could still be seen in his dark eyes.

"A good, clean kill," he had said, pride in his voice. He held up the fox, showing it to the other men on the hunt. The other hunters agreed that it was a good kill, and looked on him with the pride of men who know that the young boy among them would soon join them in manhood. But none could match the pride in Khalid's voice or his eyes.

Khalid had told his nephew, years later, as they traveled with the army of Ghâlib the Red, that fighting would be just as easy as hunting.

"The fox has a heart. Men have hearts. Stabbing a man is just as easy as stabbing a fox."

"But, uncle," Haytham, still young but no longer a mere boy, had interrupted, "it is not the same. The fox can only run. A man will fight. And a man is not like a rabbit. Men can think. We have hearts, we have feelings. Animals have none of these."

"No," Khalid shook his head, "the fox will fight back. So will the man. And as for thoughts and feelings, the fox has as many as a man does. If you can kill a fox, you can kill a man."

"But the fox is killed for food. The man is killed for what? Because another man wants him dead?"

"No," Khalid said sadly, "that is not the reason he is killed. There is no reason to a man's killing, except that you must kill him or he will kill you. It is just like hunting. You must kill the fox, or you will die of hunger. You must kill the man, or you will die by his blade."

It was nothing like killing a fox. Haytham fought now against a Northman with a long scar on his cheek and shaggy gray hair flowing from beneath his helm. His grizzled face and the scars it bore told of his feats in battle far better than any bard could. The man was older, slower in his movements, but a more experienced swordsman. Haytham had the quickness of youth on his side, but precious little else. The saber still felt awkward and heavy in his hand, and he struggled to parry the blows of his opponent. He knew that it was only a few moments before he would succumb to the Northman's attack.

No, it was not a bit like hunting. Hunting was simple, easy. Once the prey was found, a single, skilled blow could kill it swiftly. A hunt was conducted in almost complete silence. War...on the battlefield, all was noise, chaos, and the foul stench of blood.

Nor was killing so easy. Haytham barely dodged a blow to his shoulder, and retaliated with a thrust at his opponent's side. The older Northman countered, panting, the sweat on his brow mixing with small cuts and the grime of battle.

The Northman swung his blade over his head, then brought it down upon Haytham. The young Southron raised his own sword to block, but the force of the blow brought him to the ground. The Northman raised his sword in both hands, preparing to give the killing blow. Haytham looked up at the Horse-rider, eyes alight with fear. It was not supposed to have been like this…

Haytham was not sure what happened next. As the Northman brought his sword down for the final blow, Haytham, by wild, terrified instinct brought up his own.

The Northman's sword fell from his hand as he gasped with pain, impaled on Haytham's saber. He tried to stand, stumbled, and fell to the dirt, mud mixing with the blood that had begun to pour from between his lips.

Haytham stood shakily, and knelt by the dying Northman. The man's blue eyes sought Haytham's dark ones, their depths filled with fear and disbelief. He reached a hand out to Haytham weakly, pleadingly. Haytham looked away helplessly, avoiding the dying man's eyes.. He had not meant to kill this man. It had been an accident. Hadn't it?

The man let out a strange gurgling noise, as he tried to speak. The harshness of the sound brought Haytham to his senses. He took the dying man's hand, held it in his own. He met the man's eyes, and in them he saw all the fear and sorrow and rage of war that he felt in himself. He held the dying man's hand and his gaze until the life faded from the blue eyes.

Once he was sure the Northman had died, Haytham stood and numbly retrieved his saber from the man's body. He gazed at the blood covering the blade.

Uncle, he thought, What have I done?