Chapter 17. Picking Up Where We Left Off

Somehow Ha’asal managed to claw his way back to consciousness at the sound of his General’s sorrowful voice. ‘My poor, faithful fellow, I fear you are done.’

‘My General,’ he gasped and, opening his eyes, beheld General Ha’alan’s face, veil hanging loose, and saw the lips tighten in a grim smile.

‘My faithful aide,’ the General repeated, his hand resting on Ha’asal’s good shoulder. ‘Litter-bearers have been sent for, and the Steward of the City has informed me they will bear you to their Houses of Healing. Your death will not come today, I deem, but they will nurse you back to wholeness ere they spill your blood in their cursed Hallows.’ The smile became a grimace as the General bared his teeth. ‘An unblemished sacrifice is required, after all, to be worthy of their demon king.’ 

And then Ha’alan composed his face once more, now showing no emotion, and he lifted the free-hanging veil and tucked it back into place to hide his face further from any spying Gondorian eyes, or so Ha’asal imagined. Under his breath, Ha’alan murmured from behind the veil, ‘I will charge you now to escape before that time comes, by whatever means you may, and bear the tale of our ending to Near Harad, the Heart of Harad, and Far Harad.’

Ha’asal blinked, trying to comprehend this new thought. He opened his mouth, but no words came forth.

The General continued. ‘Tell them we died well.’ He nodded solemnly, holding the aide’s gaze. ‘Tell them we redeemed the lives of the children and upheld the honour of the Haradrim.’

Understanding dawned, and with it, resistance. Thinking his own thoughts had always been his downfall, and this day would be no different from days gone before. ‘No!’ Ha’asal protested. He struggled to sit up. 

At first the General tried to restrain him, pressing against his uninjured shoulder to keep him supine. But then he stopped, at last, in the face of the younger Man’s determination and, ultimately, helped his injured aide to sit up. What with his swimming head, Ha’asal had to admit that the help was welcome even as he rued his inability to keep from showing weakness in front of the General and the other warriors surrounding them, even with the help of the concealing veil that covered the lower part of his face.

‘Son,’ the General said, an unusual familiarity, to be sure – an endearment only, as Ha’asal was no son of his by blood and bone, and all the more curious for not being a rebuke. Ha’alan’s tone seemed more entreaty than command. ‘You are injured – your head – your arm is broken...’

‘My sword arm is not broken,’ Ha’asal countered. Of course, contradicting a superior had been enough to draw the death penalty in the Southron armies under the Dark Lord, but he did not see it as mattering all that much now, marked for death as they all were in any event. He would rather die this day with his compatriots than die another day, after his arm healed or, worse, live in everlasting disgrace as a surviving messenger.

He struggled to his feet and found himself being helped upright as soon as the General discerned his intention, sparing him the indignity of floundering on the ground. ‘Steady,’ the General said as Ha’asal gained his balance, stood upright and straightened proudly. From the corner of his eye, Ha’asal saw the General gesture toward the crowd of their fellow warriors from Haragost.

One of them came forward, bringing Ha’asal’s weapon to him. The Man had kept the scimitar safe from defilement by Gondorian hands; he had been watching for the General’s signal, watching to see when Ha’alan would choose a comrade to bear his fallen aide’s weapon to the Citadel with them, to be melted in the Wizard's infernal Fires after the blood ceremony was concluded, or if the General would choose to do the honour himself, or... Or what? Was there indeed an alternative? It seemed that now there was. Coming to a stop before the General and his aide, he briefly stood at attention, then tied Ha’asal’s sash – recovered from the ruins and freed from its burden of spears, no longer needed as a timber to hold off the ceiling of the collapsing ruin now that real timbers had been wedged into position – around the injured aide’s waist. Once the ceremonial knot was secure, he slipped the scabbard with its deadly curved blade into place. 

Ha’asal nodded his thanks, and the other warrior saluted, first the General and then Ha’asal, a gesture of respect and acknowledgement of courage, then faded back into the surrounding crowd of warriors and spearmen. The familiar weight of the blade steadied him, somehow, anchoring him in the now and clearing his head. It is right, he thought. It is the right thing to do, and a far better thing than I have ever done in pursuing my own will in days gone by, to die by my General’s side and ransom the lives of Harad’s children.

Aloud, the younger Man said, ‘I will march with the Host.’ He met Ha’alan’s probing gaze firmly and added, ‘I will not leave your side, my Lord, until all is completed.’ The surrounding Gondorians, even if any of them spoke the common language of the Hundred Kingdoms, would not grasp this vaguest of references to the General’s plan, of that he was certain.

The General seemed to be in agreement, for he only nodded, raised his hand high and, circling his hand in the air to command the Host’s attention, shouted, ‘Form ranks! We march!’

*** 

The next stretch of time passed in something of a blur to Merry’s senses. He felt the surging motion of the horse beneath him, ever upward, and while his hearing was dominated by the ringing of the hoofs on the stones below and around him, a dull roaring was in his ears. He wasn't sure if it came from the crowds lining the street or inside his aching head. His reality contracted to a fistful of flying mane as he clung for dear life, along with Éomer’s arms to either side of him, keeping him secure from falling despite his growing dizziness as the body of horsemen navigated the winding uphill street at a slow, controlled gallop, somewhat slower than the headlong pace that Elessar and his knights had set.

It seemed no time at all – or perhaps he’d momentarily swooned – before they were pulling up in front of the Houses of Healing, so abruptly that Firefoot reared, throwing Merry back against Éomer’s chest, but only momentarily as the Rider skilfully brought the horse down again, to stand firm. Éomer slipped from the saddle so smoothly that the hobbit he bore barely felt the jar of his landing on the ground, and then they were moving again, the Man rapidly mounting the stairs to the entrance.

When Merry rather belatedly realized they’d stopped, he opened his eyes. In his immediate line of vision were several examining tables, healers and assistants grouped around them. Through a parting in the crowd around one table, Beregond among them bending over the head of the table and speaking soft, urgent words, he recognised Bergil, face pale and eyes closed, lying limp, and then... 

‘Pip!’ he groaned, seeing Pippin lying upon the adjacent tall table, Elessar, his black haubergeon and gleaming mithril hauberk overlaid with dust, bending over the younger cousin, one hand on the tween’s forehead, his eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration. The other Big Folk – healers, he thought – on both sides of Pippin’s table were carefully examining the young Took’s limbs and abdomen, murmuring about contusions and abrasions and possible fractures, but... ‘Pip!’ he said again, feeling helpless. 

‘Steady, Merry,’ he heard Frodo murmur from beside him, and then, somewhat louder, as if to someone else, ‘If you please... I can stand upon my own feet,’ followed by Elfhelm’s swift and low-voiced apology. Frodo’s next speech came from nearer the floor, which Merry confirmed by injudiciously moving his head to look in the direction of his cousin’s voice. Though he rapidly closed his eyes again at the resulting dizziness, he felt Frodo’s hand grasp his foot and squeeze reassuringly. Then Merry's eyes popped open without his conscious thought when he heard Frodo say, his tone infused with anxiety while at the same time, somehow, revealing his reluctance to interrupt the healer, ‘Strider?’

But to the older cousins’ relief, the Healer King looked up, and they saw the intensity in his gaze soften as a smile bloomed on his lips. He spoke, reassurance in his tone. ‘He knows where he is, Frodo, and he knows he’s safe. He dreamed of being crushed under the Troll and despaired, but I have helped him find his way back to the present moment. He will be well, as will Bergil.’

Then Merry saw the Man’s face change as a piercing sound penetrated the thick walls, the sound of singing – the battle song of the Haradrim, Merry recognised it now, suddenly remembered it from the Battle of the Pelennor Fields – how could he have forgotten? –  and his insides seemed to congeal at the sound. Because his attention was fixed upon Pippin, he also saw his younger cousin stiffen as if the young Took heard it too, though the injured tween’s eyes remained closed. But Elessar laid a gentle hand on the tween’s shoulder, bent to whisper reassurance and, in response, Pippin relaxed again.

‘But I must go,’ Elessar said as if continuing some earlier spoken thought, as he straightened again, no longer whispering, ‘for the Host of the Haradrim are marching to the Citadel, and I must be there to greet them. But first,’ he said, swiftly crossing to Éomer and the injured esquire of Rohan in his arms.

‘I am well,’ Merry lied, but facing that piercing grey gaze, he amended, ‘or I will be.’

Elessar reached out and touched Merry’s head. His palm felt cool against Merry’s forehead, then suddenly warmed, and comfort and relief seemed to flow from his hand, easing the ache within. ‘Indeed you will,’ the King said. ‘But I bid you to rest here until I return.’

*** 

Author’s note: Thank you for your patience, and apologies for the long wait. Not much more to go before this one is finished. 

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