A Brotherly Gift

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The main characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Andrahar, Mahiran and the blade Nightshade belong to Isabeau. Only Halabor and its inhabitants belong to me.

Rating: General – suitable for all.

Genre: not specified.

Series: None, but the story belongs to the “Sons of Gondor” story arc and takes place in my imaginary Gondorian town, Halabor.

Summary: Prince Imrahil makes his sworn brother, Andrahar, a very special anniversary gift.

Author’s notes: This is an anniversary fic, written for Isabeau, as an answer to the Edhellond Group’s Anniversary 2006 challenge.

My heartfelt thanks go to Altariel for beta reading.

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Part One

[The 23^rd day of Urui⁽¹⁾ in the year 3006 of the Third Age]

The summer was unusually warm in Gondor in the 3006^th year of the Third Age, tiring both men and beasts whenever Arien⁽²⁾ steered her golden ship high above upon the deep blue sky. Even Anduin, the Great River, seemed tardy, rolling the heavy mass of its waters slowly southwards. There was no wind, not even a light breeze that would catch the sails of the barges heading to the North, thus they had to be moved laboriously by the oars against the stream or hauled up by long ropes along the river bank.

‘Twas hard labour indeed, at any time, and even more so under the burning golden rays of the sun, but there always were poor, penniless men who hired on the merchant barges for a handful of copper pieces to do just that kind of work. Many a poor cottager or farmer was forced to do so, after an Orc-ride or a sneak attack from the Hill-men had destroyed their previous means of meagre living. These were not easy times for the common folk of Gondor, not even for those who chose not to take up arms and fight against the servants of the Black Land.

Only one vessel was moving easily upwards, despite the lack of wind: a vessel shaped for speed, in the stunning likeness of a white swan, lean and shallow of draught, light of weight for its strength and speed, and a true marvel to look at. Its single mast stood aft, slender and shapely in its nakedness, as the sail had been rolled together, so that it would offer no resistance, and the rowers, ten of them at each side, drove it forth upon the shallow upper waters with little effort. There was even a small timber cabin near the mast, big enough only to offer shelter for the ship’s owner and one more person at best. The swan’s  head in front was beautifully carved, its jewelled beak and eyes glinting in the sunlight as if it were a live beast, not a mere galleon figure.

Even though the stream of the Great River only flew strong in the deeper regions, no man would think it possible to drive a vessel upwards with such speed, small and agile though it might be. But the Swanwing had been built by Elven shipwrights in the shipyards of Edhellond for the Prince of Dol Amroth, and was meant for speedy journeys, not for battles or hauling cargo, and could almost fly where other vessels needed heavy labour to move.

Imrahil of Dol Amroth, son and heir of the current ruling Prince, barely beyond fifty and not looking a day beyond thirty, stood upon the deck of the Swanwing, watching the woods and pastures of Anórien march backwards along the west bank of the Great River. He was a tall, slender man, raven-haired and grey-eyed like all his ancestors, although his mother, the Lady Olwen, had come from the nobles of the Eredrim, the people who had lived in Dor-en-Ernil long before the Númenóreans would begin to build harbours on the coast of Belfalas.

Imrahil took after his forefathers, the Men of Westernesse; he was noble and fair in face, long-living and foresighted – and a great lover of the Sea. Although not from Anárion’s line, he was more akin to Gondor’s great Sea-kings than anyone since King Telumehtar Umbardacil, or so people said. But again, the Princes of Dol Amroth had Elven blood in their veins and had been Elf-friends since the beginning of their line, and it certainly showed.

The man standing on his side was almost a head shorter and clearly of Southern origins: olive-skinned and hawk-faced, with badger-striped, bluish-black hair and hard, dark eyes like pieces of obsidian. Like Imrahil himself, the man wore the blue and silver uniform and white belt of the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth, but the sword on his belt was no sword at all but a Haradric-style scimitar, in a beautifully graven scabbard and a hilt with an elaborate lacing of braided leather.

This man was Andrahar of Harad, sworn brother of Prince Imrahil, feared and envied by many but respected equally by friend and foe, for his absolute loyalty towards his lord and for his unique skill with the blade. With any blade, ‘twas said, but most of all with the one on his belt – Nightshade, a legendary sword crafted by the greatest of all Haradric swordsmiths by the name of Mahiran, and taken as war prize during the Kin-strife by Imrahil’s ancestors. It had been in the possession of the Princes of Dol Amroth for years uncounted, ‘til gifted upon Andrahar by Prince Adrahil, as a sign of affection for his excellent service.

Shield and sword and faithful shadow of the Prince he had been, since they were both sixteen, standing by Imrahil in battle as well as on the more treacherous battlefield of negotiations with his own kind. He had been witness at Imrahil’s wedding, helped him teach his sons in the art of arms; he had consoled Imrahil after the untimely death of the Lady Nimrien, never allowing him to be drowned in his grief.

They were brothers in all but blood and of roughly the same age; few true brothers were half this close. And, as the Prince of Dol Amroth was second only to the Ruling Steward in Gondor, he could do as he pleased, with little to no regard for the raised eyebrows among other nobles.

This time, it pleased Imrahil to cut his visit in Minas Tirith short and sail up the Anduin to visit an insignificant little town by the name of Halabor, which lay opposite the south end of Cair Andros on the west bank of the river. His sworn brother followed him without complain, although he had much less love for boats and sailing than his lord. The allegiance between the Princes of Dol Amroth and the Lords of Halabor reached back to the time of Imrazôr the Númenórean, when the forefathers of Lord Orchaldor still had held lands near Pelargir, having settled there back in the Second Age.

Although they had been forced to move northwards, due to the constant attacks from Mordor’s allies, first to Lossarnach and then to their current dwelling place, that bond had never been broken, and to this day, the Lords of Halabor sent their sons – and those of their most valued vassals – to Dol Amroth, to be trained in weapons. Many of them gained the white belt of the Swan Knights and they all swore fealty to the Prince of Dol Amroth rather than to the Steward of Gondor. This was a peculiar tradition that the Stewards generously tolerated, more so as the Lords of Halabor had long lost their weight in the Council and now only ruled over a small fishing town.

Only a few years earlier had the young Herumor, late-born son of Lord Orchaldor, finished his training in Prince Adrahil’s court and returned to his father’s town, thus no-one could truly understand where Imrahil’s sudden wish to visit his old acquaintances had come. When asked, he simply answered that he wanted to discuss important issues of the realm with Lord Orchaldor. Andrahar suspected that there was more to it than that, but Imrahil had been less than forthcoming with explanations so far, thus the Armsmaster gave up and decided to wait. He would learn the true reason soon enough.

The Swanwing swam along the northern side of the small town, the crop fields of the Infirmary that almost reached the bank of the Great River, clearly visible on the left. Before them, on a sheer rocky hill that was wedged into the water, here almost  as wide as a lake and considered as good as one by the inhabitants, the Castle of the Lord of Halabor rose to modest height. For someone used to the measures of Dol Amroth Castle, or familiar with the magnificence of Minas Tirith, it was a small, insignificant rectangular keep, encircled by walled courtyards, with slender little turrets rising from each of its corners.

“Not much of a fortress,” judged Andrahar, giving the Castle a critical eye.

“I would not say that,” replied Imrahil. “The walls are made of solid stone and stronger than you would think. And from the waterside, it would be a hard task to climb them; not without ropes or ladders, I deem, and those can be easily turned away or cut through.”

“You seem to know this place,” said Andrahar. “Have you been here before?”

Imrahil shook his head. “Nay, there was no reason. Lord Orchaldor is near twenty years my senior, we barely know each other. ‘Tis my father he is allied to.”

A thick black eyebrow was raised in tolerant amusement, although for anyone who did not know Andrahar very well, that amusement would not have been recognizable.

“Strange that you would make such a long journey, just to discuss important matters of state with someone you barely know,” he commented mildly.

Imrahil laughed. “You know me too well, Andra. And yet I beg you not to ask any more. You shall learn everything when my plans come true.”

“As you wish, my Prince,” Andrahar crossed his arms and leaned back against the cabin wall, smugly content that he knew his lord good enough, indeed, to catch him unaware. But now he was getting even more curious about the true reason of this unexpected journey.

The Swanwing made a wide bow around the long, curved jetty of the small harbour, not wanting to disturb the nets of the fishermen who were out on the River, and moored at its small counterpart on the east side of the Castle, reserved for the visitors of the Lord. Planks were thrown over the ship’s side, to enable the Prince a dignified exit – not out of necessity, as Imrahil could have jumped onto the stone-paved quay as well as any fifteen-year-old, but out of respect for his position. The Prince grinned roguishly, never having been a friend of formalities, but walked ashore nonetheless, flanked by the ever-present Andrahar.

By whatever means used by the people of the harbour – and each port being a world in itself, those could be very different indeed – news of their arrival had already spread widely. The urchins of the port were gathering along the quay to admire the wondrous little ship, the like of which had never been seen here, and they were chatting in high, excited voices, pointing out the Swanwing’s best features to each other with the unerring certainty of those who spent half their day around the boat-makers. Who, for their part, had abandoned their work to take a look, too, just as the net-makers had turned their backs on their frames with the half-finished nets and the fishwives stopped their gutting and salting. Even the patrons of the Riverside Inn, an old, solidly built two-storey building a little further along the river bank, came out to gawk in open-mouthed amazement.

Yet the onlookers were not the ones who caught Prince Imrahil’s eyes. His gaze was focused on a rider who had just ridden through the Castle’s main gate and was now heading their way – a young man, mayhap a year or two short of thirty, riding a beautiful dark bay with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to horses from a very tender age. Due to the heat, he had shed whatever tunic or cottee he might have been wearing earlier, and now rode with his fine linen shirt open, revealing his lean, well-muscled chest, upon which lay the sigil ring of his House, worn on a sturdy golden chain around his neck.

Following his lord’s gaze, Andrahar had to squint twice to recognize in this comely young man the slender youth that had learned the arts of arms under his heavy hand in Dol Amroth for four years. Tall and lissome and very obviously of best Dúnadan stock, even though his mother came from Lord Forlong’s family in Lossarnach, Herumor son of Orchaldor had matured into a grown man during the recent six years.

The late-born and only child of an elderly lord, one whose mother had paid with her own life for setting a new one into the world, fourteen-year-young Herumor had been spoiled rotten when first coming to Dol Amroth. Although an excellent rider and already having considerable skills with the sword, he had struggled for the whole first year to fit in with the other esquires. Fighting lessons and studies had never been hard for him, but he had been used to have his will in everything; not because of his noble birth but also because he had been so very charming. The tutors and the Armsmaster had a hard time to break him out of his customary misbehaviour, born not from any sort of malevolence on his part but from the overly lenient handling of a doting father.

It has been worth the effort, though, decided Andrahar, watching the handsome young man, displayed thusly at his resplendent best. Gone were the fine clothes and silly hats, more fitting for a courtier than for a knight, which the youngling had once been so obsessively fond of. Wearing just the simple linen shirt and dark breeches now, the young man revealed a strength and modesty that he had sorely lacked before. His curly chestnut hair, the only inheritance from his mother, was shorn above his shoulders and haloed a still smooth face that was showing the strong, chiselled features of his father nonetheless. His head bared to the sunlight, those curls had a golden hue to them, contrasting the wide, sea-grey eyes rather nicely. Aye, the lad had grown into a man indeed.

Spotting the Prince and his Armsmaster, Herumor held on his horse, dismounted, and went to one knee as custom demanded, touching his breast with his fists in the manner of the Old Folk, to show his respect.

“My Lord Prince, Master Andrahar,” he cried in obvious delight. “Welcome to our modest home. You should have sent word, my Lord, so that we could have prepared for your arrival, but it is an honour to have you with us all the same.”

“’Tis good to see you, too, Herumor,” Imrahil grinned. “You can save the kneeling, though; I am no Ruling Prince yet.”

Rising from his knee, the young man gave him one of those mischievous looks the Prince remembered all too well.

“Nor am I the Lord of Halabor yet,” said Herumor, “and I hope fervently that the burden shall remain on my father’s shoulder for many years still. He is much better suited for leadership than I shall ever be.”

“I would not be so certain about that,” Imrahil, too, had recognized the newly won maturity of his former esquire. “But speaking of your father – is the Lord Orchaldor in town?”

“Nay, he rode out days ago, hunting,” replied the young man, “but should be back in two days’ time. I shall send word to him of your arrival. And just to spare you the surprise, my Lord – he is calling himself simply Orchald, everywhere but in official records.”

“Why would he shorten his name that way?” asked Imrahil with a frown. “’Tis an ancient and proud one.”

“And hard to speak correctly for the Old Folk, who even speak Westron in their peculiar manner,” laughed Herumor. “After seven decades of his subjects mispronouncing his name in ever new and amazing ways, Father finally decided to take reasonable measures towards solving the problem for good.”

Andrahar shook his head in bewilderment. No nobleman he knew would simply shorten a time-honoured name given to him for his subjects’ sake. Even less so when said subjects were not even of Dúnadan descent. The Armsmaster found that he was looking forward to meet this lord.

Seeing his bewildered expression, Herumor smiled.

“I believe we are much closer to the Old Folk here than most nobles are,” he said. “But I am shamefully neglecting my duties as a host. Would you follow me to the Castle? I shall have the guest rooms prepared for you. We cannot compare our home with the splendour of Dol Amroth, of course, but I shall do my best to make you feel comfortable.”

He led them up to the Castle gate, where a groom of about ten years and with an unruly mop of flaxen hair took his horse away. Entering the courtyard, Imrahil could see that young Herumor’s modesty had not been false. The small, rectangular keep, with the lord’s great chamber extending in the form of a forebuilding on the western side, had the simple ground plan of the motte and bailey castles of old, even though it was built of massive stone – some parts of it even carved into the solid rock of the hill upon which it stood.

It only had three levels – three above the ground, it seemed, although it most likely had dungeons below like most castles in these times. The first storey was on the ground level, carved to its small windows into the living rock for more safety and stability. This was where the cellars could be found, with granaries and large wooden boxes and barrels and casks and other household utensils.

In the storey above were the dwelling and common rooms of the Castle residents, including the larders, pantry and buttery, the great chamber, in which the lord slept (as Halabor had not had a lady for many years), and the great hall, where the lord and his entire household ate and entertained their guests. On one side of the great chamber was the dormitory of the ladies in waiting and their children – an unused place now, due to the absence of a lady – while on the other side the lord’s study (which also served as the Castle library) was situated, as well as the adjoining guest quarters.

In the upper storey of the house were the attic rooms, in which on the one side the sons of the lord, on the other side the daughters would have slept. Herumor being an only child – well, the only surviving one in any case – most of these currently stood empty. However, the watchmen and the servants appointed to keep the house also slept here at various times, thus he needed not to feel separated.

High up on the east side of the keep, in a convenient place, were the rooms of the steward – in this case of the chatelaine and the chamberlain – with family. There were stairs and passages from storey to storey, from the house to the separate kitchens, from room to room, and from the house into the gallery, where the lord and his guests could entertain themselves with conversation or with watching the tricksters and mummers performing in the courtyard; and again, from the gallery to the chatelaine’s rooms.

The kitchens, the servants’ quarters, the barracks, the smithy, the stables, barns and storehouses were situated on the courtyard, leaning against the encircling wall and leaving a fairly large empty space in the middle.

All in all, it was a very modest dwelling for a family ancient enough to count its ancestors back to the heydays of Númenor itself. Nonetheless, young lord Herumor seemed fairly content with his home, even proud of it. Considering that the modest little Castle had stood here for six hundred years or even longer, he perhaps had every reason to do so.

Before the entrance of the keep – which was protected by its own small forebuilding – an elderly matron greeted them, the loose sleeves of her dark green surcoat pinned back above her elbows, so that they would not hinder her in her household tasks. Her silver hair was almost completely hidden under a gold-embroidered head-dress, made of the same fabric, and the bound of keys jingling on her belt revealed her important position within the household.

Or, more precisely, on top of it.

“Mistress Gilmith, the chatelaine of our house,” introduced her Herumor. “She will take care of your well-being, while I shall send word to my father about your arrival, my lord Prince.”

“I regret having called him back from the hunt,” said Imrahil, feeling a little guilty. Like all nobles, he, too, enjoyed hunting and would have hated to interrupt his sport for some high-ranking visitor.

Herumor shrugged and smiled.

“He has been away for days already; coming back just a day or two earlier would be no such great hardship. Besides,” he added with a broad grin,” he would have my hide, were I not call him back at once.”

They all laughed, and then Mistress Gilmith took things firmly into her capable hands.

“If you would come with me, my Lord, I would show you to your rooms,” she offered. “Do you happen to have any personal items with you that I should have fetched from your ship?”

“Only a chest of clothes,” replied Imrahil. “My seamen will stay in the inn, but I would be grateful to have my things brought to the Castle.”

Mistress Gilmith nodded. ‘It shall be done, my Lord. Please, follow me.”

She led them to the second storey via a short staircase, to a pleasant little room with a glassed window to the River, equipped with a large, curtained bed. The linen hangings were pulled back, revealing the beautifully stitched quilts and pillows covering the feather mattress. Chests for garments, a few wooden pegs for clothes and a wide, comfortable armchair placed near the window made up the remainder of the furnishings.

“This is the best we can offer,” she said. “I hope it will suffice, my Lord. You will find the passageway to the private chamber behind that curtain at the foot end of the bed. It has a wash-stand, too. Now, Master Andrahar,” she turned to the other man, “I am told that you would always sleep in the Prince’s room when on a journey. Alas, our chambers are too small to provide you with a pallet bed, so I have given you the room next to this, if that is all right.”

Andrahar nodded. He would come over and sleep on the floor, of course, but there was no need to tell that the chatelaine. Not when she had gone such great lengths to provide them with acceptable rooms. Mistress Gilmith seemed satisfied and relieved at the same time.

“Very good,” she said, positively beaming with contentment over a job well done. Then she snapped with her fingers, and a young lad of about fourteen, clad in the Castle livery, came in. He had dark hair and grey eyes and the fine-boned, pretty face of true Dúnadan origins. The son of some local nobleman, most likely.

“This is Lorindol,” said the chatelaine, “one of the Lord’s esquires. He will be to your disposal during your stay, my Lord. I expect the best from him,” she added with a stern look that would make a grown man shiver.

The boy Lorindol lowered himself to one knee with his hand over his heart. “It is an honour, my lord Prince.”

Imrahil frowned. The young face was vaguely familiar, but he could not remember having heard the name before.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“I think not, my Lord,” answered the youngling respectfully and rose. “I believe you might have met my mother, the lady Galadwen, though. She hails from Dol Amroth.”

“Aye, I do remember,” the lady Galadwen had been one of those silly young maidens who fancied Elves above all other people and tried to lead what they thought was an ‘Elven’ life. She had married an equally delusional nobleman with roots in Harlond. “You are Ulmondil’s son then, right?”

The youngling nodded. “Aye, my Lord – his eldest son and third child. I have one younger brother still.”

“And your father sent you to Lord Orchaldor’s house?” Imrahil was a little surprised, as Ulmondil was just as obsessed with seafaring as his lady wife was with Elves. “I thought he would want to make mariners out of his sons.”

“He tried,” answered the youngling with a slightly pained smile. “When I was ten, he sent me to Lord Golasgil’s household in Anfalas. But I became so seasick just from looking at the waves from the shore that he had no choice but allow me to return home. He puts all his hopes in Celemengil now, who has a stronger stomach than I have.”

“Consider yourself fortunate,” growled Andrahar. “The Sea is naught but a large, treacherous body of water, trying to kill you in new, inspired ways every day.”

The youngling gave him a curious, almost hopeful look. “You are not fond of the Sea either, Master Andrahar?”

“She is an enemy you cannot slay with a good blade,” replied Andrahar grimly. “Such an enemy you should never trust.”

“Even less so if she can make you sick in the stomach,” added Imrahil, grinning. “Well, my lad, see to it that our things are brought here, soon. Master Andrahar and I are going to the town, but we shall be back for the evening meal. I assume the curfew is at sunset here, too?”

“At the fifteenth hour, actually,” said the youngling. “The bell-tower of the Infirmary signals the hours; you cannot miss it, my lord.”

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End notes:

(1) Approximately our August. Unlike the Elves, the Dúnedain used the Sindarin names of the months, all of which were 30 days long.

(2) According to the “Book of Lost Tales”, the Maia who steered the Sun-ship.

A Brotherly Gift

by Soledad

Author’s notes: Halabor is based on the really existing medieval French fishing town Yvoire. The layout follows the map of that town’s centre. The Haradric rug designs are based on actually existing Persian rug patterns. King Bahram Gór was a Persian ruler – I borrowed him to give Andrahar’s folk a legendary monarch.

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Part Two

Imrahil looked around with interest as they walked towards the town centre, with a goal known to him only. Halabor had a simple building style: the ground floor of the houses was built of stone, while the upper levels (usually only one and an attic) of heavy oak beams, with a tinder roof. The houses looked old but firm and stable, and as many of them belonged to various merchants of craftsmen, each of them was essentially a stall, with a pair of horizontal shutters that opened upward and downward.

The upper shutters were converted into an awning, supported by two ports, to protect the wares spread all over the display counter from the moody changes of weather. Said display counter was naught else but the lower shutters, dropped to rest on two short legs. Inside the shops the master and his or her apprentices and relatives were working at the craft.

Halabor might have been a small town, but – based on the offers displayed – its craftsmen were excellent. Just along the Street of the Jewellers, Imrahil counted a stall with beautifully carved bone and antler items, a spice shop that had the rarest spices imaginable (even ones from the farthest Haradric realms, much to Andrahar’s delight), an incense shop, selling the most wonderful scented oils for baths and massages, the workshops of the silver- and bronzesmiths and the mercer’s shop. The latter one offered the finest wool, assorted silks as samite, sendal and damask, and even two sorts of camlet: the more ordinary kind woven from goat’s hair but also the true item made of camel’s hair and more likely brought a long way from Khand or Harad.

To find such fineries in the shop of a small town’s merchant was something of a surprise. But Selevan, the mercer – a tall, spare, vigorous young man with bluish black hair that framed his thin face like the wings of a raven – explained that his family had moved from Pelargir to this town and still had excellent contacts in that great harbour. He talked Imrahil into buying a fine wool mantle for the hunting season in the autumn and haggled with Andrahar in excellent Haradric over a camlet surcoat, which the Armsmaster could not resist buying in the end.

“At least I shall be warm enough when your castle becomes all cold and damp in the winter,” he told Imrahil.

The Prince rolled his eyes, as Dol Amroth counted as the province with the mildest climate in the whole of Gondor, but the mercer nodded in understanding.

“My mother used to complain about the weather all the time, too,” he said.

Andrahar gave him a closer look. That shiny black hair, the olive skin, the hawkish features… the mercer’s looks awakened memories of his homeland.

“You have some Haradric blood in you, have you not?” he asked.

“I do,” replied the mercer with a smile. “My mother hailed from Bakshir like you,” seeing Andrahar’s surprise, his smile widened. “I would recognize the accent among a thousand. No-one but the people of Bakshir speak like that. Not even I can do it – I was born in Pelargir already.”

“How long have you been living here?” asked Andrahar in his native tongue again. I t was so good to use it for other reasons than questioning prisoners. It felt almost like home.

“Since the age of five,” answered the mercer in Haradric, too. “Alas, my mother died shortly after our arrival – she could never get used to the cold weather here. Thus I had but a very short time to learn her language properly.”

“You speak it well enough,” said Andrahar with a shrug.

“For one who has become a foreigner, mayhap,” replied the mercer with some regret.

“Have you never visited Bakshir?” asked Andrahar.

The mercer shook his head. “Nay, we do not go there any longer. We get our wares in Pelargir or in Umbar. I wish I could see the desert, just once in my life, though,” he added softly, “but the way things are between Gondor and the Realms, I have little hope for that to happen.”

“Nay, I do not imagine it would, either,” agreed Andrahar, suppressing the unexpected wave of homesickness ruthlessly. Bakshir was not his home – had not been his home for a very long time. He had found a new home in Dol Amroth and a brother he had never hoped for in Imrahil. That was enough. It had to be enough. After all, did he not have a better life among these strangers than he could have ever had among his own kind?

Why, then, had he lain awake so often lately? With an almost unbearable longing for the scorching heat of the desert, the loud haggling, the sharp scents and bright colours of the bazaars? He refused to think about the possible reasons – that would only play havoc with his loyalties that must not become divided – and followed his lord and shield brother out of the mercer’s shop. The pain would pass as it always had.

They went on towards the town centre, and at the next corner, Imrahil turned to the right onto the Street of the Gardens, as it was called, according to the bronze plaque on the wall of the first house. Andrahar was surprised by the certainty with wich his lord moved in this completely unknown town – could it be that Imrahil had asked for directions while he had been distracted? That was not good. He needed to focus, or else he would be of no use for his lord.

Just like the previous one, this street, too, seemed to be inhibited by merchants and craftsmen, only that here the leather-workers seemed to be in majority. Imrahil counted four shoemaker’s shops, a furrier and one where two lovely young women sold their finely stitched purses and gloves. Especially the gloves were of excellent craftsmanship – Imrahil could not resist buying a pair for his daughter. Not that Lothíriel needed them, of course, she had more than enough clothes, but because the pattern was so delicate that it pleased his eye greatly. But the true reason for his coming there was the rug-maker’s shop on the end of the street.

Andrahar’s eyes widened in surprise upon seeing the large workroom behind the wide display window. It was like stepping into another world – like coming home. The rug-maker and his siblings, working at their looms and frames, were unmistakably of Haradric origins – to be more accurate, they had to be of Andrahar’s own people, if looks were any indication. He found it strange to find so many of his kind in such a small town.

“They all came from Pelargir, with the household of the old mercer, I assume,” said Imrahil, as if reading his thoughts. Perhaps he did; they had known each other most of their lives, and Imrahil had shown uncanny abilities at times.

“I heard that Master Suanach had been a wealthy and much respected man there, ere he chose to move to Halabor where he had little to no competition,” he continued; of course, being a client of the greatest merchant houses of Pelargir would provide such knowledge. “He took his entire household with him: craftspeople, servants, boatmen… even his bather. Which reminds me: we must visit the public baths during our stay here. Even Gildor says they are a marvel, and you know he does not speak the praise of Mannish inventions lightly.”

Andrahar pulled a pace at the mentioning of the beautiful, arrogant Elf-Lord – the only person who had been Imrahil’s friend longer than he had.

“I would not take the praise of Gildor Inglorion as a sign of good taste,” he said. Imrahil grinned.

“Well, he and I have similar tastes. Which is the reason why he asked me to choose a rug for him.”

“A Haradric rug,” said Andrahar doubtfully. “For an Elf. Was that truly his idea?”

“Why, of course,” declared Imrahil. “Elves have a keen eye for beauty in all its forms, and are you trying to tell me there is no beauty to be found in Haradric handiwork?”

Andrahar snorted. “Of course not. So, I assume you dragged me here to find a piece of true value for you?”

They entered the shop through the front door, and the rug-maker rose from his loom hurriedly to greet such wealthy-looking customers with all due formality. He was a man of Andrahar’s height, but a generation younger; olive-skinned and raven-haired like the mercer, but his clear, intelligent eyes were golden like that of a falcon or a hawk.

“Welcome to my humble business, oh most worthy ones,” he said with a deep bow. “Allow me to offer some refreshments while you take a look at my wares…”

Without waiting for an answer, he led them into the workroom that occupied the entire ground floor. On one side the looms, frames and other working utensils were standing, with family members of various ages working on them. The other side was apparently kept free for the customers. A long, wide divan stood there, strewn with colourful pillows – not silk ones like they had been in the noblehouses of Andrahar’s youth, but nice ones nevertheless – and before it a low table, where tea, halvah, stuffed figs and a waterpipe were waiting to be tried.

Imrahil and Andrahar knew and respected the Haradric customs of business making that were apparently the rule in the rug-maker’s house. They accepted the refreshments and tried the waterpipe – Andrahar with considerably more delight than his lord. After the obligatory hour or so of talking about the affairs of the two realms and the state of local business, the young artisan led them around his workshop to show them the sample wares he had to offer. The beautifully made rugs were fastened on wooden frames and hung on the walls of the shop, so that potential customers could have an unhindered view of the colourful patterns.

“As you are well aware of it, my lords,” began the rug-maker, more to the Prince than to Andrahar, in whom he had immediately recognized a fellow Haradric expatriate, “Haradric rugs have three basic designs, with unnumbered local patterns each – patterns that have time-honoured tradition in the various towns and villages of Bakshir. The simplest ones have an overall pattern of stars, crossed sticks and the simplified forms of flowers or leaves. These are mostly woven by nomadic tribes and in small villages, on private looms. They use a few basic colours, mainly bold ones, as you can see on this patterns that hail from the villages Bidjar, Kanakkhal and Oushak.”

Imrahil took his time to examine each rug of that particular design. They were generally a bit too dark for his personal taste, with small white or pale yellow patterns on a blue or brown or deep red background. There was no implied movement in the design, yet the patterns themselves were striking in their artistic value. The young man doubtlessly had a unique talent for his trade.

“What about the thread?” asked the Prince. “It seems to be made of wool; I thought the rug-makers of Bakshir used cotton or silk.”

Andrahar nodded. “They usually do, but not in the small villages. Using wool is quite customary among the less wealthy; besides, woollen rugs can resist the wear much longer and bring out this particular pattern better than nobler fabrics.”

Imrahil nodded his understanding.

“I shall not gift such a one upon an Elf-lord, though,” he said. “Less so upon Gildor, who is known for his… exquisite taste.”

“Your Valar preserve us from giving such a plain gift to such a noble creature,” Andrahar snorted. “I am certain, though, that Master Rustam here could show us something more… refined.”

The amber eyes of the rug-maker took on a certain speculative look. He sketched a bow towards the Armsmaster, not entirely seriously, while his agile mind was already on the possible profit he would be able to make.

“Why, certainly, my lords! Mayhap you would prefer a rug with a floral pattern, then? Those are usually woven in large cities, by professional artisans like my humble self. These have a much finer wave, too, with very tiny knots, so that they can awake the impression of movement. This design usually includes flowers, blossoms, lattices of vine and flower-swirls. If you would have a glance at this pattern here, traditionally from the city of Jahagan, you can see that the silk thread here is combined with brocaded threads of silver. It makes a very nice contrast with the burgundy red background, and while the rug does not have a central medallion, it makes one think of a meadow in full bloom.”

Imrahil stared at the exquisite handiwork in open admiration. The stark colours of dark burgundy red, white and steel blue, the meandering floral pattern – it all fitted together to an exotic harmony.

“What do you think, Andra?” he asked.

Andrahar examined the rug closely. His face showed naught, as usual, but his dark eyes glittered in genuine interest.

“Excellent work,” he judged. “You would not find any better in the bazaars of Umbar or Pelargir; mayhap not even in Bakshir itself. You should take this one into consideration.”

The rug-maker listened to them in obvious delight. He was now certain that he would sell one of his more expensive rugs to the wealthy customer, who had even made the effort to bring someone with him who knew a great deal about rugs. Making business with such customers, who could truly value the beauty of his work, was always a pleasure.

“If I may offer some advice, my lord,” he began tentatively. “I know very little about the customs of the pairiki, as we call the undying ones in our own tongue, but ‘tis said that they love the forest and the hunt. Mayhap your noble friend would delight in a rug with a more… elaborate pattern. Those are of great value and thus not cheap, ‘tis true, as both the warp and the weft is of silk, but they are worth their price, I swear. If you would take a look at these two… The patterns hail from the ancient city of Tavriz that used to be the very centre of art in old times. One of them is a picture of the padisákh’s summer residence; the other one shows a hunting scene: the legendary padisákh Bahram Gór, hunting for panthers with his hounds and his royal court.”

Imrahil let himself be talked into taking a closer look – and was stunned by the beauty of the young man’s handiwork. The rugs looked more like woven paintings than aught else. The pictures went into detail that was near unimaginable, considering that they had been created by thousands of small knots. As soon as he saw them, he knew he would buy them. Both of them.

“Name your price,” he said simply.

The rug-maker named a price that was much higher than anyone in Halabor – including Lord Orchaldor himself – could have paid. Imrahil shot a quick glance at Andrahar, who gave him a tiny nod, signalling that the rugs were, indeed, worth the price. Had it been up to Andrahar, he would have spent half the afternoon haggling with the rug-maker, but he knew there was no use trying to do that right now. Imrahil was obviously captured by the beauty of the rugs and would pay any price to have them – and the rug-maker knew that, too, and would not yield one copper piece.

Besides, the Prince could afford it, and why should a young artisan not be paid princely for the long hours he had spent bending over his loom to create this extraordinary piece of artwork?

“I shall take both,” declared Imrahil, “and the one with the brocaded floral pattern, too. Have them wrapped safely and sent to Lord Orchaldor’s castle. I need to take them with me to Dol Amroth, and I would not want them to get wet and ruined on the way.”

For a moment, the rug-maker was utterly speechless from surprise. He had only hoped to sell one of these very valuable pieces, not three at once. Yet after a short while, he gathered his wits around him again, and had various members of his family bring forth clean, densely woven linen sheets, roll up the precious rugs with extreme care and wrap them into several protective layers. All the time, he was bowing and saying his thanks profoundly, chatting in excitement with his young wife, a lovely girl from the local folk about finally being able to have the roof flicked and mayhap even buying a mule for short journeys to nearby fairs…

In short, the young man could not be happier. And while Andrahar was glad for him – it was always good to see an honest, hard-working landsman getting his fair share – he was silently wondering what on earth Imrahil planned to do with three Haradric rugs. Other than give one of them Gildor Inglorion as a generous gift.

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

“Can you tell me something about this Bahram Gór, whose hunt I have just bought on a rug?” Imrahil asked, after they had left the rug-maker’s shop and were slowly walking towards the Old Port, where the common baths were to be found.

Andrahar shrugged. “According to legend, he was one of the great padisákhs of ancient times. His favourite pastime is said to have been hunting for wild asses that roamed the savannahs in great herds at that time. That is where he got his byname from: gór means wild ass in the old dialect. No-one knows whether he truly existed or in legend only, though.”

“He exists in legends and inspires artisans to create great works of beauty,” said Imrahil thoughtfully. “What could a man – even a king – wish more?”

“That might be so,” replied Andrahar after a long while. “My people believe that living forth in legend and art is a great honour; the only way of immortality our kind can be granted. And yet most of our nobles would wish to have power and riches in this life instead of fame and honour in the memory of those who shall come after us.”

“What do you believe?” asked the Prince, giving his sworn brother a searching look.

“The circumstances of my birth would have never allowed me to rule, not even if I could have stayed among my own kind,” said Andrahar slowly. “Thus my goals must be different from yours, my lord. I believe in faithful service, in honour that such service could bring, and in loyalty. As long as I have those, I shall lack nothing.”

“I do not doubt that,” said Imrahil. “But even men who live to serve as you do must have dreams. What do you wish for, Andra?”

“To be allowed to serve and protect you ‘til my last breath,” replied Andrahar without thought or hesitation.

The Prince shook his head in mild disapproval. “I know that. But surely, even you must dream sometimes… of things you would wish for yourself, had your life taken a different turn all those years ago. I would know what those dreams are.”

For a long time, Andrahar gave no answer. He was a very practical man and had buried the longing for his homeland deep in a corner of his heart that not even he visited, unless he had to. How came that Imrahil had felt his hidden homesickness? Mayhap they had known each other for too long to hide anything.

“Sometimes I still dream of home,” he admitted, almost reluctantly; it was a touchy subject that they usually avoided. “Of the blood-red sunsets over the desert. Of the loud noises and scents and flavours of the bazaars. Of the heavily laden camels, walking through the city gates. Of great hunts on the savannahs, with the men shouting and laughing. Of the Hallowed Fire, wheeled on its sacred cart into battle with our warriors… and the Silent Towers where the dead are laid to final rest, so that their rotting flesh would not spoil the earth or the Fire. Mayhap I am growing old, but images of home do haunt my dreams nowadays.”

“Strange as it might sound, I am glad to hear this,” said the Prince. “For it seems that I have chosen a most fitting gift for you, after all.”

“A gift?” asked Andrahar, slightly bewildered. “Why would you want to give me a gift at all?”

Imrahil smiled. “Have you forgotten what day is coming up tomorrow?”

Andrahar’s blank face clearly showed that he did not have the slightest inkling. He said so, asking for an explanation.

“Tomorrow, it will be thirty-five years that I found you on the streets of Umbar⁽¹⁾,” reminded him Imrahil. “I do believe that is an anniversary worth celebrating.”

Andrahar could hardly argue with that. The circumstances under which the then-sixteen-year-old Prince had found him had been far from ordinary. In truth, Imrahil had saved him from being killed, slowly and painfully, by the “thousand cuts” – a time-honoured and much-preferred form of execution when a fugitive slave was caught. From that day on, their paths had never parted but for very short periods of time.

“And you brought me here to celebrate?” he asked. “Would a southern city like Pelargir not be more fitting?”

“I believe not,” replied the Prince. “All people know me in Pelargir, and a great many of them know you – we would never have the peace of each other’s company in a place like that. Nay, I have had this little town on my mind for quite some time, and I feel fortunate that I have found here the very best gift to give you.”

“You have?” asked Andrahar, in a tone that was asking for more. But all Imrahil gave him was an unrepentant grin.

“You shall have to wait ‘til tomorrow to find out,” he answered, and Andrahar had to accept that answer for the time being.

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

(1) The exact circumstances of Andrahar’s rescue by Imrahil are described in Isabeau’s story “Kin-Strife”.

A Brotherly Gift

by Soledad

Author’s notes: It’s a historical fact that – despite the actually existing bath-houses in medieval towns – the eastern realms had a much more sophisticated bathing culture in the Middle Ages. My own hometown, Budapest, was unique in this area, as the Turkish invaders had built a great number of bath-houses there during their 150-year-long rule. Some of them are still working.

As always, Lord Orchald(or) is “played” by Sean Connery. Imagine him as he appeared in the first Highlander movie.

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

Part Three

They spent a few highly enjoyable hours in the baths that could have put the ones in any Haradric city to shame. The bather, an expatriate from Khambaluk by the name of Sinsar, had very skilled fingers and a great gift in setting dislocated limbs and soothing sores; apparently, those were skills taught in his family from generation to generation.

Andrahar was more than content with their visit in the baths. The small-boned, dark-skinned bather was a lot stronger than he looked, and he had managed to loosen some old, hardened knots in the Armsmaster’s back that had been bothering Andrahar for quite some time. There were some skilled people in Dol Amroth’s pleasure houses who could give a decent back rub, but none of them nearly as good as Halabor’s only bather.

Having tested the young man’s skills as well, the Prince agreed with his sworn brother that no-one was as good at working out kinks from one’s back as Southern bathers, whether they lived at home or in foreign countries.

“It seems that the old mercer had become quite fond of the Haradric lifestyle, back in Pelargir, “ said Imrahil, “or else he would not have brought so many Southrons with him when he moved to Halabor.”

“The town surely benefits from their presence,” replied Andrahar, moving his no longer sore shoulders under his surcoat, “and so does its lord.  Few places in Gondor have the chance to learn what true comfort and cleanliness are.”

Imrahil snorted in ill-veiled amusement. This was an old jest between the two of them. Andrahar, had grown up in Haradric cities, where the regular visiting of the common baths was the very way of life, even for the simple folk – one had to get rid of the dust of the streets and the sand of the nearby deserts, carried into the cities by the strong winds.  He often made belittling remarks about the lack of cleanliness in Gondor.

That was not entirely true, of course. At the very least the Dúnadan nobles had kept a certain level of fastidiousness, due to their forefathers’ connections to the Elven folk. Imrahil himself had spent two years of his… tumultuous youth in the Elf-haven of Edhellond, in the house of Gildor Inglorion, an Elf-lord of royal birth, and as a result, he had always been very conscious about the cleanliness of his person and his surroundings. Generally speaking, however, Andrahar had not been so wrong either. The young esquires, sent to Dol Amroth to become Swan Knights, had sometimes a hard time living up to the Prince’s demands in this particular area.

Fortunately, both Lord Orchaldor and his son had gone through the same training in Dol Amroth. The Prince had nothing to fear in their house. Not that Imrahil would have made an issue out of the possible lack of comfort and cleanliness while staying as a guest in another nobleman’s house. Still, it was comforting to know that he would find his lodging fit for his demands.

After their most satisfying visit in the baths, they took the way along the river bank back to the Castle. They walked along the herb gardens of the Infirmary, breathing in the sweet fragrance of the flowers and healing herbs that were growing there, well protected by the garden walls. The many-coloured tiled roof of the Infirmary glittered in the evening sun like tiny jewels. ‘Twas unusual for a town as small and unimportant as Halabor was now to have such a large and well-built house for the sick and the ailing, but the town had been a much more frequented place once, and this was one of the sure signs of its one-time importance.

Turning by the Riverside Inn, the Castle was now in full sight, offering them another clear picture of a stronghold that had once seen better days. At the same time, they were also treated to the impressive sight of Lord Orchaldor’s returning hunting party.

Impressive it was, indeed, for the lord of such a small town, with an ancient and respectable bloodline but a rather small honour⁽¹⁾. Yet though the extensive lands of his family in South Ithilien had fallen in the hands of the enemy hundreds of years ago, Lord Orchaldor still controlled the only crossing of the Great River this side of Minas Tirith, and the annual fairs, albeit not so rich and pompous as at the times of his forefathers, still secured him a handsome wealth – and it showed.

The hunting party, nearing the Castle on the opposite side from Imrahil and Andrahar, could have made the lord of any Gondorian province proud. ‘Twas led by Lord Orchaldor’s huntsman, a tall and willowy knight of about fifty, wearing the usual, rough green and brown garb of the woodland folk. Following him were the dog-keepers, father and two sons by their looks, with the lashed beasts: a pair of lymers (bloodhounds, used to finish the stag at bay), a smaller, more agile hound that was called a brachet in these lands, and a pair of leviers, large, swift greyhounds, each one capable of killing a deer.

The lord himself rode in the middle of the party, wearing the same practical clothing as his men, though his black tunic was more finely made. He had his long, iron-grey hair pulled into a tight ponytail and wore a clean, short-cropped beard, in the fashion of the Old Folk of Anórien. Yet his sharp, noble features and keen grey eyes left no doubt about his true Dúnadan origins. An ivory hunting horn, made of the tusk of a mûmak and equipped with a silver tip, hung from his hip.

He was accompanied by his falconers, who rode on either side of him, one carrying a long-winged gerfalcon on his fist, the other one a short-winged goshawk. Each magnificent bird had an embroidered hood covering their eyes, with an opening for the beak. They sat on the arms of their keepers motionlessly, digging their razor-sharp claw into the thick leather of the falconers’ gloves. The lord himself was carrying his favourite, the most beautiful peregrine Imrahil had ever seen. That was small wonder, though. Lord Orchaldor was related through his late wife to Lord Forlong of Lossarnach, who was known to have the largest and best falconry in the entire Gondor.

The rest of the party was made up of horn blowers, beaters, a small troop of mounted wolf hunters – as the hungry beasts were bothering the lord’s woods even during summer in these days – and a few archers, one of whom carried the lord’s own bow. Again, a most impressive party, and apparently a skilled one, for the wood-wards and a few helpers were carrying two fat deer after the hunters, and some of the beaters had felled birds, bound together by the legs, thrown over their shoulder.

One of the falconers was the first to spot the Prince and his companions, and the young man hurried to direct his lord’s attention to them. Lord Orchaldor called back his huntsman to take over the falcon from him, then he got off his horse at once, yet without any undue eagerness. He was more than willing to honour his allegiance and give his liege lord all due respect, but not at the cost of his own dignity. He was Imrahil’s senior by some twenty years, after all; he could have been the Prince’s father.

“Welcome to Halabor, my lord Prince,” he said in a deep, slightly rough voice that, just like his sunburned face, revealed that he spent much time outdoors. “We are honoured by your presence.” He clasped forearms with Imrahil, then also with Andrahar, and nodded towards the Armsmaster courteously. “Master Andrahar, I am glad that I can speak my thanks to you for training my son in the art of swordplay. He would never have become so good with the blade without your tireless tutoring.”

Andrahar bowed, albeit a bit stiffly. Truth be told, he was unused to such courtesy from Gondorian noblemen. While no-one could deny the good work he had put into the training of Gondor’s best knights, their families usually considered him naught more than a useful tool, seldom as a person. Even more rarely as a person who had earned respect for his work. The old lord of Halabor was apparently cut from a different sort of wood.

“But do come back to the Castle with me,” continued Lord Orchaldor. “I hope my son had the best chambers prepared for you, and Mistress Gilmith has seen to your needs?”

‘Twas not a question, not truly. The old nobleman very obviously knew that his staff – and his son – would never fail him. He was just speaking out of courtesy for his guests… to show them how much honoured and respected they were in his house.

Imrahil answered that they had been taken care of properly, and they all returned to the Castle, where the hounds were brought to their kennels and the hawks and falcons to the mews: a decorative stone tower, built in the courtyard, with the very purpose of housing the lord’s hunting birds. In the windows, Andrahar could glimpse at least two other of these magnificent creatures – the lord of Halabor apparently was very fond of his hunting.

While the members of the hunting party spread all over the courtyard to go after their respective duties, grooms came to lead away the horses, and Mistress Gilmith appeared to greet her returning lord and to announce that the evening meal would be served at the fifteenth hour, as always. That gave the lord just enough time to wash and change, and the household to finish preparations.

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

In Halabor, the lord of the Castle still ate his meals in the Great Hall, together with his entire household. This was a time-honoured custom that had been going out of fashion in many noble households in Gondor, as older people often complained. Not in Dol Amroth, though, nor, according to rumours, in Lossarnach, where Lord Forlong led his court more after the fashion of a clan household of the Old Folk than according to Dúnadan customs, and apparently not in Halabor, either, where Lord Orchaldor had made great allowances to local tradition during the long years of his rule.

By the time Imrahil and Andrahar were led down to the hall by the boy Lorindol, the servants had already set up the trestle tables and spread the cloths, setting steel knives, silver spoons, dishes for salt, silver cups and the mazers – shallow, silver rimmed bowls – for the broth. The times when thick slices of day-old bread had served as the only plate for the roast meat were over, but one of those manchets was laid out on each silver trenchet, as it would have been foolish to waste the good grease and sauce seeping out of the meats.

Imrahil and Andrahar were escorted to the high table, where the Prince was set on the Lord’s right – the place of honour – opposite the young Herumor, and with Andrahar on his other side. There were no other guests this evening, so the knights of the Castle filled the other places, first of whom was Borondir, the captain of the House Guard. A short horn blow signalled the time for washing hands, and servants with ewers, basins and towels came and attended to the guests.

After that, a second horn blow announced the actual beginning of the meal. The lord and his guests, as well as the entire household, rose from their seats and turned to the West, looking towards Númenor that had been, and beyond to Elvenhome that was, and to that which was beyond Elvenhome and would ever be, as it had been custom among the Dúnedain ever since their forefathers had returned to Middle-earth. After grace, a third horn blow called the procession of servants to begin bringing the food to the tables.

First came the pantler with the bread and butter, followed by the butler and the cup-bearer who poured wine or ale, whatever the guests wanted. The wine was from the lord’s own vineyard: young and light but reasonably good. It could not be compared with Imrahil’s vintage or the strong red wines he bought from Harad, not to mention the golden Elven wine he got from Edhellond, but for Mannish measures, it was good enough. The ale, on the other hand, was brewed by a local beer-seller and surprisingly strong and good. Though both Imrahil and Andrahar preferred wine, they had to admit that ale, if brewed properly, could have its own attraction.

The boy Lorindol – the squire assigned to the delicate task of serving the highest-ranking guest – had apparently been taught with great care how to serve at meals. He presented the dishes with grace and in the right order, placed them on the correct side, carved the meat without making a mess on the immaculate tablecloth and even found the time between courses to wash his hands repeatedly. Indeed, not even at his own table back home could the Prince be served better.

The meal itself, albeit copious for such a small household, still could not compare itself with the table of the rich nobles in Minas Tirith. It consisted of a civet of meat (seasoned beef with bread crumbs, red grape juice, onions, cheese, honey and various spices), spinach salad in a dressing of olive oil, red wine, vinegar and fresh herbs, onions in a strong vegetable broth, sweetened with white grape juice, and honey cakes in rose petal sauce. The cook was called to the Great Hall to explain the dishes to the guests and name all the rare spices that had been used to prepare them. This was a custom more common in the houses of burghers than in those of the nobles, but the cook obviously took great pride in his work, and thus Lord Orchaldor allowed him to bask in glory for a few moments.

During the meal, a sole minstrel entertained the guests, playing his harp and singing in the dialect of the Old Folk. He was a simple local man by the name of Rhisiart, and while his skills might be lesser than those of the minstrels filling the Prince’s court, he was good enough for the hall of a nobleman. He even knew a few old ballads in a recognizable Sindarin, which was more than any of the scops of the Old Folk could have said about themselves. But mostly, he stuck with simpler songs.

“We live in the fashion of the Old Folk in many things,” admitted Lord Orchaldor, when the meal was over and he moved with his guests to the gallery, to watch the Castle Guard doing some swordplay training in the courtyard. “’Tis a simpler life than most Gondorian nobles would prefer, but it suits us. These are not the times of glamour and grandeur for Gondor. We have to save our strength and our resources for more pressing tasks. Like protecting our lands.”

Andrahar found it interesting that – unlike Imrahil who tended to see the bright side of all things when possible – Lord Orchaldor apparently shared the Steward’s gloomy view about Gondor’s chances against the dark forces of Mordor. There seemed to be little hope left in the heart of the old nobleman, although he would not waver to fight for his small town ‘til his last breath. Granted, he was closer to Denethor’s age; and he had a town to protect that stood wide open to the River. And while Orcs did not like to cross large bodies of water – something no-one had found out the reason for so far – they were able to do so, if they had to. And Halabor had suffered raids from the people of Rhûn, the Dunlendings and the Hill-men as well, many times during its long history.

So yea, Lord Orchaldor had every right to look into the gloomy future with a certain amount of trepidation.

The Armsmaster gave the heir of Halabor  a thoughtful glance. Young Herumor had changed a lot since leaving Dol Amroth as a freshly made Swan Knight – more than Andrahar had thought at first glance in this very morning. There was a soberness in the young man’s eyes that revealed him to be more mature than his years. ‘Twas a maturity only battle and the burden of responsibility could give a man. Many a young lordling wasting their lives idly in Minas Tirith could have learned from Orchaldor’s son.

Base-born and sworn to lifelong fealty Andrahar might be, yet he, too, knew the burdens of responsibility. Just as young Herumor bore that burden twofold, first on account of his father, whom he served and protected, and second on account of his subjects, whom he led and protected, so Andrahar had his lord and sworn brother to serve and guard and the knight-apprentices to train and lead. In the end, they were not that different, after all, the last twig of a once proud tree from Westernesse and the exiled bastard son of a Haradric warlord.

As if he had read Andrahar’s thoughts, the Prince touched his forearm briefly.

“It matters not where we came from, Andra,” he said in a low voice, so that no-one else would hear. “What matters is where we go… and in what company. You belong to us now, and you always will. We may not be your people by blood – but you are ours in everything that truly matters. Never forget that.”

Andrahar nodded his thanks – there was no need to speak those words between the two of them – and kept watching the swordplay below wordlessly. It seemed that young Herumor had not forgotten the things he had been taught in Dol Amroth. The household knights were being drilled mercilessly, and they showed impressive skills for such a small garrison.

When the training was finished, Lord Orchaldor asked the Prince if they could discuss the matters of the Realm in private. Andrahar was not happy to be dismissed – he generally hated to let the Prince out of his sight – but even he had to admit how unlikely it was for Imrahil to get hurt in the house of an honourable Swan Knight. Thus he chose to return to his own chamber to have some sleep. That would enable him to watch Imrahil during the night better. As hard and reliable as thrice-forged steel his body might be, he was not gifted with Dúnadan longevity. Keeping in shape took just a little more effort with every passing year.

Entering his chamber – which was a smaller, simpler version of Imrahil’s – his breath caught in surprise. The Joshagan rug, with its bright floral pattern that looked like a meadow in full bloom, was spread over his bed. On the nightstand, there was a silver plate with a generous helping of halvah – the typical Haradric sweetmeat, pressed of sesame seeds and pistachios, as sweet as other Haradric dishes were spicy – and a jug of red Haradric wine. A leaf of vellum was pinned under the jug, with Imrahil’s strong, beautiful handwriting on it.

Your loyalty and faithful service could not be paid for with gold, mithril or rubies, thus I would never insult you by trying to name the proper price for that. All I can – and wish to – give you for this anniversary is a piece of home and a day as perfect as it is possible in a foreign country.

Andrahar stared at the flowery lines and at the princely gift he had been given, and his deep, dark eyes softened for a moment.

“You have succeeded, my lord,” he said softly in his own tongue, “you have succeeded very much.”

~The End~

Note: In medieval terms, honour also means the lands (manors, etc.) a lord owns.