Caught Between

By Mysterious Jedi

Summary: While travelling in Harad, Thorongil finds something he did not expect. Written for the Teitho Challenge prompt “Strange Encounters.”

A/N: Thanks to the Research Library at HASA for information, and to real-elvish.net for the names of the OCs.

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Thorongil sighed wearily as he trudged down the road. He was a strong man, but traveling for many days under the hot Haradren sun was taking its toll on him. To make matters worse, he had finished the last of his rations a day and a half ago, had emptied his water skin the night before, and saw no immediate means of replenishing either.

//Surely if I just continue walking, I will find a river, or a village with a well, or...something. Then I can try to find some shade and lie down for a while. I am so tired...//

He sat down for a moment, idly sifting the sand through his fingers. For three years he had wandered the East and South, far from family and friends. The people of Harad had naught to recommend them; they were cunning warriors, yes, but they seemed to fight for the pleasure of it, unlike the Dunedain, who fought only to protect and preserve life and freedom.

The Haradrim paid surprisingly little attention to the Dunedan in their midst. Aside from the occasional curious stares of children, Thorongil attracted little notice in the villages. For his part, Thorongil viewed the Haradrim with a measure of pity. The boys scarcely had time for a childhood before they were thrust into training for war, while the girls were given in marriage as soon as they started their cycles, and given little freedom by either their fathers or their husbands.

Ignoring the brief flash of dizziness as he rose to his feet, Thorongil walked on, but the hot sun and the lack of food and water took their toll, and before long he lost consciousness, falling heavily to the sandy road.

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Thorongil awoke to the sensation of someone pouring cool water over his bare skin. He blinked a few times and then looked up. The person pouring the water was a boy of perhaps twelve summers. To Thorongil's surprise, the boy did not look Haradren; rather, he looked like one of the Dunedain.

The boy noticed Thorongil was awake and held a water skin to his lips. Thorongil sipped on it greedily.

"Slowly," the boy said,   "or you will make yourself sick."

"You speak Westron!" Thorongil whispered weakly.

"Yes; my whole village does. It is said that we are descended from men of Gondor. No more talking now. I need to get you to the village, but I cannot carry you by myself, and I did not want to leave you to get help while you were still unconscious. Shall I go now?"

Thorongil nodded. The boy poured a little more water over him, and then proceeded to sprint down the road. It was about half an hour before he returned, bringing with him with a man  who looked like an older version of the boy himself.


"Well, traveler, it seems the Haradren sun has done you ill.  It is not wise to travel in the heat of the day in this region, particularly not without adequate supplies. No matter now, the Valar have smiled upon you this day by letting Duron here find you. We must get you back to the village now.”

So saying, the man picked Thorongil up and placed him over his shoulder. Holding him securely, the man set off for the village at a brisk walk.

"I am called Barhador," he said, "and Duron here is my son. I am a healer, and my wife and I will be glad to care for you until you are ready to set out again. With plenty of water, and without walking in the noonday sun, I might add. No, do not tell me your name just now; your throat must still be parched."

At long last, they entered the village, and Barhador and Duron took Thorongil into a small stone house.
There was a woman inside, pouring buckets of cool water into a large tub.

"Oh, good, you found the man. We must get him cooled off! Ai! It is foolish to travel in such weather."

Barhador swiftly stripped Thorongil and placed him in the cool water, while the woman respectfully averted her eyes.

"There now, we'll have you cooled off soon enough, I think. Here, drink some more water. Not too quickly, now." Barhador gave Thorongil a water skin.

//Who are these people?// Thorongil thought. //They certainly do not look Haradren. They do not act it, either; few Haradrim would trouble themselves to aid a stranger, particularly a northern stranger. That boy, Duron, said they are descended from men of Gondor, which I believe, but how did they get here?//

It was with such thought in his mind that he fell asleep almost as soon as he was taken out of the tub.

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Thorongil awoke in the morning greatly refreshed.

"Good morning!" Duron said cheerfully. "Are you ready for breakfast? Mother is making porridge. Since we have a visitor, she may even use some of the honey!"

"Good morning, young Duron. It will be my pleasure to join you and your family for breakfast."

Duron led Thorongil into the kitchen, where the woman, who he had found out was named Caleth, was laboring at the stove.

"Good morning, Thorongil. Are you feeling up to eating anything this morning?"

"Good morning, Lady. I believe I will be able to manage some porridge."

"Excellent. It will be a few more minutes; do not allow Duron to weary you with his chatter."

"I am certain it will not be a problem."

He turned to Duron.

"So, Duron, tell me more about your family. You look like Gondorians, so how is it that you have settled in Harad?"

"Well, did you know that Gondor used to claim over lordship of Harad?"

Thorongil nodded.

"Well, naturally, some Gondorians had to come live in Harad in order to oversee things. As time went by, many of them intermarried with the Haradrim and integrated into their society. Others returned to Gondor. My ancestors, however, and the ancestors of the people in this village, were caught between the two cultures. They loved Harad; some of them had grown up here, some had married Haradrim or were related to people who had married Haradrim. At the same time, though, they loved Gondor. They had learned about honor and courage, nobility and kindness, and they wanted to emulate these traits. They had grown up on stories about Beren and Luthien, Gil-Galad, Elros and Elrond, and many others. They were both Gondorian and Haradren. So they moved to villages like this one, where they could be in Harad and able to interact with the Haradrim as they wished, but could still live among people who shared their Gondorian heritage, so that they could hold onto it and pass it on to their children.”

“That is a very interesting story, Duron. It makes sense, but I had never thought about the Gondorians who moved to Harad in years past.”

Duron nodded, and then was silent for a little while. Finally he said, “If the king ever comes back to Gondor, do you think he will want to re-establish rule over Harad?”

Thorongil looked at the boy with an unreadable expression.

“Do you think he should?” He asked the boy.

Duron sighed. “I know not! All of what I said earlier about my ancestors being caught between two cultures applies to me as well. I love Harad. Some of my cousins are part Haradren, and I know a lot of good people here in Harad. But I think I would want to serve the king, if he ever came back. Still, I doubt it will ever come up.”

Duron stared at nothing for a few moments, holding back tears.

“Duron, what is wrong?” Thorongil asked gently.

“It’s this accursed war!” Duron yelled. “All of my Haradren friends are being called off to fight in it. If they were fighting against the darkness, I would at least have the cold comfort of knowing that if they die they die with honor, for a good cause. But, no, they are fighting for Mordor.”

This thought clearly distressed the boy, but Thorongil sensed there was more. He looked at the boy expectantly.

“And I’m afraid to go to war.” Duron almost whispered.

“Most men are. There is no shame in that.”

“No! You don’t understand.” Duron now had tears running down his cheeks. “I couldn’t fight in a war between Harad and Gondor. I just couldn’t. Who would I even fight for? Obviously I could not fight for Mordor, for it is evil and cruel. But I couldn’t fight against the Haradrim either. I have friends and family among them! What if the soldiers show up and try to make me fight? What will I do? And either way the war ends, I’ll be in trouble if I refuse to fight. If the king ever did come back to Gondor, I would want to make a good impression. What would he think of someone who lived in Harad and didn’t fight in the war? But now I’m just being foolish. I doubt the king will ever come back, and even if he did, why would he take notice of someone like me?”

Duron stared down at his hands dejectedly. Thorongil looked at him with compassion.

“I do not think you are being foolish, Duron. Your concerns are very real to you, and that is what matters. You must trust, however, that Eru and the Valar have a plan for your life, and that they too understand your concerns. If the time ever comes that you are called to fight, stand by your convictions. It may be that you will be punished, maybe even killed, but it will be an honorable death because you will be doing what you think is right. As for the king, maybe he will come back someday. If so, I think you will find him more understanding about your plight than you think.”

“Do you really think so?” Duron asked.

“I know so.” Thorongil replied with a slight smile.

When Thorongil left the next day to continue his journeying, he had a new view of Harad, and young Duron had a new view of Gondor.