Subject: My own (likely atrocious) attempt...
Author:
Posted on: 2014-01-07 18:21:00 UTC
Frodo felt... empty. That was the only way he could describe it; a great, yawning pit had opened up inside him and swallowed something vital but hitherto unseen, and its loss was telling on him. The Ring felt the heaviest it had ever felt, as if it wished to drag him down towards whatever grave awaited Gandalf-
He dared not take that thought any further down the road than it had already gone.
The sun had risen, weak and pale for the season, and a grim pall had descended over what remained of the Fellowship. Gandalf had been slain not three days before, and they had been powerless as children to stop his death. Even the normally irrepressible cheer of Merry and Pippin had been blunted; Gimli looked positively murderous. Moria had been his cousin's house, and now its usurpers had claimed his companion. His axe felt heavy in his hands, and would need orc blood to lighten it once more.
Legolas was far in front, keen elf eyes scanning for movement that might signal the fell denizens of Moria. Never mind that they had probably given up by now, retreating back to their stolen halls rather than face daylight; he would keep watch. He would protect them - wait.
Movement. Shape in the distance. Two shapes, joined. Rider? No. Nazgul? Still no. The horse is odd, diseased, misshapen. No warg, either; the legs are long and the gait is stilted. The rider is too tall for an orc and bears no banner of Lorien, and his face is masked. That is not elven armour, either, nor of the Rohirrim or Gondorians... there is a long lance at his side, and a fine one, but - is that arrowhead stone? Yes - which means -
The arrow had left his quiver before the cry of "Southron!" had left his mouth. Legolas gave a hiss of disappointment shortly afterwards; the horse-thing's jerky gait had lifted its rider higher than he had anticipated, and he had hit the Haradrim's shoulder rather than his neck. Feeling slightly embarrassed, he nocked a second arrow and then paused...
---
The Haradrim grimaced with every jolt his camel made as it lurched across the rocky flatlands. His hands were up, though his right hand was rather higher than the left, on account of his left shoulder having a Mirkwood arrow sticking out of it.
"Please," he called, his Westron mangled by a nearly-impenetrable accent. "I mean no harm! I bring a message for the Grey Wizard!" Wincing a little, he dismounted, unbuckling his thin, bent sword and attaching it to a saddlebag. "Please, master Elf! Do not waste your arrows on a friend!" He raised his hands again, as best he could.
Legolas continued to stare him down as the Fellowship ran to his side. Boromir looked at him, then at the Haradrim, then back. "Why do you not shoot? His kind are as much servants of the Enemy as any orc."
"He says he is a messenger," Legolas said from the corner of his mouth, "and he bears no arms. I will not kill an unarmed Man, Southron or no."
"If one such as him comes before a son of Gondor with no weapons, then he is nothing but a fool!" Boromir began to move, but ran into Aragorn's outstretched arm.
"Peace, Boromir. Let him speak."
The Southron turned. "I must give my message only to the Grey Wizard. Where is he?"
"He lies in Moria," Boromir growled, "slain by a demon not quite so foul as you. Leave your message and begone."
"I... no. That is not possible. Morinhetar said I must-"
"The opinions of whichever petty Black Numenorean princeling sent you on this fool's errand concern me not! Deliver your message and leave this place!" At this, Legolas' eyes widened, and he got down from his rock and moved to whisper in Aragorn's ear, bow still drawn tight.
"Boromir," murmured Aragorn after a frantic conversation in Legolas' native tongue, "Morinehtar is a Wizard's name among the elves, so says Legolas. It would be well if we did not sully his name."
The son of Gondor said nothing for a few moments, then stepped back. He kept his sword out, though, and his eyes remained fixed on the Southron before him. "It would be better had the elf not missed his mark, Aragorn. His kind are never to be trusted! What manner of messenger does not speak his name, tell me that?"
"One who must stay secret, Boromir-haban-Denethor. My name is Amro-dan-Marwan, and my message is this: not all men of Harad serve the Lidless Eye. My brothers and I all were sent to tell the Grey Wizard, Mithrandir, that we exiles have no love for Mordor and its king. We came through the other Wizard's lands, hoping he might help us to find Mithrandir, but his wisdom," Amro spat the word, "led us all to a trap, and of seven, only one remains. Six brothers, prince of Northrons, slain by the orcs of a treacherous Wizard. That is the cost of my message. They died with their task left undone, and now you said it will never be done at all, for he is..." He trailed off and turned away, his shoulders sagging. "Waste. Wasted men. Wasted sons."
Legolas slowly lowered his bow and returned the arrow to his quiver. "How did you plan to find him?"
Amro turned. "After the White Wizard's treachery? In truth, I did not know. I made for Lothlorien in the hope that the Lady of the Wood might help me."
Aragorn had been listening throughout, and his eyes looked kindly on the Southron. "We make for there too, and for the same goal. You may journey with us, if you like. These hills are thick with orcs at nightfall."
Boromir goggled. "Have you gone mad? He will poison us in our sleep! Or can a Ranger fashion shackles from mud and sticks?"
Amro simply nodded. "I thank you, Aragorn of Men, and I would be glad to journey with you. My supplies are all but gone; Arabash has not eaten for three days, and nor have I for twice that. It is my hope that we may part on better terms than we met," he said, with a brief glance at Legolas.
It was at this point that the Hobbits and Gimli finally arrived, the dwarf wheezing from somewhere beneath plate mail and beard hair. "Where is he? Where is he? I'll have him in half before you can-"
"He is the servant of a Wizard, master dwarf," said Legolas. "You may lower your axe. He bore a message and could not deliver it, and his brothers died in the attempt. He is no threat."
"He's a Southron," muttered Boromir darkly, "they are always a threat, to decency if nothing else."
"Is he going to kill us?" Merry asked.
"I am not, master... half-ling?" said Amro. "I swear it upon my life. Were I to wish ill upon your party, I would have died at your companion's first arrow, so the wise men of my people say."
"That's a Camel," said Sam, slightly in awe. "I've seen pictures of them in my old Gaffer's books. They're a lot bigger than they look drawn out, aren't they?"
"They are, young master. They are."
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PLZ R N R NO FLAMMING LOL IT JUST MEANS I CAN TOAST MARSHMALOWS!!!11!1!
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and so on.