Chapter Six – Ridasha

    Faramir had panted, anticipating death on the hands of his friend, when the king had suddenly turned away to swing the sword against the enemy's leader. Exhausted to his limits, the prince watched the beast being killed with one stroke of Aragorn's blade, and then, as if relieved of all pressure commanding him, the king stood motionlessly, staring down at the maimed woman from the east she had been before. Now the body of a creature unknown to them lay on the stony ground. Faramir got to his feet. He swayed and summoned his strength for a moment by putting his hands on his thighs. Then, shored up by the sword at his side, he stumbled to the king's side.

    “You bested her,” he muttered, and finally his words stirred the king from his contemplation. Slowly Aragorn turned his head to face him, heedless of the voices around him and the skirmishes still going on. His breath was shallow as if he had run. “You defeated her, Aragorn. You killed that beast.”

    Aragorn looked at him as if waking from a bad dream. His look was full of regret seeing his friend wounded. He caught his breath and squinted after stooping to take up Andúril from the ground. He then bowed his head and quietly answered:

    “I wished I could have done that sooner. I am sorry, my friend, sorry to not have been able to withstand her sooner.” The prince answered with a thin-lipped smile turning to shock a second later when some Easterling warriors rushed them with their scimitars, shrieking in dismay at seeing their beloved leader dead on the stones. Faramir stared at them and gripped his sword tight, and saw Aragorn taking up Andúril again. They prepared themselves to fight one more time.

* * *

    Gishvané had never been so reckless, and she had also never been so angered by a battle than on that very day the Easterlings had invaded Ithilien. All promises were broken; all leaders were killed, and if it was for those remaining, they would seek oblivion in death, searching for an honour already destroyed. She pushed aside her own kinsmen, who tried to protect her against the enemy, and moved forward, not heeding a thought for her own life.

    “Stop the fights!” she cried over the clamour, finally reaching the plateau, where Harishdane's mutilated body lay in a puddle of blood. “Stop it right now!” She pulled a warrior at his sleeve, and though he could have shaken her off easily, he stopped and stared at her. Being of her tribe, he heeded her order. She rose to her full height and repeated her words, loud enough for all of those standing by to hear. “It is over! Harishdane is dead!” And when some looked up to her, she added, “Put down your weapons and surrender!” They listened. Gishvané spoke again to them, and they all - her kin and the other fighters alike - stopped the fights. It was like a wave, slowly rolling through the ranks, spreading the words from mouth to mouth. Whispers, hushed and dismayed alike, arose when the clashing of weapons ceased. Gishvané felt her heart pound fast and hard in her chest. Never before had she addressed warriors like that, and even now, when they heeded her, she feared that one wrong movement would start the skirmishes again.

    After shoving back two fighters from the east, who had not immediately obeyed the priestess' words, the king slowly made his way to Gishvané's side, taken forward by will for his strength he had already spent. He knew instinctively that the woman's intervention alone would not end this battle. Faramir stood at his side when the king straightened.

    “All of you!” Aragorn cried, and his voice carried far. “Lay down your weapons! Your leader is beaten! The victory is ours! Surrender while you still can and you will be left alive!” He could not tell by their faces if they accepted his command, but slowly, hesitantly, the warriors parted from each other, still eyeing the enemy closely, but refraining from new attacks. “You need not fear if you stay peaceful!” He swallowed, blinked, and lifted his hand to steady himself on Faramir's shoulder. The prince knew by a look into his eyes that the king would not last much longer. “Lay down your weapons!” he repeated, trying to remain on his feet for there was no way to tell how the enemies would react if they saw him collapse.

    Gishvané gazed up to the king, fright in her eyes. So much depended on King Elessar now, and yet he was so weak he could not stand alone. And the prince at his side looked beaten as well, but kept himself upright though the fight before had taken the best of him. Horrified even now, the priestess' gaze wandered to the slaughtered monster she had considered her leader. There had been rumours about the sometimes strange behaviour of the men and women from beyond the Sea, but never had she believed them to be beasts until she had seen them with her own eyes after the attack of the vanguard.

    It was in that very moment that Lord Erkenbrand of Eastfold emerged from a group of riders. He quickly dismounted and with vigour unbroken joined them on the hill.

    “My lords, how can my men and I be of help?” he asked, seeing the deplorable constitution both leaders were in.

    “Your help is very much welcomed, Lord Erkenbrand,” the king said breathlessly. “Command your éored to gather the enemy on the eastern side of the plain, and guard them well. There are beasts of prey among them…”

    “Aye, my lord, I already saw them.” He nodded at the corpse. “But we will beat them as well if they ever dare to attack us.” His attention turned back to the king. “Any further orders?”

    “What about King Éomer?”

    “He was over on the other side of the battlefield. I have no tidings of him. Can you hold your ground here?”

    “We will.” Aragorn exhaled. He wished to lie down and rest, but it was not granted yet.

    Lord Erkenbrand bowed curtly and turned to address his men, who waited for his commands. Quickly his soldiers obeyed and shoved the Easterlings away. Erkenbrand mounted again to assist them.

    Swaying, Aragorn wiped his face with both hands. He breathed shallowly, and when he looked around, his vision was blurred, and the weakness, which had gripped his body, still lingered.

    “You look wretched enough to sleep a whole week,” the prince said quietly, and Aragorn gazed up and down on him.

    “You should follow your own advice,” Aragorn replied with a weary smile. He overlooked the plain, filled with soldiers of different lands. His men and the Riders of Rohan were still vigilant, ready to react to the slightest change in their enemies' behaviour, but with utmost hesitation the Easterlings had put down their weapons and surrendered. The king straightened and nodded his approval to his friend. “Well done, Faramir. I regret the recent incidents more than I can tell.” He faced the Easterling woman, who stood beside him. “And I finally have the opportunity to thank you, Gishvané of the Mushéni-Rhuneshan.” She bowed to him. “It was you, who made this outcome possible.”

    “It is on you to decide to let my people live,” she replied with an anxious undertone that made him nod sternly.

    “Be assured I will not order the killing of those who surrender.”

    “I knew your decision would be guided by wisdom, King of Gondor.”

* * *

    Weak but grimly satisfied with the outcome of the battle, Aragorn took back his belongings before he mounted to ride back. Beside him on a horse lent by a soldier of the guard rode Faramir, who bowed his head and clung to his consciousness like he clung to the mane of the steed. He did not notice that the king and two soldiers in his company left him on half of the way, and he did not hear Aragorn's cry of dismay. Only when he reached the camp and was helped down by his captain, he realised his friend's missing.

    “Where is Aragorn?” he asked alarmed, but Delion only shrugged. “He was with me. Did he fall?”

    “He is still out there,” a soldier, who had accompanied them, reported. “But I can't tell why.”

    Faramir turned as if to seek his friend, but he would have stumbled if it had not been for Delion to support him to one of the tents, where a healer was waiting.

    The king knelt at Ridasha's side, his face contorted with fear and regret. Gently he lifted her head, took off her helmet and gave a sigh of relief when he found her breathing. But her face was colourless, closer to death than to life. His gaze travelled down to her torn tunic beneath the broken breast plate. Blood oozed from an ugly wound, and he flinched compassionately.

    “Ridasha…,” he whispered, but she did not stir. Despairing, he added in a hushed whisper, “No, I will not let you die. Not now.” Afraid to have come too late, he tore a part of her tunic to temporarily stanch the bleeding. There was no time to lose, but he knew when he rose with the woman in his arms that his own strength would not last. The two soldiers at his side helped him lift her on his steed. He mounted behind her and prayed to reach the base camp in time.

* * *

    Lomac left the tent upon a shout that the king was coming. He lifted his chin and squinted, but the two persons on the horse were hardly recognisable, slumped on the saddle as they were, and he sighed, pressing his hands on his hips. He longed for his pipe, but in the haste he had forgotten all but his herbs and medicines. And he would not even have been able to reach the camp if it had not been for Vlohiri. Knowing that the boy had been taught to ride, Lomac had trusted him to take him from the City to the camp instead of waiting for the Rohirrim. He had to admit that he had been astonished to learn that Vlohiri was able to master Rohyren, the king's second horse, and by mentioning that, the boy had beamed with pride. Now – Lomac was sure of that – Vlohiri was waiting anxiously for news of the king, biting his fingernails like he had done before.

    The two figures on the horse approached slowly, and the healer could distinguish an Easterling soldier, who hung lifelessly in front of a man without any armour. Only when the man raised his head, Lomac recognised Aragorn and gave a surprised whistle. He called for the aid of some soldiers, and they quickly helped the king and the second person to dismount.

    “Lomac, you must take care of her!” Aragorn required, putting a hand hard on the healer's shoulder, who flinched under the pressure. “The wound might not be deep, but she lost a lot of blood. I cannot tell for how long she had been lying there.”

    “I will see to it.” He looked at the hand. “If you release me, my lord.” Aragorn let him go with a gesture, trying to catch his breath, but failed. He followed to the tent on stumbling feet, and when Lomac got aware of him, he frowned. “You better lie down before you fall…,” but he never ended the sentence. Aragorn collapsed on the other side of the makeshift bed Ridasha was put upon. Furrowing his brows, Lomac grumbled, “He should have learned to listen to me before.”

* * *

    When Aragorn woke, he looked into the deep grey eyes of his elven wife. For a time uncounted he relaxed by only staring at her. The sight of her being unharmed comforted him, and her reassuring touch on his bearded cheek was a solace in itself. She smiled, and he knew all was well.

    “Tinúviel,” he whispered, and her smile deepened. “Tell me…” He tried to move, but was held back by the severe pain rising from his neck and right shoulder to spread through his body. He could not even lift his right arm to reach for his wife, but had to close his eyes again until the anguish ceased.

    “The battle is over, my love. Lord Erkenbrand and Lord Elfhelm took care of those Easterlings who surrendered. The wounded have been brought here.”

    “What about…” He felt weak, even too weak to ask questions, but she understood without words.

    “King Éomer and Prince Faramir have been taken care of, and a healer looked after the wounds of the woman you brought in.”

    “Ridasha,” he mumbled. His eyelids were too heavy to hold them open. “How is she faring?”

    “She will survive. You found her in time. Lomac treated her and right now the priestess of the Easterlings is with her.” Arwen gently stroked his beard, but Aragorn had already drifted into sleep again.

* * *

    Elfhelm had brought his king back to the base camp. Éomer had insisted on commanding the éored himself and make sure the Easterlings would not take up another skirmish, and only when this task was fulfilled, he had turned his horse to ride back.

    The healer in front of Éomer, who was stitching his wounds, obviously feared to be bitten by the king – at least when his work was finished – concerning the gnashing of teeth and the wild look Éomer gave the nervous young man, who just wanted to do his duty. Elfhelm watched in concern mingled with silent amusement. Knowing that Éomer was not wounded severely, he considered it a lesson in subtlety to not interfere with the young Gondorian's work. If the King of Rohan always had to follow his own stubborn decisions, he would have to face the results of them alone.

    After the healer had left, Éomer laid back to rest and closed his eyes.

    “Keep me informed about the happenings,” he ordered when Elfhelm was on his way out of the tent.

    The Lord of Westfold stopped. He had thought Éomer to be asleep already, but hid his puzzlement.

    “Aye, sire, it will be as you command.”

* * *

    High above her was a light brown, sunlit cloth, softly ruffled by the wind. She saw stakes supporting it, and for some time she was uncertain where she was. If she still lived or if Úshemor would come to greet her among those, who are dead. She recalled being wounded on the field, and the last thought had gone to her daughter, who would not live to see her adulthood for the army had failed to conquer Ithilien. It was depressing to know she would perish like the rest of her kin on the barren lands of Rhûn, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Outside voices called commands in the Common Speech, and slowly the realisation took her that she had been caught by the enemy. She was a prisoner of the Gondorian army, and would be sentenced! She sobbed silently, and when she tried to move to one side to see the entrance of the tent she was lying in, a pain so severe seized her that she cried out. More tears welled up, and still sobbing she rested her head again on the curled up sheet. Carefully she lifted the cover. The lance wound at her belly had been tended to and skilfully bandaged. She was puzzled to recognize that someone had carried her to this tent and not let her die among her kinsmen. Her mouth was dry, and she found no voice to call to the shadow she could see through the cloth. She expected it to be a guard, but when he moved the flap aside, she saw a small, old man with a grey beard and wrinkles around his eyes.

    “Ah, you are awake. Good. Good indeed.” He crouched on his heels and looked into her face, cocked his head and when she frowned, his concerned eyes sparkled. “You wonder how you got here, I suppose?” She gave him a slight nod. “The king himself brought you in,” he explained solemnly when he held a cup of water for her to drink. She coughed, and a new hot flame of anguish from her wound made her cry. Powerlessly she sank back. “Yes, I know it hurts. Still, you are in luck, woman from the east, for the gash did not go deep.”

    “I won't-“

    “Nay,” he shook his head and again smiled, “you won't die. You will live to see the days ahead and return to your people as soon as you are well again.”

    “No, I won't,” she answered gloomily. “I will be sentenced for my crimes. That is what I shall live to see.”

    The old man scowled and rose with an effort. Her gaze followed him, and with the sun behind him, the healer looked even older and graver.

    “You know nothing of the king, do you, woman?”

    Ridasha pressed her lips as new sobs emerged.

    “He was maltreated in our captivity – against the rules of our own goddess – and there is nothing you say that can lift my doom for these evil actions.”

    He cocked his head, slight amusement in his eyes.

    “There was much an effort from his side to bring you in just to sentence you, don’t you think?” She stared at him, not knowing what to make out of this statement, and she was even more bewildered when the healer’s voice dropped deep as if imitating someone. “Take care of her, Lomac, immediately! See to her wound. It is not deep, but she lost much blood.” He wriggled his bushy brows. “When you were laid down here, he broke down beside you, woman. So, think again, before uttering such foolish words about doom!” He turned and left the tent, and Ridasha pondered long over these revelations.

* * *

    Objecting the healer's suggestion to rest, Aragorn made an effort to get up and meet the captains of the armies. Their frowns told him more about his appearance than he would have wanted to hear, but he inhaled and straightened to address them.

    “Your men and mine are still held captive by the Easterlings in the north-eastern part of Rhûn. I want you to take their chosen leader to that camp and bring our people back. Take enough men with you to break any resistance. Do not kill the enemies if it is avoidable.”

    There was mumbled objection among the men, who had seen the Easterlings fight without mercy, but the king's demand could not be ignored. They bowed to him and left, and finally Aragorn granted himself to rest.

* * *

RHÛN

    Hilberon had never felt more blessed in his life than on the day of his release from captivity. He embraced Halamin and even Tarés, who looked bewildered by the sudden outburst of joy, but rewarded him with a reserved smile. Earnest again the captain then turned to Delion to ask:

    “What tidings about King Elessar? Is he alive?”

    “Alive and recovering, Captain Tarés,” the Gondorian soldier replied with a reassuring nod. “In fact, he sent us here, and I am glad to report that the Easterlings were beaten and have surrendered to the united armies of Gondor and Rohan.”

    “Rohan!” Tarés exhaled with pure bliss. “So the King of Rohan came to our aid again!” He slapped Delion heartily on the shoulder. “These are indeed good tidings.” He turned to the Royal Guard to deliver the news, and they all cheered. His gaze fell on Hilberon. “My young man, you were more courageous and kept your spirits longer than I had expected when the king took you into his service. You proved right his trust in you.”

    Hilberon smiled and blushed the same instant, but when the cheers of appreciation rose, he felt relieved too. He would indeed return home to tell his father about the mission they all had accomplished.

    No one watched Dumarin ground his teeth, and no one realised how much the soldier regretted his distrust to the king.

* * *

    Faramir could not recall the ride back to Minas Tirith. When he woke, Éowyn sat at his bedside, holding his hand, caressing his cheek.

    “You cried,” he muttered and cleared his throat. “You should laugh. The victory is ours.”

    “I know,” she nodded and wept again. She kissed him gently, but when he tried to raise his arm to embrace her, he realised he could hardly move. Éowyn saw the puzzlement on his features. “The healers say your arm will need time to mend, until you will be able to use it in full again. The cut went through mail and cloth.” He turned his head to see the thick bandage around his shoulder and upper arm.

   “What about Aragorn? What are the tidings?”

   “The king is recovering, too, as well as Éomer and many soldiers.”

   “Éomer? By the Valar, what happened to him?”

   “My beloved but stubborn brother never grants himself a rest.” Éowyn exhaled, shaking her head, but Faramir saw that she was proud at the same time. “He fought on though he was wounded and should have retreated.” Faramir met her gaze. “The gash at his waist has been tended to at the base camp, but he will need time to recover.”

   “Then see to him,” he urged her, wearing a small but reassuring smile on his wretched features. “Go and see that he will remain in the House of Healing at least for another day.”

* * *

   Aragorn stepped closer to the bed, in which Ridasha had been laid. For a long moment he stared at her sleeping face, grateful to have saved her. Lomac had told him about her fears with a sparkle in his eyes that seemed unfit for the subject, but Aragorn had known the reason: the news of his verdict against Lady Saborian and Lord Sadur had reached Lomac at the castle, and there had been no doubt in the healer's statement that the king would not condemn a whole people to annihilation if the situation could be solved by more human measures. Already had the king sent messengers to Lórien with a request of which he hoped the Lady Galadriel would not reject.

   The king exhaled and lifted his gaze to the window. Summer had left Minas Tirith and was replaced by a sunny, but chilly autumn. The last harvest had been brought in, and wagons with supplies were on their way to Rohan. And maybe this year the Rohirrim would share the food during the first winter of peace with their Dunlending neighbours.

   Upon movement at the door the king turned. Vlohiri's fair top of the head appeared, and he stopped on the threshold.

   “I am sorry, my lord, I did not…”

   “Come in,” he invited him, and the boy put a tray with a pot of tea and a cup on a small table on the right side of the room. He looked curiously at the woman, and Aragorn smiled. “You wonder why she is here.”

   “I do not, sire, for you will have your reasons,” he replied politely.

   Aragorn lifted his brows, and Vlohiri immediately cast his eyes down.

   “You already talked with Lomac, I suppose.”

   “I did not,” he replied hesitantly, “but it is not on me to judge the king's decisions.”

   A smile tugged at the corner of the king's mouth.

   “I do not know if I did not like better the boy, who spoke his mind freely.”

   Vlohiri's head jerked up and his eyes went wide.

   “My lord, if I…”

   Aragorn raised his hand to silence him.

   “For you I am not the king, lad, so there is no need for court rules between you and me. And whatever you will do, there shall be no doubt about your straightforwardness.”

   “Yes, my lord.” They both looked at the sleeping person, and with a frown Vlohiri finally said in a high pitched tone, “Then… why is she here? The others looked at her as if she’d be an enemy. Is she not?”

   Aragorn let a moment pass before her said:

   “No, not in my eyes.”

   Ridasha stirred and woke. All sleepiness left her when she recognised the king. He turned to her with a benign smile, but was rewarded with pure anxiety. She swallowed and would have crawled away if that would have been possible.

   “Do not fear me,” he said and stepped closer to the bedside, stopping Vlohir's intention to leave the room, with a small gesture. “No one will harm you.” Still the woman stared at him. “You were brought here to heal. Did Lomac not tell you?” She nodded slightly and cleared her throat. As if by command Vlohiri took a cup of tea and got to the other side of the bed to hand it to her. Seeing her discomfort, he offered his help, and met her puzzled look. “This is Vlohiri. He is a friend of mine.” The boy concentrated on helping Ridasha to drink, but Aragorn saw his face brighten at the compliment.

   Ridasha drank, and when Vlohiri retreated with the empty cup, looked at the king again.

   “Why did you save me?” she asked hoarsely, and still fright made her shiver.

   “You shall return to your kindred. You stayed true to your beliefs and your gods. It should be on you to lead your people.”

   “You will not sentence me?”

   Vlohiri waited with the empty cup still in his hands, turning it restlessly, and his eyes were fixed on Aragorn. The king met his stare for a moment.

   “I would have sentenced your leaders, but they were killed. I will not sentence you, Rilon Avas,” he added in a gentle voice, “for your actions were meant to help, not to hurt. I will not forget what you did for me even though your leader disagreed with it.”

   Ridasha swallowed. Tears suddenly welled up, and the boy looked at her bewildered. Unbeknown he reached out to kindly touch her hand.

   “Do not weep. Do you not understand? He is the king, and he wants you to get well again. You must for he wants you to be a leader.”

   She looked at him and then back to the king, who could not hide his smile.

   “If you do not believe me, believe him.”

* * *

   Meeting Éomer, the King of Gondor could not hide his joy to see the fair-haired man up and well again. They shared a manly slap on the shoulder, and, after exchanging the tidings from the battlefield, Aragorn added with a grin:

   “So you can finally return home for yet another attempt to parley with your neighbours, I hope.”

   “There will be a parley, yes,” Éomer nodded, “now that Grodes discovered that their allies were not trustworthy, he will be eager to reach an agreement with me.”

   “And you with him.”

   “Aye.” He paused a moment, and they looked at each other, reading thoughts more than expressing them. “I regret that you had to suffer so much until that victory could be achieved.”

   Aragorn cast down his eyes for a moment of recollection.

   “Out of evil good results might come. Our friendship and alliance has proved worthy of our ancestors, who once founded that trust between our peoples. Return home in peace, Éomer, my brother.”

* * *

   Tarés was overwhelmed with cheerfulness to see his ruler again. With bright eyes he bent his knee and bowed his head upon the king's entrance. The other soldiers of the Royal Guard followed swift.

   “Rise,” Aragorn ordered and, joyfully, greeted them by name. In front of Tarés he halted and met eyes with him. “You have my back, Captain Tarés, whenever it comes to it.”

   “Aye, my lord.” He bowed again to hide how proud he was of this honour. Halamin felt no such restriction, and heartily slapped his shoulder the moment the king turned away.

   “Captain, hum? Guess you deserve this at least, my friend! Aye, what a glorious day!”

   Aragorn heard the remark, and came to Hilberon, who humbly cast his eyes down when addressed.

   “My lord…”

   “How are you faring?” The young soldier was taken by surprise, and it showed. He did not know what to answer, and the friendly smile of the king deepened. “Your wounds have healed?”

   “They have,” stuttered Hilberon and felt sheepish to be unable to say more, but the words seemed to be stuck in his throat.

   “So you will be able to serve the Royal Guard in the future.” Even Hilberon's nod was more like stuttering. “Then send my regards to your father, and tell him that I hold his son high in my service, for he did not fail me, even under the worst circumstances.”

   The young man's eyes widened as he looked up. He blushed in a second.

   “Yes… yes, my lord, I will tell him,” he managed to say and added a hardly audible “thank you, my lord.”

   “I expect you to report to the captain of the guard tomorrow.”

   “Yes, my lord.” Bowing deeply he did not see his ruler's relief that the quest had not claimed the young man's life.

* * *

   Tidings from Lórien reached the king, and with his heart filled with gladness he gave the order to summon the Royal Guard and the Easterlings to ride with him north, where the enemies were waiting for the final verdict. He had received Gishvané's gratefulness, and now, as they reached the herd of sharos in Northern Ithilien, her face brightened at the sight of her kinsmen. They greeted her from afar, and upon her quick order in shék they all lowered themselves on their knees.

   Aragorn dismounted and called to them to rise again. Bewildered and frightened glances met him, and the high priestess strode up to them to embrace a friend of her, pulling her to her feet.

   “Rise, your ordeal is over! We will be saved!”

   Slowly the men and women rose, still in awe to see the king, his queen, and the entourage they had brought with them. Gishvané laughed merrily and thanked the king for his mercy. He bowed curtly to her and then called Ridasha to him. She came, still unable to straighten, but willing to show strength in the eyes of her people. Aragorn faced the waiting crowd.

   “See here Rilon Avas Damelon Rhûneshan, the woman of the tribe of the Musheni, who stayed true to your gods and rules, even though the leader of all of you angered the goddess by her behaviour. Rilon Avas never strayed from the right path, so it shall be that she will lead you west under the guidance of your gods and with the blessings of Men and Elves, who grant you to live on the lands near Dol Goldur. It was once occupied by the Dark Lord, but lies now deserted. No evil you will find there, but fertile soil to breed your animals.” He paused and watched the reactions. Bewilderment mingled with regret to leave their former home, but the prospect of a life on land that would suffice their needs lightened the dread to leave behind Rhûn for the time to come. “Maybe the next generation will be able to return to your former settlements, but until then you are allowed to live west of the mountains.”

   For a long moment there was silence. It was on Gishvané to finally speak.

   “Our gratefulness is immeasurable, King of Gondor. Your mercy exceeds our highest hopes. We will remember this day in joyful celebrations as the beginning of a new era for our people.” She bowed deeply to him as did her kinsmen.

   The king nodded to Ridasha, who now stood close by her friends.

   “Go then as a free folk and live in peace.”

The End

Note: This was my little mind game concerning another way to develop the plot. Any other version - maybe with King Elessar and his men remaining workers for the Easterlings and what might happen then - is totally up to you *g*. Have fun!

- T.