The ghaf trees that dotted the landscape provided fodder for many variations of creatures. Small magenta and yellow flowers blossomed along the sides of the worn path. An array of fireflies and other night bugs glowed and flitted from shrub to tree, un-aware or uncaring of the imminent danger.


The path to the camp was old, very old. The once-thick sand that had covered it was worn down to a fine grain by the generations before him. Leather-clad feet treaded the path noiselessly, with the confidence of one who is certain of the direction. Mazhar could not see the scouts in the early morning darkness, but he knew they were there.


The path ended abruptly, disappearing into a vast interconnected region of barchans. It was near dawn now. He could see several tents lit with the dim light of a candle. The men were on alert.


Not far from there Roshni twisted and turned on her cot, unable to sleep. She could hear the horses snorting every now and then outside. So they sensed it too.


Giving up trying to sleep, Roshni sat up, shivering. It was spring, but the desert was still cool enough at night to warrant cover. She pulled the blanket around her as she struck a flint, yawning. The wick hissed into life, flickering a dull red off the sides of the tent.


The call of a horn rang over the camp, rudely shattering the early morning stillness. The sleek war horses whinnied and pawed the parched ground impatiently. They knew that call.


Roshni jumped, startled. She rose and began to pull her boots on when she turned to see Mazhar pushing back the flap of her mûmak-skin tent. “Come, the scouts have spotted enemy movement,” he said importantly. “The men of Ithilien are nary a league from us.”


“Really, brother,” she said wryly, motioning to her boots. “I couldn’t tell.”


He laughed at her tone. “Making sure you intend to keep your promise. You did agree to leave when we were attacked, if you recall,” he said.


She looked at him queerly then, her eyes filled with a sort of anticipatory dread. “I know,” she said reluctantly. “But now that it comes to the point, I am not certain I can. I am tired of running, Mazhar. I’m tired of falling asleep wondering whether I am going to wake up.” Her eyes pleaded with him desperately. “Do not send me away. Let me fight against our enemy. We can end this!” Her voice was soft and passionate. She did not know how else to make him understand how she felt – he, a warrior, who was free to do what he would, could not possibly sympathize with her.


Mazhar wavered for a moment, uncertainty in his eyes. He spoke finally. “No, .” He shook his head. “You must understand. I myself do not underestimate your skill and would have you beside me on any day, in any battle…but you must think of father.”


Roshni opened her mouth indignantly to protest, as was her wont, but quickly snapped it shut as his words sank in. She had never been able to cause her father pain and she certainly would not start now, especially after -. No…it was not the time. Roshni nodded resignedly to Mazhar.


“Come then,” he said abruptly, pulling her to her feet. He wrapped a thinner cloak about her shoulders as they emerged, the arid desert wind hitting them sharply. Mazhar’s voice was low. “You and Asli can ride your fillies to safety in Far Harad. We have relatives there.”


Roshni turned impulsively and embraced him, not wanting to let go, and all the while knowing it was inevitable. She pulled back, smiling sadly, and he brushed a tear off her cheek with his thumb. “It will be fine. Father and I will return,” he said with a tremor that belied his calm countenance.


She pressed her lips together, remaining silent, and leapt lightly into the saddle. Mazhar turned his attention to Asli, who had been about at the time of the battle call and was already mounted her horse, waiting. He rested his hand on her knee affectionately. “I am sorry this had to happen,” he whispered.


“War is war. You have fought before.” She smiled worriedly.


His face softened as he looked into Asli’s doe-like eyes – full of innocence and now, a fear she could not hide despite her best efforts. “I love you.”


“I love you, too.”


He caught his sister’s eye as he turned to leave. A brief thought passed between them then, as only close siblings can know. Somewhere deep in his heart, he realized suddenly that he might never see the sunset of this day.


Mazhar shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “Be safe, both of you,” he said.


“We will be,” Roshni replied softly, pulling the cloak over her head. She glanced back once more as she trotted away, Asli on her bay horse matching her stride for stride.


Facing forward again, she breathed quietly, trying to quell the fear that had risen in her. Asli was ever attentive and searched her face, trying to find the right words.


“You believe that you will not see Mazhar or your father again,” she said quietly.


Roshni turned to her, her voice thick. “Yes, I do. I fear for the lives of all our men. Mazhar and father are great warriors, but both are too proud. I fear that if our people are captured … the men of Ithilien will not care for such bold arrogance from their subjects.” She paused. “But I should be comforting you. As usual, I am being selfish and you are the one caring about everyone else.”


“An apology is not necessary. They will not fail, Roshni. Our people are a great tribe,” Asli said. “Nonetheless … it is as you say, partly anyway. Many hopes will wither on this dreadful day, be they ours or our enemies’.” They both fell silent then, taking what small pleasure they could in their surroundings.


Roshni turned her face to the sky. The sun was glimmering lightly, just beginning to stretch its long fingers over the sand dunes. Roshni stopped suddenly and Asli, startled, yanked her horse to a halt as well.


“What in Eru’s name do you think you are doing?”


“I cannot just leave on the whim of a man, even my brother, Asli. Why exactly we are not allowed to fight, but for the petty excuse of our sex, is unclear,” she said. “Your husband is back there, battling to the last to protect us and the rest of Haradwaith. Are you content with simply running, in the hopes that everything will ‘work out?'” She saw that Asli hesitated and pressed her advantage. “Besides, if our men do fall, what use do you think running will be? We will be caught or killed eventually.”


Asli, by nature, tended towards the timid side and hated going against the wishes of those she respected, but at this moment even she could she the logic of Roshni’s argument. She nodded slowly.


“Very well, Roshni,” she agreed. “Should we not obtain the aid of our neighbors?”
“There is no time to keep riding in that direction, and doubtless they are already informed of the situation. No, we must go ourselves, now.”

* * * * *





Meanwhile, Mazhar stood next to the great chief Zoltán, on the top of the bastion overlooking the desert. His scimitar, curved and sharp, was already drawn across his knee, and he continued to stare at it as he spoke, avoiding eye contact.


“You should not be here, father,” he said quietly. “More than likely you will not see the end of this battle.”


“Oh, I am getting old, am I, son?” He teased. Zoltán caught his sober expression and quickly grew serious. “No, my place is with my people. I would die with honor, not as a coward too filled with fear to draw his sword.”


Mazhar was silent for a moment. Then: “Roshni and Asli have left.”


“Good, good. I am glad to hear that. They will be safe in Far Harad.”


The silence that ensued served only to emphasize the dread in the soldiers of Near Harad. Mazhar looked down on them pensively. The lines of their faces were grim and creased with dirt and sweat. Some had seen too few summers, some too many. Most of the once-great fighting force, including much of their mûmakil, had been killed in the War of the Ring. Mazhar’s eyes smoldered at the thought of his people’s shameful defeat. Even now, months after official surrender, the Gondorians would not let it rest. . Angrily, he kicked the sand that had gotten into the flet, watching as the breeze picked up the particles and bore them to some other, distant land.


There was a thud from below. Mazhar glanced sharply down, half-expecting (and with irritation) to see some of the more unruly men having a brawl. What he saw instead startled him into action and the rest of the soldiers into action.







A sentinel lay dead on the bottom layer of the clay structure, the shaft of an arrow protruding from his chest.





Zoltán had seen it as well, and drew his sword. It rang out of the sheath, gleaming in the half-light.


“To the death!” he called, giving the signal to shoot. The sound of a legion of arrows hissed in his ears as his men fired with deadly aim, striking many of their targets.


Hikmat, third in command, ordered the second company to shoot with similar fervor. In the same moment, the Ithilien rangers returned fire, realizing their position. Flaming arrows set vulnerable parts of the structure ablaze. Men unseasoned by war cried out and tried to flee as the screams of foes and kin alike rang in their ears, the fear taking them. The battle was only just beginning.


Zoltán knew that his small force of men was losing courage rapidly. They had to be rallied or the battle would be over without a fight. He shouted to Mazhar to lead the lines of oliphaunts forward. They blundered forward through their foe’s defenses and kept going, despite being pelted by arrows on all sides. The horn sang once again.


“Release the arrows!” Zoltán shouted to his faction, gambling that the sudden double attack would throw the men of Ithilien off guard, forcing them to the more vulnerable east side of the field. There, they would be in better view of the light and easier to pick off. It worked for the moment, as the startled soldiers suffered substantial losses and fell back quickly to recoup.


Roshni and Asli crept up behind their rivals. Roshni stared in horror at the sky lit up with flame from arrows and the rising sun, and at the moment her daring plan to fight for her people did not seem as advisable as it had several leagues away.
“What are we going to do?” Asli whispered.


“You have your bow, do you not? I am not much use at the moment but if you fire quickly enough we might be able to distract a part of their force long enough for our men to charge again.”


Dread was in Asli’s eyes but she pulled an arrow out of her quiver and notched it reluctantly to the bow. It found a target – a man, caught by surprise, fell to the ground.


“Fire as much as you can. After that we’ll have but daggers.”


She nodded and hit two more targets just as quickly, but missed the next few in the uncertain light. By this time, however, some of the men had begun to notice their comrades falling and were returning fire. Roshni ducked behind a rock as several arrows whizzed over her head, hitting the ground behind her.


“My quiver is empty,” Asli panted as she sat next to Roshni. “I tried to recover arrows from the ones they shot but it is too dangerous.”


“Then we must get into the thick of it. Little use our weapons may be against the blades of the rangers, but at the least we may offer some distraction!”





* * * * *





By this time it was early morning, according to the sun. Mazhar dragged himself to his feet. His head throbbed and he touched the side, his hand coming away red. The oliphaunt must have been shot from underneath me, he thought. Do my men think I am dead? He looked around dazedly, the fact coming through his clouded senses that the battle was still going on.


He cut his way through the rampaging beasts and men to where his father stood, still valiantly fighting. “Zoltán!” He called. “We are weakening. We will not be able to hold them off much longer!”


Zoltán swung and killed several more of the soldiers before turning, distractedly, to Mazhar. He lowered his sword briefly, surveying the now-blistering hot region about him in nary a second. The losses to the men of Ithilien were great, it was true, but the count against the Haradrim was greater still. Of a force about one thousand men, over seven-eighths lay slaughtered on the desert sand, their red and white war paint distinguishing them from the rest. His expression was weighed with a deep sadness as he realized that Mazhar’s words were irrefutably true.


“To the keep!” He shouted, motioning behind him. Many of the remaining men fell back as they realized their predicament, following Zoltán in retreat. The horn of the Haradrim sounded once again.


Roshni and Asli were still battling furiously with the men surrounding them; there was no way for them to escape. Despite her self-deprecating words, Roshni was relatively quick with the dagger, and this fact had probably saved her life more than once that day. Still, she was tiring and could see that Asli was as well. The dreaded horn of retreat was now a relief. The women relaxed their guard. It proved an ill choice.


The men of Ithilien had recovered and came up behind the fast-falling Haradrim intending to make an end of the battle. Despite their foes’ desperate efforts, they cornered them and slaughtered nearly all. The victory of the north was at hand.


Suddenly a deadly silence filtered through the small band of men encircled by their enemies, the silence only broken by the desperate, random clang of the swords sparring against their foes’. Desperately, Mazhar and Zoltán and the ten or so men left to them turned this way and that. They knew it was over.


“Surrender,” Faramir said, his tone cool, “and perhaps we shall spare the lives of these.” At that, the soldiers in charge of Roshni and Asli pushed their way through the crowd and shoved them roughly to the sand, the gleaming edges of their swords resting on their necks.


Zoltán stared in dismay at the dirt-crusted forms of the two women before him. His sword clattered from his hand involuntarily. “Why are you here?” he whispered, half to himself. “Why did you return?” The other soldiers, not knowing what else to do, quickly followed his lead and dropped their swords as well.


“He gets the idea,” Faramir said, motioning to Zoltán with his sword and then to the women. “What about you?” he addressed Mazhar.


Mazhar stood defiantly, rage in his eyes. He knew that he was hopelessly beaten. He knew the only way to save his wife and sister’s lives was to drop his sword. But something inside him refused to let him give in, refused to let him loosen his grip. All the pride of generations of fearless and powerful warriors swelled in him. His hand shook on the hilt of his sword.


“They wait only for my command,” Faramir said, nodding to Calanon and Idhrenohtar who stood poised. It was, oddly enough, rather reminiscent of the time when he had given the same ultimatum to Frodo.


“You fool,” his father said, his voice low, “it is our only chance.” Seeing that his son wavered, he spoke again. “As your king, I command you to drop your weapon.”


Mazhar breathed sharply, hatred in his eyes. He might be prideful but even he could not ignore an order from his father and his king.


The sword clattered to the ground.


Faramir lowered his sword and stood for a moment, regarding the dozen Haradrim who stood before him. He issued the command: “We return to Gondor. Bind the prisoners.”


Roshni was jerked to her feet, her hands now tied behind her back. She breathed a sigh of relief. The men of Ithilien are not so barbaric after all, she thought. Did they not spare us?


She glanced over to Asli, who seemed to be much worse for the wear than she was. She had fought with as much vigor but was by nature a submissive woman, and it had taken all her courage and then some to cold-bloodedly shoot men, even if they were her enemies. Asli’s face was tear-streaked and panicked, the black strands of her hair stuck to her cheeks.. Roshni’s eyes traveled down her sister-in-law’s attire when she started slightly. Scarlet liquid formed a half circle near Asli’s stomach. She tried to hide the fear on her face as she was pushed forward and away from her friend.


She looked back to where the men were being tied. Mazhar was still defiant, barely cooperating with his captor. Roshni hoped desperately that he would smarten up, for in the future she doubted the men of Ithilien would be so kind as they were this turn. Her eyes darted to Zoltán, her beloved father. He stood tiredly, the life seemingly gone from his once animated features. He is broken, she realized, he is old and broken and without a purpose, now that his love – his country – is gone. She surveyed the rest of the soldiers. Some she knew, and some she did not. She made eye contact with Beinion, a youth in Zoltán’s favor who frequented her casa. He looked quickly away, shame evident on his features.


“Move out!” Idhrenohtar barked. Slowly the camp trudged forward. There were nearly four hundred men of Ithilien still alive. Roshni pursed her lips in anger. Why had Eru decided to be merciful to the scum of the north, she wondered? What had they done to deserve defeat?


At the head of the line, Faramir spoke with Calanon in low tones. “The women will be useful as servants, in Ithilien or otherwise.”


“I believe it would be prudent to question them also. We do not know their relation to the king. If the women know something, it should not be that difficult to get it out of them.”


“Always so chauvinistic, my friend? Two women who play at war are no fearful maids.


“You, of course, know this from experience, my lady,” Calanon smirked.


Faramir laughed. “Do not make me draw on you, Calanon,” he said.


“Indeed, I will not, for I would regret having to kill you in return.”


“Always a braggart, you are.” Faramir turned serious again. “But of the male prisoners, they could be useful as servants. There has been a shortage in the work force since … the war,” he spoke quietly.


Calanon half-turned to look into Faramir’s eyes. “My friend, do not spare the men out of desire to rebuild Gondor. They are murderers and deserve death. Then the people shall see what happens to those who slay Gondor’s finest.”


Faramir glanced sharply at him. “It was Uruk-hai of Isengard who slew Boromir my brother, not these Southrons.”


“An enemy is an enemy, my lord Faramir,” he replied. “They serve the same master. You must not permit them to live.”

* * * * *





Later that night, camp was made. The moon was as luminous as it had been the night before, spilling its generous beams onto Roshni’s cheeks. She stared off into the distance. She had already finished the portion of bread and meat she and Asli had been given – neither cared for ale. After that, they had been separated. She suspected that the man in charge of these soldiers did not want murmurings amongst the prisoners, leastaways not those of how to make their escape. She poked absentmindedly into the fire, adjusting her position on the rug slightly. Her guards were some distance off. It was highly unlikely they would even be needed, though she was not bound. She smiled wryly. Where could she escape to, in a camp as well guarded as this one? The odds were four hundred to one that she would make it ten feet outside the camp’s borders. She glanced over to study Asli. She seemed visibly calmer now than she had at their initial capture.


Asli caught the glance Roshni threw her and returned it with a small smile. She desperately wanted to speak with Mazhar, but knew that by the unwritten rules of war it was unlikely to happen. She sighed, turning over on her rug.


Faramir strode through the camp, as was his wont this time of day. He liked to be certain that everything was running smoothly before retiring. He passed by Roshni, who glanced up briefly and then back down to the fire. He paused, speaking in her native tongue.


“Ako magtiwala atipan ng pawid lahat ng bagay ay sa mo kasiyahan?”


“As well as may be expected for a prisoner of war, milord,” she replied civilly.


Faramir studied her for a moment, his countenance grave but young. He nodded curtly, sensing her resentment.. “If you need anything, ask Eglerion,” he said, nodding in the direction of her guard. He paused before moving off. “My name is Faramir.” Roshni merely nodded, not offering a reply.


That in and of itself was the main reason he was still walking around. Who was she, exactly? He had rarely seen a woman, even of the Southron culture, who actively engaged in battle. She had neglected to tell him her name, and he had not asked. He expected to find out the next day anyway when they would likely be arriving in Gondor. As he had told Calanon earlier, he had a feeling that the women would not be easy to break.


And she was bold, too bold. It made him wonder if she was of a higher, more privileged class, though her raiment would suggest otherwise. But had not the King of the Haradrim and his arrogant prince of a son both surrendered that the lives of two women would be spared? Faramir knew little of Haradraic culture, and was puzzled as to whether Zoltán and Mazhar were close to the women or if it was simply courtesy.


It was not good to be unable to sleep the night before a long march. Fortunately, like all self-respecting soldiers, Faramir knew exactly how to fall asleep. He wandered a few more steps to the beer jugs. It was unusually strong stuff the soldiers had brought along and was known to make even the toughest men drowsy. He tipped his head back and drank the entire thing, sighing contentedly. He looked over to where Roshni’s small fire was burning and saw her looking oddly at him, a satirical smirk on her face.


“What is that look for?”


“Nothing.”


He crossed his arms, mildly irritated. “In my experience women do not sit in front of a fire watching men drink for nothing.”


“I would not have to watch you drink if you had not captured me,” she said pointedly.


“Perhaps you should have stuck to knitting then.”


Roshni glared at him. She turned away, fuming inwardly as she fingered the edge of her rug. This Faramir was even less intelligent than she thought. He should know that someone of her status would never be relegated to knitting.


“”Quite frankly you are the leader of these men and we have a long march these next few days, as Eglerion has informed me. Did your father never tell you not to drink and ride?”


“I don’t think my father is any of your business,” he said, wincing slightly at the mention. “Indeed, I might ask exactly what you are doing still awake.”


“Well, I will not tell you.”


“Very well then,” he said, waltzing away towards the other tents. Roshni rolled her eyes as he left. Not only did he know nothing of propriety, he was arrogant, too. It made her dislike him even more than if he had not captured her.


He tread quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone. Suddenly he heard voices to his right – those of the prisoners. They were murmuring, but audible nonetheless. I will need to have a word with the guards, he thought wryly. Prisoners should not be wandering about.


“Asli, you will be fine,” Mazhar spoke. “They bandaged your wound well – it is not bleeding anymore. And they do not know that you are my wife. You will be safe.”


Faramir was slightly taken aback. This woman was the prince’s wife? She could be an invaluable source of information – and it would explain exactly why she was permitted to join in the battle.


“Mazhar, do not soften the blow of what is inevitable with trivial words.” She looked directly into his eyes. “What will they do to us?”


He took a deep breath. “Probably we will become servants, Asli.” At her look of disbelief he hurried on. “These men are not uncivilized and there is a good chance we will remain unharmed. Do not take it badly. Worse things have been known to happen,” he lied, stroking her hair. “You have Roshni as a companion also.”


Faramir raised his eyebrow. Mazhar was obviously a notable warrior. He must know that even if his wife was made a servant he would certainly be executed.


At that moment Faramir’s expression grew sorrowful. For a moment, he almost regretted what he had said against these people, the Haradrim. They were fighting for the enemy – but it was a cause they valued, and despite tales of brutal domestic and war practises, this warrior, this leader of men was treating his wife with the same protective tenderness any man of Gondor would.


He turned and walked back to his tent, his step not as carefree as it had been a moment before. He pushed back the flap of his tent, collapsing onto his cot. It must be far past midnight, he thought. Roshni. That was her name. It seemed too delicate for a warrior and yet, it somehow fit her. He shook his head tiredly. I think I had a bit too much to drink, he yawned. It’s twisting my thoughts. He rolled over, his eyes closing in sleep, and knew no more.







* * * * *





Please review, and you just might motivate me to keep going. Bruahaha.



Note



Ako magtiwala atipan ng pawid lahat ng bagay ay sa mo kasiyahan? = I trust that everything is to your satisfaction?



Casa = house/tent



Barchans = a common type of sand dune that forms from winds that blow in one direction. Crescent shaped, and wider than long. For more information, see http://pubs.usgs.gov/gip/deserts/dunes/



Bastion = a fortress, citadel, stronghold, etc.