Post by Admin on Jan 2, 2021 23:25:43 GMT
Author: Darkover
Ranking: 1st place
Summary: While in the land of Harad, Aragorn must conceal his identity while trying to save a helpless captive.
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: The characters of “The Lord of the Rings” were created by J.R.R. Tolkien, not by me, and no violation of copyright is intended or should be inferred. Please do not sue me, as I write these stories for love, not money.
Aragorn had not seen Earendil last night, nor the night before last, nor any night since he had come to the land of Harad. That troubled him, for the sight of his distant ancestor in the sky, using the beauty and glory of a Silmaril to lead and inspire others, had always heartened him. Now, it was as if there was no hope in this part of the world; or none for him at least, a Dunadan among the Haradrim.
Here the stars were strange, and he was a stranger too. The Haradrim did not take kindly to outsiders, and had the people who now milled past him in this crowded marketplace known him for what he was, a Man of the West, he might have been attacked on sight. Or perhaps not: he was a well-armed and well-built young man, who at six and one half feet tall towered over the local populace. But gangs of thieves roamed these parts, and might yet attempt to waylay him if they could catch him on his own. And if he were recognized as one of Numenorean blood, warriors of the local Chieftain might attempt to take him as a prisoner.
Fortunately he had wandered through the deserts of this land for a sufficient length of time to tan his normally white skin to brown, although he was still not quite as dark as the local people were. While there was nothing he could do about his height, or the color of his gray eyes, his hair was dark and he wore clothing like that of the Haradrim, and while not exactly fluent, he spoke their language. With luck and anonymity, he might yet be able to purchase supplies and set out on his departure from this arid and hostile land.
He was about to turn down another street when he heard the laughter of young boys. He glanced back, and grimaced at the sight.
In a bamboo cage sat an old man, head bowed over his knees, his long gray hair concealing his face. As his clothing was gray also, he looked like a shapeless mass, or would have had he not been so thin; it had probably been some time since he had enjoyed a good meal. His long, thin hands that hung down before him were white-skinned. Half a dozen small boys surrounded the cage, laughing as they hurled small stones and bits of animal dung through the bars at the old man, who did not move or lift his head. Harad was a cruel land in more ways than one.
When one of the boys took a bamboo rod and poked it through the bars of the cage, trying to strike the old man, that was enough. Aragorn stepped forward, snatched the rod from the boy’s hands, and barked down at him, “Clear off!”
The boy started to curse him, but he lifted the rod threateningly, and the youngster and his companions immediately dropped the last of their stones and ran for it, as he had known they would. A fat man working at the stall alongside the cage that held the old man immediately strode over, huffing; “Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” Aragorn retorted, tossing aside the bamboo rod. “It is bad enough that this old man is caged like a beast, but you do nothing while loutish boys torment him? Do we no longer respect the old in this land?” As they spoke, the old man in the cage lifted his head and regarded them. Aragorn saw that the man’s eyes were gray, like his own.
The fat merchant snorted. “*He* is no man of Harad! Look at that white skin! He’s a no-good spy! When the Chieftain’s men come through here, I shall make a present of him to them!”
The old man continued to watch them, but his expression did not change. Aragorn could not tell if the occupant of the cage understood the conversation or not, as it was true that the oldster did not at all appear to be one of the Haradrim, and yet the merchant and he were speaking in that language. But the old man’s gray eyes were now fixed on Aragorn.
“Do you seriously believe this grandfather is a spy?” Aragorn gestured at the occupant of the cage. “Surely he is just some confused old man in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the Chieftain will not thank you for wasting his time. Let the old man go.”
“Go where? I won’t have him around here.”
Aragorn met the captive’s gaze. “I’m sure he has no wish to stay here.”
“What do you care?” A look of rat-like cunning suddenly crossed the fat, sweaty face of the merchant. “Tell you what—I’ll sell him to you.”
“Sell him?” For an instant, Aragorn seriously considered physically forcing the merchant to set his elderly captive free, but that would attract attention, and Aragorn was hoping to be gone before another day passed. If he remained in any one place in this land for too long, sooner or later someone would notice he was an outsider and suspect him, too, of being a spy—or worse, they might somehow discover his true identity. Many Men of Harad worshipped Sauron. “What would I do with him?”
“That’s your problem—you’re the one who seems so concerned about him.” The merchant folded his arms across his ample belly and smirked up at Aragorn. “I’ll accept a gold piece for him.”
“I’m sure you would, but he’s not worth that!” Aragorn silently hoped the old man did not understand what was being said. “I’ll give you ten coppers.”
“He’s already cost me more than that in water!”
Aragorn visibly scoffed. “I doubt if you’ve given him more water than necessary to keep him alive—and at any rate, that is *your* problem.” He started to move away, but the merchant said quickly, “Twenty-five silvers!”
“There are strapping slaves who sell for less than that! One silver piece!”
They continued to haggle. The prisoner continued to watch them intently, but he spoke not a word until they had settled on a price. Aragorn was just counting the money into the merchant’s outstretched palm when the old man said suddenly, in a croaky voice; “I want my staff!”
Aragorn and the merchant both started, for the old man had spoken in the language of Harad. As one they turned to look at the occupant of the cage, who coughed and spoke again. “I want my staff! And my hat!”
“Staff? You mean that old stick you had with you?” the merchant said.
“I’m an old man, I need my staff!” the prisoner said querulously. “And I want my hat, to keep the sun off!”
The merchant laughed derisively, then shot Aragorn another cunning look. “That will be extra.”
Aragorn had very little money left, and he had enough of the merchant’s greed. He took one step toward the merchant, who flinched. “Let the old man out of the cage, bring him his hat and his staff, and be quick about it.”
The merchant moved with greater haste than his bulky form seemed capable of, and after producing the key and unlocking the bamboo cage, he ducked behind his stall to produce a long wooden staff and a pointed gray hat. The old man, helped out of his prison by Aragorn, leaned against the younger man for support, but snatched both items from the merchant with surprising rapidly.
“Can you walk, Grandfather?” Aragorn said, as he led the tottering old man away from the cage and through the crowds.
“Of course!” In truth, once they were out of the sight of the merchant, the old man seemed to be gaining both strength and speed. “Let us get away from here.”
Aragorn took a deep breath. “Not so quickly, Grandfather.” He did not blame the oldster for wanting to get away from this place; but even though Aragorn had not spent much in ransoming this old man, it was still more than he could easily afford. Now he was going to have to buy fewer provisions, and probably of lesser quality, than he had planned, and he had no idea what he was going to do with this old man. “I need to buy provisions. And is there somewhere you can go, someone who will take you in? I have far to go, and I do not believe you have the strength to accompany me.” Still, maybe he was wrong about that; the old man, now that he had his walking staff, was making a brisk pace. They had all but left the crowds behind.
The old man turned to face him, and for the first time, Aragorn saw the gray eyes twinkle. “Do you, lad? Well, you need not worry about me. I’ll keep up. And you needn’t worry about water or food. I know where to go to get both. Once we do, I think we should both depart this land. Now that I have my staff, I think you will find that I need no help from anyone else. What is your name?”
The last sentence was spoken abruptly, and in the Common Tongue. Aragorn increased his pace; his legs were longer, but this old man seemed to be gaining stamina with every step. “Call me Estel.”
“Indeed. You certainly brought me hope, young man.”
Aragorn was staggered. This old man was not only of the West, he understood Sindarin. “And what should I call you, Grandfather?”
The old man paused and turned back. He stood upright, hat on head, clutching his staff. “In this land, men such as that merchant call me ‘Incanus.’”
Aragorn frowned. North-spy?
“But you and other men of the West usually call me ‘Gandalf.’”
Ranking: 1st place
Summary: While in the land of Harad, Aragorn must conceal his identity while trying to save a helpless captive.
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: The characters of “The Lord of the Rings” were created by J.R.R. Tolkien, not by me, and no violation of copyright is intended or should be inferred. Please do not sue me, as I write these stories for love, not money.
Aragorn had not seen Earendil last night, nor the night before last, nor any night since he had come to the land of Harad. That troubled him, for the sight of his distant ancestor in the sky, using the beauty and glory of a Silmaril to lead and inspire others, had always heartened him. Now, it was as if there was no hope in this part of the world; or none for him at least, a Dunadan among the Haradrim.
Here the stars were strange, and he was a stranger too. The Haradrim did not take kindly to outsiders, and had the people who now milled past him in this crowded marketplace known him for what he was, a Man of the West, he might have been attacked on sight. Or perhaps not: he was a well-armed and well-built young man, who at six and one half feet tall towered over the local populace. But gangs of thieves roamed these parts, and might yet attempt to waylay him if they could catch him on his own. And if he were recognized as one of Numenorean blood, warriors of the local Chieftain might attempt to take him as a prisoner.
Fortunately he had wandered through the deserts of this land for a sufficient length of time to tan his normally white skin to brown, although he was still not quite as dark as the local people were. While there was nothing he could do about his height, or the color of his gray eyes, his hair was dark and he wore clothing like that of the Haradrim, and while not exactly fluent, he spoke their language. With luck and anonymity, he might yet be able to purchase supplies and set out on his departure from this arid and hostile land.
He was about to turn down another street when he heard the laughter of young boys. He glanced back, and grimaced at the sight.
In a bamboo cage sat an old man, head bowed over his knees, his long gray hair concealing his face. As his clothing was gray also, he looked like a shapeless mass, or would have had he not been so thin; it had probably been some time since he had enjoyed a good meal. His long, thin hands that hung down before him were white-skinned. Half a dozen small boys surrounded the cage, laughing as they hurled small stones and bits of animal dung through the bars at the old man, who did not move or lift his head. Harad was a cruel land in more ways than one.
When one of the boys took a bamboo rod and poked it through the bars of the cage, trying to strike the old man, that was enough. Aragorn stepped forward, snatched the rod from the boy’s hands, and barked down at him, “Clear off!”
The boy started to curse him, but he lifted the rod threateningly, and the youngster and his companions immediately dropped the last of their stones and ran for it, as he had known they would. A fat man working at the stall alongside the cage that held the old man immediately strode over, huffing; “Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” Aragorn retorted, tossing aside the bamboo rod. “It is bad enough that this old man is caged like a beast, but you do nothing while loutish boys torment him? Do we no longer respect the old in this land?” As they spoke, the old man in the cage lifted his head and regarded them. Aragorn saw that the man’s eyes were gray, like his own.
The fat merchant snorted. “*He* is no man of Harad! Look at that white skin! He’s a no-good spy! When the Chieftain’s men come through here, I shall make a present of him to them!”
The old man continued to watch them, but his expression did not change. Aragorn could not tell if the occupant of the cage understood the conversation or not, as it was true that the oldster did not at all appear to be one of the Haradrim, and yet the merchant and he were speaking in that language. But the old man’s gray eyes were now fixed on Aragorn.
“Do you seriously believe this grandfather is a spy?” Aragorn gestured at the occupant of the cage. “Surely he is just some confused old man in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the Chieftain will not thank you for wasting his time. Let the old man go.”
“Go where? I won’t have him around here.”
Aragorn met the captive’s gaze. “I’m sure he has no wish to stay here.”
“What do you care?” A look of rat-like cunning suddenly crossed the fat, sweaty face of the merchant. “Tell you what—I’ll sell him to you.”
“Sell him?” For an instant, Aragorn seriously considered physically forcing the merchant to set his elderly captive free, but that would attract attention, and Aragorn was hoping to be gone before another day passed. If he remained in any one place in this land for too long, sooner or later someone would notice he was an outsider and suspect him, too, of being a spy—or worse, they might somehow discover his true identity. Many Men of Harad worshipped Sauron. “What would I do with him?”
“That’s your problem—you’re the one who seems so concerned about him.” The merchant folded his arms across his ample belly and smirked up at Aragorn. “I’ll accept a gold piece for him.”
“I’m sure you would, but he’s not worth that!” Aragorn silently hoped the old man did not understand what was being said. “I’ll give you ten coppers.”
“He’s already cost me more than that in water!”
Aragorn visibly scoffed. “I doubt if you’ve given him more water than necessary to keep him alive—and at any rate, that is *your* problem.” He started to move away, but the merchant said quickly, “Twenty-five silvers!”
“There are strapping slaves who sell for less than that! One silver piece!”
They continued to haggle. The prisoner continued to watch them intently, but he spoke not a word until they had settled on a price. Aragorn was just counting the money into the merchant’s outstretched palm when the old man said suddenly, in a croaky voice; “I want my staff!”
Aragorn and the merchant both started, for the old man had spoken in the language of Harad. As one they turned to look at the occupant of the cage, who coughed and spoke again. “I want my staff! And my hat!”
“Staff? You mean that old stick you had with you?” the merchant said.
“I’m an old man, I need my staff!” the prisoner said querulously. “And I want my hat, to keep the sun off!”
The merchant laughed derisively, then shot Aragorn another cunning look. “That will be extra.”
Aragorn had very little money left, and he had enough of the merchant’s greed. He took one step toward the merchant, who flinched. “Let the old man out of the cage, bring him his hat and his staff, and be quick about it.”
The merchant moved with greater haste than his bulky form seemed capable of, and after producing the key and unlocking the bamboo cage, he ducked behind his stall to produce a long wooden staff and a pointed gray hat. The old man, helped out of his prison by Aragorn, leaned against the younger man for support, but snatched both items from the merchant with surprising rapidly.
“Can you walk, Grandfather?” Aragorn said, as he led the tottering old man away from the cage and through the crowds.
“Of course!” In truth, once they were out of the sight of the merchant, the old man seemed to be gaining both strength and speed. “Let us get away from here.”
Aragorn took a deep breath. “Not so quickly, Grandfather.” He did not blame the oldster for wanting to get away from this place; but even though Aragorn had not spent much in ransoming this old man, it was still more than he could easily afford. Now he was going to have to buy fewer provisions, and probably of lesser quality, than he had planned, and he had no idea what he was going to do with this old man. “I need to buy provisions. And is there somewhere you can go, someone who will take you in? I have far to go, and I do not believe you have the strength to accompany me.” Still, maybe he was wrong about that; the old man, now that he had his walking staff, was making a brisk pace. They had all but left the crowds behind.
The old man turned to face him, and for the first time, Aragorn saw the gray eyes twinkle. “Do you, lad? Well, you need not worry about me. I’ll keep up. And you needn’t worry about water or food. I know where to go to get both. Once we do, I think we should both depart this land. Now that I have my staff, I think you will find that I need no help from anyone else. What is your name?”
The last sentence was spoken abruptly, and in the Common Tongue. Aragorn increased his pace; his legs were longer, but this old man seemed to be gaining stamina with every step. “Call me Estel.”
“Indeed. You certainly brought me hope, young man.”
Aragorn was staggered. This old man was not only of the West, he understood Sindarin. “And what should I call you, Grandfather?”
The old man paused and turned back. He stood upright, hat on head, clutching his staff. “In this land, men such as that merchant call me ‘Incanus.’”
Aragorn frowned. North-spy?
“But you and other men of the West usually call me ‘Gandalf.’”