In the vast deserts of Harad there are many wondrous creatures, and it is said that majority of them are somehow perilous to the careless who do not know the paths of the south. But one of the most dangerous is the black snake that hides itself in sand, and lies there in wait for the prey. So quietly it will lie that even the wise would take it for dead, but then on the last moment it will strike, and its poison can bring down a grown, healthy man. Looking at this magnificent creature, one does not have to wonder why the greatest war-leaders of Harad bear the Black Serpent as their standard.
- Balangon, Of the Beasts and Birds of the South
Chapter 12
Early May 3021, Western Haradwaith
The camp of Gondorian and Rohirric troops spread in the vale under Chieftain Sapat's feet great and formidable. Even after the War of the Ring, there was such strength in the western kingdoms, and this knowledge did not make him feel particularly comfortable. Even more so he felt this, now that those troops had been riding and marching back and forth all over the coastline, chasing pirates and destroying their hideouts. Word of this terrible campaign had reached Sapat's ears as well, even though his tribe lived on the deserts and as such they had no part in piracy... except when they traded for slaves and other goods.
He had organised a war party and travelled to the coast, but not with the intention of engaging the force that now was resting in a sheltering valley before him. Oh, he had not come here to join forces with the pirates, and anyway they were good as defeated already. Sapat had come here for a far more personal quest.
"We can't fight a force like that", pointed out his second in command, a man called Tharm.
"And we are not going to, Tharm. It would be slaughter", Sapat said, rolling his eyes. Of course Tharm would think he had planned such a suicide mission. Apparently it was high time he started to think of a replacement for his right arm man.
"But the King of horselords is there in that camp. How are we ever going to get to him?" Tharm asked.
"Did you actually think I'd try and get to him when he's surrounded by the combined forces of Rohan and Gondor?" asked Sapat and spat on the ground. "No. We will do as the sand snakes do. We will choose our place, and lay in waiting until he comes to us. And then we'll strike."
"It's still going to be dangerous. They say he's a great warrior, which has to be true: many of our people died on the Fields of Pelennor because his charge was so ferocious. He's not going to go down without a fight", said his second in command.
"Are you craven, Tharm?" asked Sapat coldly, which made the other man squirm in embarrassment. Being perceived as a coward was not a reputation a self-respecting man would want to have in Harad.
"Of course not, chieftain", Tharm quickly said.
"You do sound awfully lot like one", said the chieftain, contempt colouring his voice. "No matter what kind of a fighter he is, the King of Rohan is still just a mortal man. And mortal men can be taken down and broken."
"But I once heard a man from Gondor saying: 'leave a horselord with his life and he may yet conquer'. If we are to go against him, we should just kill him", Tharm argued.
"No. I have something else entirely in store for him. Death is too simple, too merciful. No. This northern king will live and know the full extent of despair... perhaps then I will give him the gift of death, when he breaks", said Sapat, and as he spoke those words, hatred so black burned in his eyes that Tharm covered and pulled back, leaving his chieftain alone with his vengeful thoughts.
The campaign had been been a successful one. For a month Éomer and Aragorn's joined forces had stormed the coast, hunting for pirates and their lairs where they'd hide when returning from their plundering voyages. They had purged a dozen such places, and news came from the north that Imrahil's fleet was equally successful in battling the pirates that had sought refuge from the sea. His own son Erchirion was reported to have reached a great victory against a fleet of pirates.
Indeed, there would be much to celebrate for, especially when the Gondorian and Rohirric troops themselves had suffered very little in the battles. With the joined strength of Gondorian infantry and riders of Rohan, it looked like anything could be achieved.
But the King of Rohan was restless, for he was waiting for the day of return. Though days were filled with much haste and it was usually well after the night had fallen that he could finally succumb to rest, his mind was already turning towards future... and the time when he would see his bride again. To ease at least some of his anxiety he had taken a moment to care for Firefoot, as there was something calming about the routine of looking after his stallion.
Lothíriel had not been happy to see them go – she had sternly lectured both Éomer and Amrothos about the importance of staying alive – but only for a moment would she show any vulnerability. That was when she hugged him tight and whispered her love softly in his ear. He had promised he'd return and she had even smiled, and in a few weeks he'd see her again.
That was what Éomer was thinking of when his friend Aragorn approached him, gesturing his guards to stand back so that the two kings could converse in peace. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that Aragorn had the long life of Númenor, for one could not guess the amount of years he had lived... but in his wisdom and in the keen piercing of his eyes, you could see it. Yet Aragorn's crown had been forged in the same fires of war from where Éomer had emerged as the Lord of the Mark. In this, they were brothers, if not in blood.
"You never take a minute of rest, do you, brother?" asked Elessar. He was smiling that gentle half-smile of his, which seemed to come more from his eyes than from his lips.
"Doing things helps me also to think", Éomer answered, briefly grinning at his friend. "And sometimes, forget."
"Of course", Aragorn said, greeting Firefoot with a gentle pat to the stallion's neck. "It's not long now. We'll be back to Minas Tirith soon enough."
"Aye. But you know me, my friend. I won't have peace before we are home", answered the younger man quietly.
"I am grateful, Éomer, for your aid. I understand how difficult it was for you to ride with me at this time, and I promise this debt will be repaid", Aragorn said softly, resting a hand on the Rohir's shoulder. The King of Rohan smiled at that.
"There are no debts between the two of us, brother", he merely said, and his words made his friend smile too.
He patted the neck of his warhorse then and turned towards his friend.
"I'm quite finished here. Would you care to join me for a drink?" Éomer asked.
"Gladly, my friend", Aragorn answered, and when Firefoot was in the care of Éomer's esquire, the two men began to make their way through the camp. A light atmosphere had fallen there, doubtlessly created by the success of the campaign and the impeding prospect of going home. As ever, the two kings were greeted with eager shouts from their men; Rohirric fractions even called them to sit and share their skins of ale. With a smile, Aragorn commented this all reminded him of Fields of Cormallen and the light festive mood that had slowly but surely replaced the curious grief both kings had felt on the day of Sauron's fall. It was not that they had not been glad for the shadow ending, but both of them had seen so many dear friends and family members die for the freedom of Men, and so the mirth of victory was mingled with sadness.
Towards the centre of the camp resided the pavilions of the Kings of Gondor and Rohan. There the royal standards, the White Tree and the White Horse, stood side by side, like the tents not far behind the banners. It was the one belonging to Éomer they ventured into, and the guards by the doorway bowed their heads at the two kings.
As a rider and a Marshal, Éomer had got used to bringing few personal possessions along when he rode to battles. It all had changed when he had become the King of the Riddermark: now he had an actual bed, along with some portable furniture, and rugs of fur and the royal standard behind the seat that served as something of a throne. It almost felt like a small house, with the way there were hangings that parted the sleeping quarters from the front part where he had his audiences or planned war with Aragorn and their lieutenants.
The young king gestured his friend to sit down and moved over to pour them some wine, as that drink was more available in these parts; most of the Haradrim tribes had moved to the east, but some had no qualms about trading with the northern men, and it certainly helped with the maintenance of their forces. After offering his friend a cup, he sat down opposite his fellow king.
"You know, this all strangely reminds me of the last time we were on the battlefield together", said Aragorn when they were both comfortably seated with cups of wine in their hands.
"It does? Well, I suppose it's not entirely untrue. If you've seen one battle, you've seen most of them", Éomer commented, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs before him. "But much has changed since the War of the Ring and the stuggle is not quite so desperate."
"Yes. Much has indeed changed", Aragorn said softly. "For one, we have both moved on with our lives. Do you remember how we used to be?"
That made the younger king grin.
"Oh, I do. Most of the time you looked like you had just stumbled out of some forest. One had hard time believing somewhere under that surface was a king, and I..." he said, but then fell silent and frowned.
"You were so angry all the time", Aragorn finished the sentence for him. "I'm glad to see that has changed."
"Well, you're not wrong. Anger was what kept me going even when it seemed there was no hope. I was even angry at my cousin and Uncle for leaving me with the crown. But I've found different motivation since then, which is good, because I don't really have any anger left to fuel myself", Éomer said, smiling half to himself. "Indeed, you are right. We have changed a lot."
Aragorn laughed and took a mouthful of his wine.
"I must say, I didn't see that one coming. I seem to remember that originally you were angry and bewildered with the reason of your lighter mood of late", he pointed out.
"Of course I was angry then. I didn't know better", answered the King of Rohan, "but I learned quickly, if I may say so."
"You did, my friend", Aragorn agreed. "How do your people receive it? Are they disappointed that you chose a Gondorian to be your wife and queen?"
"There were some conversations about it in the beginning, aye. Some of them thought she would be like Morwen Steelsheen, who never quite adjusted to living in the Mark... but I made it very clear I'm not going to change my mind", Éomer answered, once more slightly bewildered to understand just how much Lothíriel had come to mean to him, how much he looked forward to the day they would begin their lives together. His face turned again into a smile, "And you saw how it was when she came with her family to attend my uncle's funeral. Then she visited with her brother and made that proposal scene... ever since I haven't heard anyone even muttering about her being unsuitable or having anything in common with my grandmother."
His friend chuckled at the memories and the implication that Lothíriel might bear any resemblance to the old queen. The princess had been quite at home in Edoras, perhaps even in ways she had never been back in her own home. And her boldness had certainly made an impression on the Rohirrim.
"My advisers did agree that a marriage to a Gondorian princess would be a politically smart move. But that, to be honest, is only a minor issue... brother, sometimes I think I've never made a better decision than I did when I rode with uncle to Minas Tirith", said the young king.
"Aye. All this, the life and the peace we and our peoples now have, did not seem quite possible then", Aragorn commented softly. "Though I must admit I sometimes miss the old days. Things were simpler, and most of the time all I had to worry about were mundane things like where I'd sleep the following night, or where my travels would take me next."
He sipped his wine again and smiled, "Don't get me wrong, however. In the end I wouldn't really want to go back to those days, for they were lonely and dark when I compare them to the present."
The King of Gondor fell silent and Éomer knew he was thinking of his wife. He too briefly thought of Arwen Undómiel, and of the wonder he too had felt when he had beheld Elrond's daughter for the first time. Though she certainly was the fairest thing he had ever seen, there was also something intimidating about her beauty. But on the other hand, he had also witnessed how much Aragorn loved her and vice versa, and in Éomer's mind nothing else mattered.
"I do understand that feeling. My life as a Marshal was far simpler as well", he said at length. "But though it's not always easy to be a king, it has also brought some things into my life I might not have known otherwise."
Aragorn nodded quietly in agreement.
"And it is far easier to do this knowing that one has an ally as faithful as you. It was a blessed day that we met on the plains, brother", he said, smiling as he spoke.
"I rather agree", answered the younger king.
Some time after, Elessar bid him good night and went about his way. The King of Rohan himself exchanged few words with his Marshals, and then decided it was time for some rest before yet another busy day.
When he lay himself down in bed, he thought of all the prosperity that had graced his kingdom during past two years, his friends old and new, and that day hopefully not so far in the future now when he'd have his Queen in Meduseld. He thought of Lothíriel and the knowledge that soon he'd see her again... and fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Life was good.
"Sapat, old snake! Good to see you again", called Krual's familiar gruff voice as he entered the tent. Sapat was in the middle of honing his scimitar, but he put the weapon aside and got up to greet his blood-brother.
"I was already starting to think maybe you wouldn't come after all", he answered as he took a firm hold of his friend's calloused hand. Krual's dark eyes gave a stark contrast to his almost white hair that billowed wildly about his face. The winds of the desert had carved lines across his face, but in his straight posture age did not show in the slightest, and the grip of his hand was steady and tight.
"Have I ever disappointed you, friend? You called me, so of course I came. A chance to kill some horselords is always appreciated", he answered lightly.
Sapat poured them some sweet white wine from southern Gondor – a drink he had always been fond of, though it usually took a trip to the havens along the coast to get it. Even then it was often difficult to acquire, as the northmen remained somewhat reluctant of trading with the peoples living south of their stone cities.
He gestured his friend to sit down on the cushions on the floor, sprinkled here and there for the comfort of the occupant of this tent.
As soon as they both had their drinks and were seated comfortably, Krual gave him a quizzical look.
"Now, I'd like to hear more of this plan of yours. Though I'm happy as ever to get to fight horselords, I would also want to get out alive as well", he said.
"No worries, friend. I have everything figured out, and I very much intend to live to enjoy my achievements", answered Sapat. He allowed himself a dark little smile as he thought of the plan. The mere idea of the King of the horsemasters at his mercy made his heartbeat quicken with excitement.
"What would those achievements be then?" Krual asked.
"I mean to ambush and capture the King of Rohan", announced Sapat, which almost made his friend choke on his drink. It took a moment for the other man to clear his throat, and when he did speak again his face was doubtful.
"I would call you mad, old friend", he said slowly, "but perhaps I'll first give you a chance of proving me wrong."
"Oh, I know how it sounds", said Sapat nonchalantly and sipped his wine. He'd have to purchase more, for that glorious moment when his end was finally reached. "I have no intention to go after that man now that he's surrounded by the forces of Gondor and Rohan. But the day after tomorrow, he won't be."
"How do you intend to achieve that?" asked Krual doubtfully. As an answer, Sapat smiled and called a guard; the man standing watch at the doorway peeked in.
"What is it, chieftain?" asked the guard.
"Send in Palkas", Sapat ordered.
Moments later, the man in question stepped in.
In a uniform stripped from a fallen Gondorian soldier, Palkas looked enough of a man of that land to actually pass as a messenger from north. His mother had been from Gondor, captured in a pirate raid and taken to wife by a man of Sapat's own tribe, who had bought her at the slave markets. From her Palkas had also learned the way Gondorians talked and behaved, and there was no accent in his speech that usually betrayed those who did not speak Common Tongue as their native language. And yet, though Palkas wore the face of a man from the north, in his character and spirit he was fully a son of the deserts.
Krual studied Palkas from head to toe and cast an inquiring look at his friend.
"This fellow here is called Palkas. He's one of my own men, but as you can see he can pass as a Gondorian man. Tomorrow, he'll ride to the camp of the western lords, and he'll deliver the King of Gondor an important message. That message should be enough to send the King of Rohan racing back north", Sapat explained. At his gesture, Palkas saluted and then exited the tent. The chief took another mouthful of his wine, and then continued, "In fact, I imagine he should be so anxious that he will take the quickest road north."
"Oh. I think I'm starting to see where this is leading", said Krual and narrowed his eyes in interest. "You mean he'll take the way through the hills."
"Yes. You know how the land is there. He'll be in hurry, so he will travel lightly and with fewer men than usually... and if he's riding with a small enough company, it'll be easy to ambush them and take them down. After all, they have all but finished off the pirates, and most of the tribes have retreated to the east – for all they know, these parts are empty of their enemies. In the rocky valleys there are plenty of places for one to set a trap for horsemen", Sapat said. The plan was beautiful in its simplicity, and he could almost taste the victory already. But he rejected it still. For all his cowardice, Tharm was not entirely wrong to advice caution.
"I understand this is where myself and my men come in", Krual assumed.
"That is right. My own tribe isn't quite enough to successfully fight him, but if you would lend your help..." said the other man.
"... we'll have a force strong enough even to bring down the King of Rohan", his friend finished the sentence. He scratched thoughtfully at his beard. "I see one problem in this, though. Do you expect the King of Gondor and the horsemaster's own men to just let this deed go unpunished? Won't they try to find him?"
"I have thought of that as well. That is why we will make it look like a band of surviving pirates did it to get vengeance for this war campaign. They can run around after that folk all they want, if there's any left on the coast", answered Sapat lightly. "As for the King of Rohan himself... they won't come looking for him, for they will think him dead."
"But you don't mean to kill him?"
"Oh, I do. Eventually I will kill him. But that is for much, much later", said the black-eyed man and let just a hint of a smile enter his face.
"I rather like this plan of yours, old friend. You can count on my help, for I too would like some payback for the grievances of the Great War... we would have won, if not for the horselords", Krual said and a look of hatred flashed in his eyes. Like Sapat himself, his friend too had lost much in that damned war.
"Yes, we would. And Tanfuksham, my blood-brother and the one who men called the Black Serpent, would still be alive", Sapat growled, his anger throbbing like a sore wound when he thought of the face of Tanfuksham as the man had died in his blood-brother's arms. "Alas, the man who slew him is dead... but his heir committed crimes of his own, the blood of my kin has flown grievously because of him, and there is a vengeance you can give even to a man who has died. That is, by ending his kin and House... and the new King of Rohan is the last of his line."
"I thought the horselord had a sister. The one who killed the Witch King", Krual pointed out, but Sapat snorted in contempt.
"She's just a woman. Not worth our while, and anyway she lives among the Gondorians now. She's not going to restore her fallen House when her brother is gone", he said nonchalantly.
"And with him, House of Eorl will be finished and wiped away from this world", concluded Krual.
"Correct. You know what they say of the Black Serpent, after all", said Chief Sapat. His friend nodded in understanding.
"Cut off his head, and he will grow a new one to bite you back", he replied.
"Yes. And he is now quite ready to sink his teeth in this horselord."
The Lords of the West were in the middle of planning the march back to north when a guard at the doorway of the tent stepped in. Aragorn lifted his eyes from the map he had been studying and looked at the guard who saluted.
"What is it, Feredir?" he asked.
"My lord, there is a messenger from Gondor. He asks to see you – as I understand, the matter is very urgent", said the guard.
"Send him in", Elessar ordered. The guard bowed his head and went outside, and in came a man dressed in the garb of Gondorian soldier, dusty and way-worn from what could only be a hasty journey. Curly-haired and dark-eyed, he was probably from the southern parts of the kingdom. These days there was a lot of traffic in the realm however, and since the War many a young man had been recruited all over the kingdom to replace those who had fallen in the great battles.
"My lord, I bring a word from Steward Faramir. It concerns the King of Rohan as well", said the messenger and offered a scroll to Aragorn. At the mention of his name the tall Rohir stood up straighter as he wondered what this was about. If Faramir, left in charge while the King was waging war, was contacting them now and the matter somehow concerned him... either it had something to do with Éowyn or some ill news had come from the Mark. Whichever it was, he felt uneasy and anxiously awaited his friend read the message.
Aragorn quickly scanned through the scroll and it was as Éomer feared, for a frown had come to his friend's face.
"What is it? Has something happened?" he demanded impatiently.
"Faramir writes that Éowyn is gravely ill", said Aragorn quietly, his voice heavy with concern, "and she asks for her brother."
A sense of dread and disquietude instantly fell on the young king, and his first instinct was to jump on Firefoot right away and race north. What cruel twist of fate had wrought this? That she should sicken so dangerously, when she had only just found her happiness? She was the last that was left of his family, the only one remaining of their line... he could not lose her too!
"Does he write what is wrong with her?" Éomer asked quickly, uncomfortably aware of how weak his voice had become.
"No. It seems he wrote this in great haste, and his hand is barely readable..." Aragorn muttered, scanning the message again. He glanced at the messenger, "Did you see Lady Éowyn? Or did the Steward give you any other orders?"
"He didn't, my lord. He only bid me to make haste. Lord Steward was out of his mind with worry for his lady wife", said the man solemnly. His words sent yet another surge of dread through the King of Rohan.
"I must go and see her. If she's asking me..." he said, trying to gather himself again; it was odd, to have lost his calm like this. In battles he always knew what to do, and his instinct would lead him even in more desperate situations. However, the idea of losing Éowyn was like a blow to disarm his very focus. He could barely think of all that he'd have to prepare before riding for north.
"Of course. She wouldn't have asked you to come all the way from here unless it was very important", Elessar agreed. Then he gently placed a hand on Éomer's shoulder. "Don't worry. The healers in Minas Tirith are very good. They will take care of her."
"But what if-" began the Rohir, but his friend cut his words short.
"Don't you think like that. She's in good hands. Éowyn is strong – stronger even than you can imagine. She didn't survive her ordeals in the Battle of Pelennor Fields for nothing", Aragorn said gently.
"I know. She's made of steel", Éomer said weakly and tried to smile. "What of you? Will you manage here by yourself, if I go? You'll be content if I leave Elfhelm in command?"
"Of course. Your lieutenant and captains are all good and capable men, and I will not hold you back when your sister needs you", Aragorn said and offered the younger king a comforting smile. "Go to her, Éomer. We will take care of all here."
Despite his hurry and anxiety to get to Éowyn as quickly as he could, it still took some arrangements for the young king to be able to leave. After all, the Lord of the Mark couldn't just jump in the saddle and race away when he felt like it, even if he knew that Elfhelm would be able to take care of things in his absence. The Marshal, ever loyal and constant, reassured him that all would run smoothly.
As he meant to make haste, Éomer only took along his guard. All of them were capable men, seasoned in many battles and valiant to the bone. Riding through the lands should not be too dangerous anyway, what with the pirates and their hideouts mostly destroyed. And the tribes of Haradrim – those that had not moved away to the east – had for the most part been benevolent, assisting as guides and messengers and providing the camp with merchants small and large, who would sell goods of varying kind or offer smith's services, or perhaps some female company for those with coin and taste for that kind of thing. Of course not all tribes were too friendly, and it was known that many supporters of Sauron still remained among them, but as far as the spies and scouts could tell the more hostile tribes had made their way east as soon as the joined forces of Gondor and Rohan had entered the land. Moreover, the Great War had left their fighting forces with heavy losses that had not yet healed, least of all to the point of uniting. It was known the tribes of Haradrim joined forces only very rarely. The fear of Sauron might have been strong enough to achieve it, but for the most parts the tribes were content in their own ways and freedom, and they bowed to no great lords.
The King's Company would ride fast, and so they'd pass through the more perilous parts before a word of it would even be delivered to any ears of enemies, and once they'd enter the realm of Gondor it would be easy way up to Minas Tirith, where Faramir and Éowyn were staying. A guide from a friendly Haradrim tribe would come along to show a short cut through the hills, by which way they'd save an entire day that would have otherwise gone to a safer path that travelled through the inland.
Éomer and his riders were set to leave on first light when most of the camp was still in slumber or just about to wake up. Aragorn and Amrothos – who had joined the campaign as a representative of his father – were there to see him off, though the prince looked like he was only half awake.
"There are still some things I'd like to speak of with you, but I suppose those will have to wait for when we return to Minas Tirith", said Aragorn; horses were being readied, the royal standard lifted from where it had stood by the tent. It was almost time for departure.
"Aye. I'll wait for your arrival there. Hopefully by that time my sister will be better as well", Éomer answered. He secured his vambraces for one last time and his hand briefly rested on the hilt of Guthwínë; in the feel and the weight of his sword, there was always something reassuring.
"If things turn ill, do not hesitate to send a word. I'll come as quickly as my horse will carry me", his friend told him quietly. The young king didn't dare to think of that and certainly he wouldn't trust his voice, so he nodded in silence.
"And try not to wed that sister of mine while you're there. You owe us all a proper Rohirric wedding", Amrothos said, ever the jester. But it was a trait one could appreciate, for his japes were always meant to lighten the mood.
"You should be careful what you wish for, Amrothos", Éomer said and even smiled a little.
"Bring my regards to Faramir and Éowyn, and to my wife", Aragorn said. Then he took the younger king's hand and touched his shoulder. "Safe travel, brother."
"Thank you. Try not to run everything into chaos here while I'm gone, will you?" answered the Lord of the Mark, at which his friend chortled. The men exchanged their goodbyes, and then the King's Company mounted their horses, and started for the way.
The camp was quickly left behind. Their guide rode up in front, and behind him the standard bearer, and then the rest of the Company. As the King was more or less in hurry, they kept up good pace, and would ride all the way until evening. The sooner they made it out of these lands, the better... and Éomer thought of his sister in concern, wondering what illness had come to her. He dared not to think of the worst that could happen, for the idea of a world without Éowyn was terrifying as ever. There were still times when he woke up in the middle of the night, haunted by the horrors he had seen on the Pelennor Fields. And that moment when he had spotted his sister on the ground and thought her fallen... all hope had died in his heart and made way to a terrible deathwish. He had never told her that sometimes he still relived it in nightmares.
But Éowyn had survived thanks to Aragorn. Surely his friend couldn't have saved her just so that some malady could claim her life?
They eventually entered a rocky valley which would take them a straighter road towards Gondor. The way downhill was uneven and quite treacherous, and so the riders had dismounted to carefully lead down their horses to the bottom of the valley where the ground was less hazardous. None of them wanted their steeds breaking a limb in this terrain.
"You're thinking about your lady sister, aren't you?" commented Éothain, the faithful old warhorse. The poor man's face was a patchwork of sun-burnt skin, which had earned him the nickname of "the Lizard" among the men. Éothain had received the nickname with good humour, even going as far as grinning and telling his king that it was only fitting. "You're the Lion and I'm the Lizard. Someone should make a song about that", he had said, much to the amusement of them both.
"Aye. I wonder what is wrong with her", Éomer answered, frowning as he spoke. He guessed Faramir hadn't elaborated on the matter because the healers didn't know what was wrong with her, and also because he had been too distressed to really think through his message. His brother-in-law was a subtle man who did not wear his affections as obviously as some, but Éomer knew he loved Éowyn very dearly, and harm coming to her would wound Faramir as deeply as it hurt her brother.
"Don't worry about it, old friend. Maybe Faramir just overreacted or something. You know how he can be when it comes to your sister. You remember what we used to say, back before the Great War?" asked the captain; one could always trust on him to pay careful heed to his king's moods and have just the thing to say. Even now, his words made his friend smile.
"I do. It was agreed that even if all else perished, Éowyn would somehow endure", he said. Sometimes he felt that was even more true after she had found Faramir.
"To this day I think those words were truthfully uttered", Éothain commented and gave his king a comforting smile.
They fell silent then, for the ground became more perilous and they had to pay careful heed as not to have their horses injured.
But at last they were on the bottom of the valley and the Company mounted their horses again. As they rode forward, Éomer considered the lands about them. It couldn't have been more different to the windy, green plains of his kingdom, and with longing he thought of the Riddermark. Here the days were long and hot even though May had only just arrived, and the nights colder than one would have expected of a land so far in south. The vegetation was sparse and stunted; apparently it only got worse inland until deserts gave way for jungles - great tropical forests teeming with strange creatures and plants. And the dust! Dust and sand were everywhere, and Éomer was fairly sure Firefoot carried at least half the deserts of Harad in his coat, and the other half was located in all kinds of uncomfortable places inside his own armour.
By the banks the river Harnen there was at least some greenery, but that stream wasn't strong enough to give life to the rest of these rocky hills and valleys where, it appeared, only snakes and scorpions lived, along with nasty-looking birds one of their guides had called vultures.
All in all, Éomer had quickly decided he didn't like this land, and the sooner he got back to his own realm, the better.
The day began to grow older, and eventually Éothain lead his stallion beside the King.
"How much longer do you plan for us to go forward?" he asked.
"I do not really like the look of these hills. I'd like us to get out of this valley before nightfall", he answered to his second in command.
"You suspect there might be an ambush?" asked the captain.
"Not really, what with the way we have been cleansing these lands of pirates. But if such a foul band should roam these parts, this valley would be a fine place to assault our company", Éomer said, but he did briefly rest his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Aye. And there's little shelter for a camp, too. It's probably for the better if we keep on going", Éothain agreed.
"I would rather like know how much longer this valley road will go", Éomer said, peering ahead and blinking dust from his eyes.
"I'll go and ask our guide", said his captain, urging his horse, and Éothain made his way towards front, until he was by the side of Gujat, the man of Harad leading the way. Idly the young king wondered if two men could have been any more different: one tall with red-gold hair, and the other slim, dressed in reds and browns, and of a darker complexion than Rohirrim or even Gondorians.
Captain Éothain was evidently in the middle of talking with the guide when the attack did come. A great cry rose from the hills, and men clothed in sand-coloured cloaks swarmed down the hillsides. Up at the front, a landslide of rocks cut their road and effectively prevented all attempts of escape... and then, as Éomer was shouting commands for his men to regroup and form their defences, the bowmen took their positions. Arrows rained, and all about him were cries of men and horses, and by an arrow Éothain fell from saddle; Éomer shouted the name of the captain, but his dear friend did not move or answer.
But then enemies flooded the valley, casting aside their cloaks to reveal clothing of pirates, and all about the King of Rohan was death as his loyal men fought to defend his life, and like on that day on the Pelennor Fields he felt that coldness inside himself... the freezing surety that this was the end. But this time Aragorn would not come to his aid; here was his fate.
For though they fought as valiantly as ever, they could not hold back the overpowering strength of this foe; and each man falling was like a stab of sword into his heart, for all these men he had known years and years and fought with them in countless battles...
And Firefoot's legs gave in under him, and his faithful stallion fell fatally wounded – loss of him was a grief just like every other man that lost his life that day. A red haze fell on Éomer's eyes and Guthwínë sang in his hand, a deadly song of death and destruction, and he couldn't think of anything, nothing but blood blood blood death I will not see her again...
His despair and fury gave him the strength of three men and all around him enemies he hewed down, but in the end it was not enough... at last his last Rider was fought to the ground and his life ended, and Éomer King of Rohan was the last man standing, and all around him lay the bodies of his friends and his guards as well the bodies of enemies they had slain in this final battle.
Then at long last the sight of the faces of the dead, those brave men who had given their lives to defend him, he could feel his strength failing him, but still he would not give in – he wouldn't have any less than a warrior's death. But that was not what they would give him, for from behind hands grabbed him, and in the end it took four men to force him down on his knees and rip away Gúthwinë from his hand. His helmet was torn away and he gritted his teeth, waiting for the stroke of sword to behead him... but it never came. Why hadn't they killed him yet? What were they waiting for?
A dark-faced man stepped forward, and though there was a gash on his cheek his expression was of great joy and satisfaction, as if he didn't even notice any of the ruin and death around him. He stopped on the front of the King and regarded him with unveiled pleasure.
"Well, what are you standing about, sea snake? Finish the job already!" growled Éomer and struggled against the hold of his captors, though it was in vain.
"Bold to the end, I see", said the man in his thick Westron. "Snake I certainly am, but I prefer the deserts to the salt waters. And the job is everything but finished, my good king. No, we're long way still from the end."
"Then what do you want?" asked the King of Rohan, though he could very well see this was not a man one could bargain with, even if the anger clouding his mind would have allowed that.
"Vengeance, pure and simple. Many a kinsman of mine, the Black Serpent not being the least of them, are dead today because of you and your uncle. I am simply getting my long overdue payback", was the answer. The dark-faced man stood a bit straighter, and he smiled – a cold, cruel smile. "I am Chieftain Sapat and you are henceforth my prisoner. Your life belongs to me now, and is mine to do with as I see fit."
He stepped forward then and grabbed the King's head by his hair, forcing him to look up.
"You would do well to start fearing that name now", he hissed, "for I am the one who will kill you."
After the departure of Éomer and his men, Aragorn was much preoccupied by the running things in the camp, and also planning the nearing event of return home. He was just as anxious to get going as anyone else; with their ends reached and the pirates greatly diminished in number, there was little reason in staying longer.
Elessar was rather preoccupied with all work, though Marshal Elfhelm was a most efficient substitute for his energetic king. He was a few years older than the Lord of the Rohirrim, seasoned in many battles, and highly esteemed by his liege-lord. Seeing Éomer's concern for his sister, Elfhelm had reassured the man that all would be taken care of in the camp and the King himself could hurry off to see to his sister.
Indeed, if Éowyn was so gravely ill that Faramir would send word to ask for the King of Rohan's presence, then Aragorn and Elfhelm could both agree that nothing should hold back their friend here.
But then, with Éomer gone, it strangely felt like the camp was quieter... there was something loud about the man's presence, even if he were silent. He was just one of those people who, though by no intention of their own, demanded one's attention.
The day was busy nonetheless and Aragorn lost the count of time, and night came and then new morning.
At morrow, the voices of guards calling him brought him back from the land of dreams.
"My lord! My lord!" their voices rose, and reluctantly Aragorn left behind that pleasant place; he had been dreaming of his wife, and the return to reality where she was far away was harsh.
"What is it?" asked the King of Gondor, blinking sleep from his eyes as he struggled to wake up fully. The guard was behind the thin veil that parted the sleeping quarters from the rest of the tent.
"Sire, there is a messenger outside. A pirate, it looks like, though he is unarmed. He keeps on insisting he has an important message for King Elessar. Should he be driven away?" asked the guard.
Aragorn considered the possibility of doing just that, though he knew it wasn't probably the smartest move. The message could be something important, and he had to admit his interest was piqued. So he got up and pulled on a robe.
"I'll receive his message", he said at last.
When he was seated on that chair which served as something of a throne and two guards were on his each side, the messenger was escorted in. He had to be of Harad, judging by his look, but he was dressed in that colourful and motley garb pirates were so fond of. In his hands, he carried a wooden box. Aragorn narrowed his eyes.
"I am told you insist you have some important message for me", he said. "I would like to hear it."
The messenger smiled. In his eyes, there was a cold glint that worried the King of Gondor very much. Foreboding slid down his spine like a cold stream of water, and he knew whatever the message was, he was not going to like it.
"Our ancient order sends their regards and this gift", said the man, and placed the wooden box on the table nearby. Elessar regarded it with suspicious eyes.
"Open it, if you please", said the King. Who knew what there was in the box? For all he knew, it could contain a snake that would bite whoever was unfortunate enough to open the lid, or perhaps some other devilry. He knew all too well the traps Haradrim were so fond of setting.
He half expected the man to argue and decline, but the messenger's smile just widened as he removed the lid of the box. He laid it aside and let his hand hover over it, as if to prove no venomous creature would jump out.
So Elessar gestured at the guards who had escorted the man in, and they pulled him back; there could very well be weapons hidden inside his clothing, and Aragorn decided he'd rather not have the man sticking a blade to him while his back was turned.
Quietly, as an ill feeling and an ominous sensation filled him, he stood up and approached the box. Even before he lay eyes on its content he knew it was going to be something very bad, and a part of him wanted to never see it.
When Aragorn looked inside the box, his blood turned to ice.
There, on the front of his eyes, were two objects: a helmet with white horsetail and the royal standard of the Mark, and the White Horse of Rohan was spotted with blood.
A/N: *breathes heavily*
So we go down with a bang. We have now reached a part of this story that, I think, requires the use of M rating. It's actually the first time I've ever even tried writing anything like this, so I hope you'll be gentle with me, my dear readers. I don't think I'm a very good action writer, but then again you can never learn if you don't try, can you? Still, I hope at least this is a believable turn of events in your eyes. It is for me, but the writer isn't always the best judge of that. Hopefully I have been able to create this setting as something you can buy, my dear readers!
Canonically Théoden did indeed slay the great commander of Haradrim in the Battle of Pelennor fields. He is only referred to as the Black Serpent (also the name of a standard that only great leaders could bear), and I have taken the liberty of naming him here as Tanfuksham. Sapat (and his friendship with the Black Serpent) is my own invention. For now let it be said Sapat carries great personal bitterness and wish for vengeance, and has decided to take it out on Éomer.
Proper reactions to this development will have to wait for the next chapter. As the holidays are now approaching I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update, but I'll try to post one chapter per week at least.
Hope you liked the chapter, and thanks for reading and reviewing!
Inspiration for the chapter: Scorpions - The Good Die Young
Talia119 - Glad to hear you liked it! :) And you're very right - it was very much needed there, especially considering what happens in this chapter.
Oh, I totally understand that! RL is currently being very distracting for me as well.
Wondereye - I don't suppose this situation will allow weddings now...