Traveler

A Lord of the Rings Fan Fiction

by Murasaki99

Any LotR character you recognise belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien

[A scene will go here concerning the great Battle of the Cormallen Field before the Black Gate. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth finds himself fighting in single combat against a rather small Haradrim warrior who is a magnificent swordsman. Their duel is interrupted when the warrior from far Harad is shot twice by arrows and Sauron finally perishes. Imrahil accepts the warrior's surrender on behalf of his troops and takes him away to the tents of the healers... only to discover the man is not a man at all, but a woman. This causes him a certain level of queasiness combined with admiration. Unfortunately, Imrahil's Haradric is not very good, the woman speaks NO Westron, and she's not a cooperative patient. And so we join our story in media res...]

The man in battle-worn clothing entered the tent of the healer and looked curiously at the struggling form of the Haradrim warrior.

"My Lord, we need to remove the arrows, but we cannot convince her to take the medicines we offer for pain, nor will she remain still. The more she fights us, the worse her injuries become." Mardil the healer threw up his hands in frustration at his inability to gain cooperation from his patient. "She speaks that outlandish tongue and I cannot convince her we intend no harm."

Prince Imrahil, who had been helping to restrain the woman, brightened when he saw Aragorn enter the tent. Pointing to Aragorn, he spoke to her in his broken Haradric. "You listen. This man our King." As if he had uttered some magical spell, she ceased fighting and stared at the tall figure.

"You are the King?" She rasped, struggling for breath. "My life is forfeit to you. I would open my veins for you now, but they took my blades."

Imrahil shot the other man a worried look, as Aragorn drew close to the side of the rough bed. "Yes, I am King of these people," he replied in her own language. "The Prince tells me you surrendered for your warriors?"

"Yes, as is our tzan. My life for theirs." Her grey eyes regarded him calmly, a startling pale contrast to her dark-skinned face.

"My Lord, you aren't going to…?" Imrahil asked him in the speech of Gondor.

"I traveled among them once, many years ago and learned something of their ways as well as their language. Their desert home is hot and harsh and the people have become like the land they dwell in: hard and unbending. Her caste is bound by an iron warrior code. They do not lightly accept change of their ancient custom, which they call tzan. Nevertheless, let me see what can be done."

Aragorn looked at her thoughtfully for several moments. "She is an honor-son my friend, child of a noble house, given up to the service of her lord when her house produced no male warriors. Those officers like herself are expected to die in battle or at their own hand upon defeat. This takes the dishonor of surrender from the men under their command, allowing them to return home." Returning to the Haradric tongue, he spoke to her again. "I accept your life as it has been offered, but it must be at a time of my choosing. Will you submit to my judgment in this matter?"

"Yes, Lord King." The woman sagged back onto the bed, looking suddenly much more relaxed. Cautiously, the prince released his grip on her arms and she lay quietly. Mardil gestured urgently to his assistant, and they began to prepare the materials needed for surgery.

"Very well." Aragon moved to position himself behind the cot. Kneeling on the ground to provide himself with a firm base of support, he put his hands to either side of her head, sliding his fingers under her neck and placing his thumbs against her temples. Speaking again in the language of Gondor he addressed the healer. "Stand ready to work, if you will. As I suspected, she has the blood of Númenor in her veins and this permits me to try a different path." Aragon met Imrahil's gaze. "There is risk. I may only succeed in hastening her ending, but…"

"I understand, my Lord. She will die anyway without our care." Imrahil nodded, looking again at the calm face of the warrior of Harad. He sighed softly and shook his head. "What a people, to think an early death a desirable thing."

"They have an incomplete understanding, but they are not entirely ignorant of the truth." Aragorn said softly, closing his eyes as he concentrated. "The people of Harad were ruled long ages past by the dark kings of Númenor, who left behind some of the teachings of the learned ones of the lighter era, before the fear of the gift of Illúvatar [1] corrupted their minds." Leaning slowly forward, Aragorn touched her forehead gently with his own. "I hold your life in my hands," he murmured.

"Yes, Lord King," came the equally quiet reply.

For those observing, nothing seemed to happen for a long moment, then the woman sighed deeply, her eyes glazed and closed, and her body relaxed entirely. As Imrahil watched in fascination, Mardil approached and carefully began to cut away the sodden field dressing from her shoulder. When his efforts met with no resistance, the healer began to work with greater confidence and speed. Soon he had Imrahil holding a basin of steaming medicated water and was keeping his assistant Huor busy with passing him surgical implements and mopping away the blood. The liquid in the basin began to turn red. At last the arrows in shoulder and thigh were removed and the wounds rinsed and stitched.

Imrahil helped to lift the limp body so Mardil and his assistant could wind bandages around her chest. She was so still he thought perhaps she had died. No sound or movement had she made during the surgery, nor could he hear her breathing. Aragorn likewise was silent, bent over the woman, holding her head and sitting as still as a graven statue.

Mardil took the basin from Imrahil and smiled slightly. "We are finished, my Lords. With your help, she might actually live."

"That is, if she is still alive." Imrahil knelt by the side of the cot and spoke to Aragorn quietly. "My Lord, the healer has completed his work."

For the first time in nearly an hour, Aragorn stirred. Raising his head, he moved his hands slightly. The woman of Harad gasped and arched her back in a sudden convulsion, which was over before the others could react. Her eyes flew open. Taking a deep breath, Aragorn sat back and rubbed his forehead with his knuckles, then looked down at her.

The Haradrim lay still, gazing up at him from her recumbent position. For some time her face wore an expression of confusion, then she spoke in a hoarse voice. "Sorry Commander, you were right. I should have listened to you; there was something wrong with the stabilizers. We came apart on reentry." She tried to cough, winced and thought better of it. "Damn, but that was a quick trip. You'd think I would have learned since last time. Easy come, easy go, that's me. What does this make it? Five times?" She was speaking Haradric, but the form of her speech was now strange, and sprinkled with even stranger words. Carefully lifting her less-damaged arm, she wiped at her eyes and then stared in astonishment at her hand. "What's this? I've gone off-color?" Her eyes focused in confusion on Aragorn. "Commander, when did you grow a beard?"

"I am Aragorn, King of Gondor," he said gently. With a crooked smile, he added. "In the middle of war it was difficult to keep myself clean-shaven."

"King. Yes, I remember something about that. King. I gave you my oath." She tried to sit up, then gasped in pain and sank back on the cot. "Damn, I'm definitely alive." A frown followed that admission. "Something's not right. I should be dead. Most certainly."

"What is she saying?" asked Imrahil, trying in vain to follow her words.

"She is confused," Aragorn replied to the Prince. "She did not expect to find herself alive."

"Where am I?" Mardil came with a sleeping draught and helped to hold her upright while she drank it without complaint, obviously too distracted to question what she was being given.

"You are in the tents of the healers of Gondor, warrior of Harad. You were wounded in battle. Sauron has been utterly defeated and the army of your fellows has surrendered." Aragorn gave her the news of the war and its outcome simply and without adornment.

"Harad? Gondor? What am I doing here breathing and talking? I'm nothing but dust and ashes orbiting the Earth." Fighting sleep, she held out a hand toward Aragorn. "I'm sorry Commander, I truly am. I ruined the ship."

Taking her hand, Aragorn touched her forehead gently. "Sleep for now. We will speak of this further when you wake." She closed her eyes at that command and fell into a healing sleep. Carefully, he laid her hand on her breast, drew up the blanket and covered her to the chin. "I must go and attend to others who need healing. Imrahil, will you watch her while she sleeps and speak to her when she wakes? I do not think she will try to end her life for now, but I would not let her near blades until she has recovered."

"Of course, my Lord." Imrahil found a small campstool and settled himself on it at the bedside. "I could not understand half of what she was saying, but she sounded most strange."

"Yes, something untoward has occurred. I should like to understand what transpired while I held her on the borderline between life and death. It is not a place traveled lightly, and yet I felt she had made the journey many times." With a thoughtful expression, Aragorn bowed to the healer and left for the other tents nearby.

To Be Continued

Footnotes

1. "The Gift of Illuvatar" - death for mortal men, as compared with immortality for elves. According to ancient Middle-Earth history, death was meant as a gift, permitting humans to move on to other things, but Morgoth helped to make men fear physical death when he ruled much of Middle-Earth during the Second Age.