Ok, so this story is about the Harradim. I got thinking, were the Harradim really evil? What had they done to earn such hatred from the Gondorians? And what would have happened if a Gondorian ever met a Harradim and became friends? If you want to know, read on!

Disclaimer: Nothing in this story is mine, although if you think about it, some of the people are. People who you don’t recognise from the book/film are probably mine. But apart from that I own nothing. Not even my own sanity. When my friends are finished with it they will give it back. Or so they say.

Ethlir ducked as an arrow flew over his head. It embedded itself in the wooden post beside him. He turned to Calmon, his best friend, an exasperated grin on his face.

“You know, you could make things a lot easier for the Mordor armies if you just shot me now. That is what you are trying to do, isn’t it? Or is your aiming just as rubbish as usual?”

Calmon laughed, a deep, good natured laugh, and brushed his cropped fair hair back from his face, “I am ashamed to say it is the latter, mellon nin. But I could try to hit you if you wish.”

“I have one word to say to that. No. Although, if you think about it, I would be a whole lot safer if you did that. I’d only be in danger if you were aiming for that post over there.” Ethlir pointed to the post some twenty yards along the street.

Calmon pouted, “Well, who was it that threw that spear the complete opposite direction than the target? You don’t listen to Old Methor and almost skewered poor Faramir. You should have seen the look on his face!”

Ethlir and Calmon were the newest recruits in Gondor’s armies. Thirteen and fifteen, the city had never seen such accomplished warriors for their age. And now they were hanging round outside the alehouse in the small town in between Minas Tirith and Osgiliath. Hurling both arrows and insults.

“I did. Both shocked and amused. Denethor’s face was what surprised me. He almost looked disappointed I hadn’t pinned Faramir onto the side of the wall!”

“He was disappointed, you stupid… idiot! You know Denethor hates his son!”

“Yeah… but to get him killed? Isn’t that a little bit… oh, I don’t know… mad?””

“I don’t know. You want to ride back to Minas Tirith and ask him?”

Ethlir stuck his tongue out at his friend, just as Boromir came round the corner. He knew the two friends “from of old”, so it was not too much of a surprise to see the gesture. He sighed.

“I really cannot remember the last time I saw you two and one of you wasn’t doing that. Are you not thirteen and fifteen, not five and six, and soldiers of Gondor, not lads playing?”

The lads hung their heads, “Sorry, Boromir.”

The young captain burst out laughing at the repentant faces on the friends faces, “I was just kidding you! Father was drilling me…”

“For once he lectures YOU! Is he ill?”

Boromir ignored Ethlir,”…On the importance of being mature… you know being in extremely mature age of eighteen.” Calmon raised one eyebrow. “So I thought I’d try out the lecture on you. I never knew Father had that effect on people.”

Ethlir restrained himself from sticking his tongue out at Boromir himself, “Not funny, Boromir.”

“Yeah, and you must be extremely blind, deaf or just plain stupid to not know your father could have that effect on people. He could turn a wizard shaking with one sentence.”

“Not Mithrandir. He’s the only one who Father won’t stand up to.”

“Or if he does he gets knocked over the head with a staff.”

Boromir laughed, “That only happened once Calmon. But the look on Father’s face..! And Faramir almost wet himself from laughing so hard. Out of earshot, of course.”

“Where is Faramir anyway, Boromir?”

Before he could answer Faramir himself rode up. He was breathless, and a flushed, boyish look was still apparent on his fourteen year old face.

“Boromir,” he gasped, and his elder brother helped him down. The youngest son of the Steward regained his composure, and no matter how much he looked afraid, the excitement was still showing through, “Boromir… the Harradim are attacking.”

****************

Adehal playfully stroked the wolf lying down beside her. It wasn’t a Warg, but a normal hunting wolf. She didn’t mind… she’d have a Warg when she was old enough.

“You know,” she called back at her uncle, “It’s on days like this I really wonder what it was like back at Harrad.”

Nedrahil looked back at his niece. She was not the kind of sweet, demure lass that lasses of twelve usually were back at Harrad, he decided. She’d have loved it, as everyone who came there did, but not have fitted in. Perhaps that was just as well. There was no point in dwelling on it; for the pure simple reason that the only way of getting back to their homeland was in a coffin for families and friends to mourn.

“You’d have loved it Adie.” He called her by the pet name he loved to use, “Everyone did, even your father.”

Adie snorted, “Him, love anything other than blood and war? Hard to believe, uncle.”

“No, it’s true. He loved the serenity, the peaceful lumbering of the Mumakil, the graceful trees blowing in the wind. He said the only two things more beautiful than that green city were you and your mother, and for once I must agree with him.”

Adehal coloured at the praise from her uncle. She wasn’t a stunningly pretty lass, with blunt features, small stature and cropped brown hair. Apparently she definitely didn’t take after her mother.

“Uncle,” she asked softly, “What was my mother like?”

“Lovely. Graceful, smart and caring, with a nature that could care for anyone. I’d wager she’d even care for the Lord Sauron, given half a chance.” Though he jested, Nedrahil showed the obvious disgust he felt for the cruel lord who had stolen them away from their beautiful homeland to this wilderness camp, to fight a bloody war against innocent souls. Unfortunate for them, Nedrahil was one of a few who felt this way.

“You loved her though, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes, extremely. I felt very privileged to be her whining, pesky younger brother. She would always pick out the good points in a person.”

“So instead of being her whining, pesky younger brother, you’d have been not there at all? That seems to be a good point for you.”

“Young ladies should do well not to insult their uncles and pay more attention to making their weapons.”

“I’ve made four spears already.”

Nedrahil took one of the spears Adehal had passed him. They were excellent workmanship, the tip sharp as a Warg’s tooth, purely for the reason that that was exactly what the tips were made of. The iron handle was perfectly balanced, and at the end a short spike, perfect for jabbing into people. He had to hand it to his niece; she was an amazing weapon maker. Many of the soldiers now carried her weapons.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, “We’ll make a craftsman of you yet.”

Adehal pouted, “Oh, no uncle, I want to be a warrior. Just like my brothers.”

Nedrahil shook his head, smiling all the same, “Poor souls, they do not know their fate. To be deafened by questions about wars for eternity.”

“Exactly.”

Her uncle’s laughter was cut short by a cough. Datrith, a soldier of sixteen, stood by the podium the uncle and niece were sitting, his face showing signs of fear, or at least nervousness. “Sir, we are ordered to attack Osgiliath.”

Nedrahil paled and his face turned grim, his hand dropping automatically to the side his sword hung, “Thank you, Datrith.”

He rose, to find himself being barred by Adie, “Can I come this time? Please, uncle.”

“No. It is far too dangerous. I do not mind you practice fighting with the young men in the camp, but here we are in danger. You could get killed, and I do not want that happening to you.”

“But uncle!” Adehal ran along side him, “If I don’t go, how will I ever learn to defend myself, or attack? What if the Gondorians attack our camp? I won’t have time to run away, and I’ll need to find out how to defend myself from an enemy who attacks or defends to kill.”

Datrith shrugged, not making exact eye contact with Nedrahil, “We are not taking the Mumakil, sir. I can look after her.”

Nedrahil sighed, “Fine. You can go.” Adie ran off for her weapons. Datrith turned to follow her, but Nedrahil stopped him, “Look after her, Datrith. She is my only remembrance of her mother for me. I need you to keep her safe.”

Datrith nodded, “Do not fear, sir. I care for Adie as one of my own sisters.”

The older man patted his shoulder, “Look after her,” he repeated, “And see that she comes back to me in safety.”