Hello, dear readers, and welcome to my new story! This is a sequel (of sorts) to Hiraeth, and a much longer piece, too, due to the slow nature required by the type of romance this is, as well as character development. I'm talking 60 chapters long, or even longer. It's taken me considerable time, research and personal investment to write. At this point, some 55 chapters are finished, and are being beta-read by my wonderful beta, Alfirineth, whom I'd like to thank first and foremost for her dedication and hard work on this 'monster' of mine (this story setting the length record, where I'm concerned). Your input is, as always, invaluable!
I'd also like to thank Nurayy for her continued support, and her feedback on the first drafts of 'The Nettle and the Desert Rose'. You've proven a wonderful follower, one any author would love to count amongst his/her readers!
Disclaimers:
- As usual, nothing you recognize from the Professor's works belongs to me.
- The beliefs described in this story, though constructed from real-life elements, are purely fictional, and no parallel with existing religions or cults should be sought. Also, the characters' views are just that: fiction, and do not reflect my own.
- This story is set shortly after the War of the Ring. Therefore, as you can imagine, some adult-themed situations are bound to arise, though they won't described in detail, as well as mentions of violence (again, this isn't meant to be angst, so nothing too graphical).
Now, without further ado, I hope those who read this story get to enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you do, don't hesitate to let this author know by reviewing. We writers are vain creatures in that sense: we love getting feedback, be it appreciative or constructive. Writing in itself is a wonderful, rewarding process, but it can also be grueling and emotionally taxing (especially the editing part)... So there comes a point where a little appreciation is very welcome...if it is sincere.
Thank you!
Chapter 1
March 16th, TA 3019
The man was not a warrior, Legolas mused, as he watched the wretch being dragged towards him, his flailing feet raising clouds of dust over the sun-beaten plain. From the heavy jewels that adorned his ears and neck to the trembling gut swathed in what once must have been fine silk and muslin, and which were now tattered, stained with sweat and dusty all over, everything about him represented a stark contrast to their surroundings, where pieces of mail, arrows and lances still littered the earth. What had sold the man, however, were the slippers. The incongruous, pointy-toed, yellow things had deserted his feet the very moment Arthad had pulled him from the prisoners' enclave, as if deciding to seek a better fortune than the one that awaited their master.
No warrior with a shred of sanity would have chosen such an impractical, ridiculous piece of footwear.
"What is it?" Legolas asked the young ranger who had dumped the man at his feet, his instinctive annoyance receding before the pleading look the Dúnadan gave him.
"Lord Legolas, this one insisted to see someone in charge."
Legolas arched an eyebrow. "Are you not in charge of the prisoners?"
Arthad squirmed, but be it embarrassment or discomfort from the heat, Legolas could not tell. He could not have been older than twenty; a man grown by human standards, but to Legolas, he was but a child. One old before his time from everything he had seen, if the sadness that lurked in his eyes was to be believed.
Legolas took him in pity. "What does he want, then?" he asked, both addressing the ranger and the man who had picked himself up and was dusting off his paunch with trembling fingers. Fingers which, Legolas noted, slubbed between the many gold rings that glimmered with his every move. This man had led a well-fed, prosperous life, and to try to part him from his possessions as a means of retribution for his part in the war would require to cut off a phalanx or two. Not an act Legolas would allow on his watch, but he would not put it past the younger population on the victorious side, who were both eager to take their revenge on the enemy and make their fortune in the war.
He made a mental note to mention this to either Aragorn or to one of Elrond's sons, who acted as the new king's seconds-in-command for all things involving the throne of Gondor. Legolas only came fourth in the unspoken yet widely accepted chain of command, and would gladly have passed the present matter onto Elladan or Elrohir, had they not both been away, hunting what remained of the Dark Host, together with a party of Rohirrim led by Elfhelm. His own mission of the day had been to supervise the treatment of the newly arrived prisoners, which had led him onto the pale, scarred plain where the shadows of the carrion crows danced over half-buried shields.
An unpleasant mission, which seemed to be growing worse, judging by the look of utter indignation the swarthy man shot Legolas from knee-level.
"I don't know, my Lord," Arthad confessed. He wiped off the sweat on his brow with the back of his hand – sweat built up by dragging the prisoner under the pounding sun – and tossed the folds of his silver-grey cloak aside to allow some air underneath. "I don't understand Southron speech."
Then how did you know he wanted to talk?
Legolas received his answer in the form of a lengthy, and undoubtedly angry, tirade the man then launched into, gesticulating towards the sky and slamming his meaty fists upon his chest a good three times as if calling what deities he worshipped as witnesses to his torment.
"I see," Legolas stated through clenched teeth as the man's imprecations rose above the plain, attracting attention from those nearby – much of which of the hostile kind. He wished no accident to happen to the man, enemy or no, for he seemed hapless, if irritating. "Then try to find someone who does."
Arthad's face lit up. "I think I know just the man, my Lord. We've freed some of their slaves and established them as guards. One of them speaks a little Westron." As Legolas frowned at the questionable wisdom of such a decision, he hastily added, "We never leave them alone with the prisoners, my Lord, for fear they exact revenge on those unable to defend themselves." He seemed to pull himself upright as he spoke, gaining confidence. "Their hands prove very useful to guard such a number."
With that he turned on his heels to march towards the palisade that delineated the prisoners' quarters.
Too numerous to be locked up in the dungeons of the Citadel, too despised to be lodged inside the city, the Haradrim had been penned up on the plain itself, in plain sight of Minas Tirith; too far to be reached unseen by those seeking vengeance, yet close enough to remain accessible to the men and women from the Houses of Healing. It had fallen upon those very healers to bring them food and water as well, as only they could be trusted, in the first days of the aftermath, not to murder the prisoners nor slip poison into their meals.
The enclosure had been erected high and sharp, the stakes driven deep into the ground, planted close one to another so that not even a hand could be slipped between the bars. Oiled linen stretched across the enclave served as a roof, protecting those inside from both the sun and the rain, though not a droplet had fallen ever since the battle.
Legolas raised his face towards the cerulean sky, where crows were free to roam without encountering a single cloud. The year was young, and yet already the sun rays cooked the plain, along with the decaying flesh still piled in the deep ravines left by the siege towers, and the remains of the towers themselves. The stench that rose from orc and oliphaunt carcasses alike attracted swarms of flies, and the corpses seemed to shimmer under a veil of translucent wings.
No orc had been taken prisoner after the battle. Legolas himself had taken no part in the slaughter, but neither did he linger on what he would have done, had he been faced with the choice. Not even a century had passed since Naima's disappearance and, instead of dulling over time, his hatred for the vilest of Morgoth's servants had only grown with every new year without her.
"This is Qasim, my Lord."
The ebony-skinned man who stood beside the ranger faltered at the sight of Legolas, mouth agape as he craned his neck to face him. Perhaps had he never seen an elf before, or perhaps had he been fed too many lies regarding their nature. Whatever it was, as soon as their eyes met he dropped his chin and would have fallen to his knees, had Arthad not caught him by the elbow. The chubby man scoffed into his beard; Legolas ignored him.
"There is no need for that." He looked at the Dúnadan askance, a nagging suspicion at the back of his mind. "Have you, perchance, already told him who I am?"
The young ranger proudly nodded. "I have, my Lord. I told him you were the Prince of the Woodland Realm, and that he must behave accordingly."
And the mention of his title, Qasim's knees buckled and he slumped in Arthad's grasp with a whimper, his gaze firmly trained upon his feet. His shaved head glistened in the midday sun.
Legolas sighed. "My name is Legolas," he said, and reached out to lay a hand on the poor man's shoulder, who froze under his touch, expecting a strike that never came. "You need not fear me, nor anyone here. In fact, I need your help."
"I…I know who you," the man whispered in broken Westron, still half-bent in what must have been an agonizing position to maintain. "You Prince Legolas, Slayer Oliphaunts." Arthad stifled a snicker while Qasim's voice petered out, as if the rest was meant only for himself: "I care oliphaunts. Good creatures. Not want war."
"Stand."
Though not meant unkindly, the sentence was perceived as an order for Qasim shot up, as rigid as the stakes of the palisade behind him. It would take months, if not years, Legolas pondered, for a habit of blind obedience so deeply ingrained to disappear. Though all hope was not lost, if the venomous look Qasim shot the kneeling man was to be believed.
"Arthad told me you speak Haradric?"
"I speak. Little." Qasim jabbed a dirty finger towards the other Southron. "But he from Far Harad. I from Near Harad."
This is useless.
Legolas was sorely tempted to send the man back to his post then and there. Before he could give the order, however, the kneeling man hawked and spit before his feet, glaring daggers at the three of them. His mouth curled into a grimace of outrage as he gestured towards Qasim, the prisoners' quarters and then Legolas, while spewing what Legolas suspected to be abuse in the harsh, throaty tongue of the South.
"This is enough. Arthad, bring this one –" Legolas nodded towards the irate prisoner – "back to where he belongs. Qasim, thank you for your service."
The bearded man's yammering and the memory of his loss had made him weary, yet he could not shy away from the mission he had been entrusted with. Turning away, Legolas took off towards the next enclosure, wishing Gimli were here with him. His dwarven friend had remained in the Citadel, making it his duty to keep Pippin company – and keep his mind off gloomy thoughts – while he visited Merry in the Houses of Healing.
"This man…this man coward," Qasim's voice sounded in his back. "Rich coward. Wants…sell? Yes, sell freedom."
"He wants to buy his freedom back," Legolas corrected under his breath. Crossing his arms on his chest, he studied the kneeling man with increased attention. Not a warrior but a merchant, then, just as he has suspected. From the corner of his eye, he saw another former slave of the Haradrim pause and bend to pick up the yellow slippers, before stuffing them inside his tunic.
Legolas reasoned that overseeing the prisoners' wellbeing was his mission, after all. If he did not ensure the man had no cause to keep raising a ruckus amongst his compatriots, Arthad may well find him strangled with his own robes come morrow, and that would not do.
"What is his name?"
Qasim translated: "He is Dawoud, son of Faheem, son of Abbas, from Jufayrah. City in Harad," he added, while eyeing the merchant with barely veiled enmity.
Legolas wondered which of the two was more reliable, the master or the slave, and whether the answers he got could be trusted at all; yet beggars could not be choosers. What were the odds of finding another man speaking both Haradric and Westron, and in the mood to cooperate?
"Ask him what he thinks his price is."
Arthad, who had been watching the exchange with no little degree of amusement, suddenly sobered, and sidled up to Legolas in a few brisk paces. "My Lord," he protested in an unnecessarily low voice, "are you really going to let this one go?"
"If he can pay us to do it, then yes."
It was a given that each and every one of the men detained inside the prisoner's enclosure would sooner or later be released; a sweeter fate than that of the men and women of Gondor, had the outcome of the war been different. Not something Legolas was willing to discuss in the open, either, nor cautioned – if someone was to ask for his opinion, that is – but this was an affair of men, not elves, and in this matter, their people's customs differed irreconcilably. While decades of imprisonment did not leave a lasting memory when one lived beyond a thousand years old, for mortal men such a sentence often equaled death.
It could, however, prove a truth too bitter to swallow for one so young and full of ideals as Arthad, and the scowl on the Dúnadan's face confirmed his suspicions.
He will learn.
Not so long ago, Aragorn himself had been such a young, exalted ranger. Yet despite everything he had seen and lived through, he had no thirst for blood, and little taste for vengeance; something that made him a great ruler. Heads that rolled from a block did not feed the hungry, nor did hanging corpses keep the orphans warm. What the lands that had been touched by war needed most was food, and the means to rebuild what had been burnt or broken.
Or, more simply put, gold.
Qasim bowed before translating the question. The bearded man listened attentively, before turning his dark gaze towards Legolas. As he replied, again with many an eloquent gesture towards the sky, his voice grew in intensity and assurance, as if it had been his wares he was selling, rather than his life.
"Says he will give…." Qasim hesitated, his eyes darting between Arthad and Legolas, evaluating perhaps the consequences of their displeasure in case of a mistake. "Treasure," he supplied at last.
"Treasure?" Legolas repeated, "What kind of treasure? Is it even his to give?"
The last thing he wanted was to put his friend into the position of accepting a payment of dubious origin, or worse: a loot of war, taken perhaps from one of the cities the Haradrim had pillaged on their way towards Gondor.
"Aiii!"
As soon as he had understood the question, the kneeling man turned a deep shade of puce, his meaty hands balling into fists. Much to Legolas' and Arthad's bewilderment, he screeched as he grabbed himself by the beard and tugged, tearing out a sizeable tuft of dark, coarse hair.
"He coward, but he no thief," Qasim translated over the man's cries of outrage. "He send greatest treasure, soon." Despite the affirmation, his enjoyment of the man's indignation was evident.
"Oh, enough with your yapping!"
Before Legolas could step in, Arthad had pried the man's hands from the remains of his beard, wringing them behind his back so that he would no longer be able to hurt himself. Thus doing, he had wrestled the man to his feet, and tried to guide him away, but the merchant would not budge, his gut quivering in fury as he struggled against the ranger.
"Must shake hands," Qasim clarified under Legolas' questioning gaze, while Arthad merely shrugged.
"It's your call, my Lord. Shall I take this dog back to his cage?"
His own father had once told Legolas that the role of a ruler was to make decisions, as indecisiveness could, ofttimes, prove worse that the least wise of all choices. And, that being done, one must be prepared to live with the consequences, whatever they may be.
Legolas' thoughts went to Aragorn. His friend had not yet been crowned king, and already the weight of expectations of an entire people lay upon his shoulders. Beyond the white walls of Minas Tirith that shimmered in the heat, he was no doubt poring over maps, or spending his time and strength in the Houses of Healing on those most in need of both. The thought of having resolved at least one problem for Aragorn filled him with hope.
Legolas reached out his hand.
A treasure in exchange of one man's freedom; whatever could go wrong?