Cloven hooves pounded across the sand, in a muffled tattoo, sending up clouds of the fine dust and silt into the air that glittered in the early morning desert sunlight, and shimmered with the haze of the heat.
Behind one rider were another five, all on camels. The five behind had weapons raised as they raced after the rider in front as he closed in on the gates into Salek.
There was no opportunity for violence.
The gates slid down behind all six, and they found themselves surrounded by Gondorians with polearms, just waiting for a reason to strike.
Five scimitars fell to the ground in surrender as the gravity of the situation became suddenly clear to the Haradrim warriors who had been chasing the messenger that had delivered to their Chief a dead serpent.
Merethir, the messenger in question, slid off the back of his camel and tossed away the turban and the cloths hiding his face and shoulders from the sun, which had not long ago hidden his identity from the nobles of Harad. He raised a hand to point to the nearest guard, who seemed surprised to find a Gondorian under all the Haradric garb. "Inform the king of my return. I need to speak with him- and urgently, at that."
The guard he had indicated seemed to hesitate. "What name should I give?" he asked, uncertainty clear in his voice.
"Captain Merethir of the Ithilien Rangers," the messenger said, a cocky grin spreading over his face.
Recognition dawned on the other man and he nodded, turning away immediately as the other guards began to bind the hands of the captured Haradrim.
Merethir turned to examine the men who had been pursuing him just minutes prior.
They were all glaring defiantly out, but he could see the tell-tale signs of nervousness in their eyes and trembling hands, and the thin sheen of sweat over their faces, but then, it was very hot.
He would not mock them for fearing to be captured by such a powerful force. Instead, he smiled. "Don't worry," he said gently. "I suspect the five of you will be making the ride back to Umbar very soon."
They didn't seem to understand him, but the name of their capital caught their attention, and alarm flashed across their faces for just a moment.
Ah, right , he thought, and then. Oh, well.
Lord Aragorn spoke Haradric well enough.
They would understand soon.
Aragorn was standing over a map, studying the terrain around Umbar again, as once more, Faramir reviewed their supplies, morale of the various armies they had brought, and revised his predictions of how long they could afford to be away from Gondor, as well as how long the army would last under the present strain of occupying enemy territory.
Time was not with them, but neither was it with the forces of Harad.
He chewed his lip, trying to memorize every line, and apply it to what he remembered of Umbar from his youth.
A lot could change in forty years.
The terrain would probably be mostly the same, but that wasn't enough to save lives if it came down to one last battle.
He hoped it wouldn't; it would be unwise for Harad to even attempt a skirmish now, with their armies scattered, messages disrupted, trade crippled, and one of their major water sources completely captured.
"My lord," Faramir said, and he realized it was not the first attempt his Steward had made to get his attention.
Aragorn lifted his head.
Faramir gestured to a soldier who held his helmet in hand, a respectful distance away, his hair mussed and messy from his armor.
"Captain Merethir is back, sire, and he is requesting to speak with you," the man said. "He claims it is an urgent matter."
The Steward's eyes sharpened with immediate interest; Merethir was one of his men.
Relief flooded through him and he bounded over to Faramir, taking the younger man by the shoulders. "This is what I have been waiting for," he said, and turned back to the guard. "He was followed, I presume."
"Yes, your majesty," the man responded, slight bewilderment entering his tone.
"Let them go. They do not need to speak with me to know that I have taken this city entirely," Aragorn said. "And bring the captain to me."
"Yes, my lord," the man said, bowing deeply.
"Merethir is here ?" Faramir asked, breaking his stunned silence as the soldier moved away, though he sounded less than pleased. "I suppose he would be."
"The war will be over in a matter of days," Aragorn assured him, turning back to the map he was studying, though he was hardly looking at it. "I can feel it."
"So easily?" The Steward's brows lowered yet further. "It doesn't feel real. It cannot be; I shall awaken in my bed and find it was all a dream- and not the good kind, either."
"Not easily at all. There was the siege for Salek, and several smaller battles between our forces and theirs that took more casualties for the heat than for Harad's might, just in getting here. Our enemy was broken already, worked to the very brink of extinction under Sauron; there are more orphans than adults to care for them, more women than will ever find husbands here," Aragorn said gently. He took a moment to study the stormy expression on the younger man's face, and felt his own forehead crease in return.
The look on that young face seemed to be some mixture of doubt and guilt.
"What thoughts trouble you?" Aragorn asked, barely able to keep himself from calling Faramir 'my son.'
"Only one man needed to have died," he said, almost so softly that the king couldn't hear him.
Aragorn could hear his own father's response to such a statement.
"Foolishness," Elrond would have said. "Do you not know the gravity of your own station?"
Aragorn shook his head to dispel the thought and opted for a gentler tactic. "What do you suppose would have happened had I not repaid their treachery with blood?"
"You would have taken the border, and secured it with crushing force. I would have died in their midst, in torment," Faramir replied, growing a little pale at the thought of it.
That is the expression of someone who has seentorture , Aragorn thought grimly.
"And they would have been justified in their opinion of the West, that Gondorians are merciless, dishonorable bastards who would leave their own to ignoble death, and in seeing that, redoubled their efforts to reclaim lands they believe they have every right to, lands that have been under contest for milenia. The war would have dragged on out of pure spite until the people of Harad could never recover. Gondor would be victorious, but the toll would be incalculable," Aragorn explained. "You are one man, yes, but you represent all of Ithilien, the rangers, the royal bloodlines of all Gondor, and even of Arnor. You are her Steward, Faramir." Your father should have made your worth clear to you at a far younger age. "Your fate cascades like water through the sea, until all shall feel it, though they know not why they tremble in the current."
"Would that all men could be so valued," Faramir said dully. His expression had not changed.
"Were it solely my choice, I would so avenge the lives of every soldier that fell, every child that passed in the night, and every mother whose voice was stilled in this wicked war," Aragorn agreed, feeling his jaw tighten just thinking of the hopelessness that had filled so many, and the look of despair on his mother's own face when she passed. "Your rank -and mine- represents those lives. As best as we are able, we shall make right what was wrong. Live well then, Steward of Gondor, and help me to lead our people into a golden age."
He nodded slowly, but Aragorn suspected not all his meaning had taken root yet, and they would need to speak more on the matter later.
In the meantime, there was work to be done, and Aragorn could see Imrahil approaching with the other generals.
No doubt, they had heard the news that Merethir had returned from his mission to deliver the headless snake.
He clasped hands with the lord of Dol Amroth, and they exchanged pleasant greetings with each other, though they were undercut with tension.
"I won't waste your time, sire," Imrahil said at last, and the king knew they had reached the heart of the issue. "The lords want to know if we will be marching on Umbar," he said slowly, gazing intently at the other man.
Aragorn took a moment to consider before he responded.
Imrahil was not merely asking because he was curious; the generals must have been uneasy.
"It is not my intent to further the war without due cause. We have recovered Lord Faramir, and if they surrender, no further action is required," he assured them, and could see some among them relaxed hearing his words.
Imrahil, however, frowned. "My lord, if I may, waiting for a response gives them the chance to catch us here, and while I believe this position is defensible to some degree, we will be closing ourselves in with their own forces."
Aragorn nodded once.
It was true, engaging in a second siege would be disastrous unless they stooped to the sort of brutality Gondor had come to expect from Harad, but the king was unwilling to make his soldiers into monsters. The generals of Harad may well assume that and avoid a siege altogether, but it was not a gamble they could afford to take.
Unfortunately, though, leaving was also unideal; the desert had already claimed the lives of too many soldiers, who had cooked in their armor, and giving up a ready source of water would only guarantee the deaths of more.
Still, facing the cruelty of the sun and sand would be better than engaging in battle at Salek.
He found himself wishing that Gandalf were present; the old wizard always seemed to know just what to do.
What does your heart tell you ?
"We must leave Salek," Aragorn decided. "In two days time. They shall not find us where they expect."
"Then we march on Umbar after all?" Imrahil asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.
"No," the king said with a shake of his head. "There's an outcropping of stone between Salek and Umbar, wide enough for an army, and often their forces train there, away from the sand. We will meet them there, in whatever manner they decide."
"And if their forces are gathered there already?" Imrahil asked uneasily.
"We'll take them by surprise. We will travel at night to avoid the heat, and light no torches. We must prepare immediately; spread the word, Imrahil," Aragorn clapped the lord of Dol Amroth on the shoulder and took a step away. "Do not tell anyone when we are to depart, merely have them ready at any time." He did not want anyone managing to send a message ahead of their departure to warn Umbar.
Imrahil and the other generals bowed and excused themselves to begin their preparations, and Aragorn found Faramir staring at him, that same, cloudy expression over the Steward's face.
"What about the children?" he asked.
"They may wish to come with us," Aragorn suggested.
"A battlefield is no place for ones so young," Faramir protested.
"They'll only be slaves if they remain," the king said, eyebrows lifting slightly.
A pause settled between them, until at last, the younger man said, rather hesitantly, "they may not…"
"Yes, they might starve instead," Aragorn said dryly.
"I'll offer," Faramir decided heavily. "I won't force them."
"No," Aragorn agreed. "Of course not." He paused again, studying the son of his heart and had made up his mind to question his Steward on what was bothering him so deeply, but a voice called to them from across the sun-lit square, under the brightly colored awnings.
"Aragorn!" Eomer yelled, crossing swiftly to the other king, who sighed heavily and set the matter aside for later.
Eowyn followed closely behind her brother, though her eyes were on Faramir. A thin smile settled itself on her lips as she positioned herself beside the Steward, which was, as far as Aragorn was concerned, right where she belonged.
"Eomer," Aragorn greeted, offering his hand, which the horse-lord clapped warmly with a firm grip.
"Men are packing as if to go home," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Surely you are not giving in?"
"No," Aragorn assured him. "Merely controlling the field. Your Rohirim will have the advantage if you are still with us."
"Until Harad surrenders or falls. Too many of my people they have taken as slaves." Eomer's blue eyes glinted with a dangerous light. "Vengeance has been long coming. The riders will be made ready. When do we leave?"
"I would rather keep that knowledge from the citizens of Salek. As far as your men are concerned, I will leave that to your discretion, but know that Gondor marches in two days' time," Aragorn advised, couching his words in the guise of a suggestion to respect Eomer's authority as king of Rohan; it would do neither of them any good to perceive Aragorn as stepping into the ruling seat of a country not his own.
"They will be ready to ride at any time in the next week," Eomer promised, and the king of Gondor repressed a sigh of relief.
Subtlety was never the strong-suit of the lords of Rohan, it seemed, except perhaps where the heart was concerned.
Aragorn's eyes settled again on Lady Eowyn, who was speaking quietly to Lord Faramir, looking as comfortable and at ease as she might in her own court, as if there were nothing at all odd about being half-dressed in men's attire, hair braided for war, half-way across the world and surrounded only by sand and curses. He supposed that, for her, it was the most natural thing in the world.
He could understand, in a way. His pursuit of Arwen- of the unity of Gondor and Arnor - had led him as well to the blood-stained sands of Harad
"Windfola hates it here," Eowyn was saying, as her brother made his way to issue commands to their riders. "The sand, the heat. I think she misses Rohan more than I do."
"Oh?" Faramir asked, tilting his head slightly, his earlier storminess all but evaporated. "Do you not miss your home?" he asked.
"You're going to think I'm silly," the lady said with a laugh, her gaze dancing away from the Steward's face to the sky, the ground, to meet Aragorn's eyes as he watched them. "But I miss Gondor, I think."
Aragorn bowed, muttered an excuse, and turned away to let them have their time together. That was something else he would have to discuss with Eomer, but now was not the time. For now, there was a ring in his pocket weighing heavy on his heart.
Merethir was waiting nearby.