Dead. All that work to put together an escort for the new Lord, and he was dead.
The dummy he was punching was getting to the verge of being torn open from his blows. After what he'd gone through with Barhadoron, and dealing with Cirben for so long, Harhanar felt infuriated that all the work had been for nothing. Any who passed him by in the training grounds of Dol Amroth would hear him muttering curses against the north and far more typical swears that would make the average person outside of armed service blush. Inwardly, of course, he also knew that from that same north came King Elessar, but the mission having failed before it even begun was a blow to the man's pride.
Who knew what would happen now. Everyone would probably be reassigned back to their old positions. Not a problem for the most part (some, especially Gyldyras, struck Harhanar as needing some space), and the only two he'd truly befriended he would still see plenty of (they were only a good march to the northern end of the city), but still, the whole thing had been for nothing. It was moments like this that Harhanar regretted where his life had taken him, and his mind began to wander back to his days as just a simple man of the levy in Calembel, then the days as a proper soldier for Minas Tirith, Simpler days, perhaps, where he had far less duties, and felt far more effective.
But is that certain?
Harhanar stopped punching the dummy at this thought. Calmly but still frowning, he began the walk back to his quarters.
He would be more effective here than sitting around in the First Circle, waiting for orders. He was more effective leading men through Udun and then the attempt at gaining a foothold in Lhingris than if he were equal to the rest. His holiday that became almost his normal work even seemed more effective because of the temporary ability to command and tell what to do.
As Harhanar turned his mind to the holiday, he shook his head. It was supposed to be a holiday, in a way. Temporarily reassigned to await for a message that would take a long time to arrive from the Dale-Lands to Edoras, and from there for Harhanar to bring it to Minas Tirith. He never did find out what was in the letter, but in the time for it to arrive, he knew he could just wander the rest of Rohan as long as he didn't miss his appointment.
So he had wandered on the borrowed horse loaned to him for that task, and began going leisurely north, then west. He wasn't sure what he would find, but he knew he wanted to have a glimpse at Isengard for himself, no matter what stories he'd heard from the farmers of Rohan. But he also knew that everything seemed a danger, and perhaps it would have been a bad idea to continue.
Would that it were so simple! Instead, he'd come across a Lord and his men doing battle with bandits, and in need of supporting fire. Tying his horse to a rock, Harhanar had snuck into the overgrown field, and regularly shot at the bandits with his crossbow. The support had been enough to distract the main force, and had even felled a few men as well. Harhanar had gotten hit with an arrow that had punctured through his front and had poked out his back, but that Harhanar still survived to face much worse told much about that injury. (He still winced as he remembered the act of removing the accursed thing).
How had that whole affair ended again? After the battle was done and Harhanar introduced himself to the Lord Thorvall, he'd been able to assist him. He wasn't able to stay to its conclusion, but he still wondered if the Lord lived. Granted, he may have fallen on the Pelennor, or at the Black Gate.
There was only one way to find out, even if it potentially brought up painful memories to his kin. The next time he saw Cirben, he'd have to ask her to refer him to someone who knew about the state of the Horse-Lords.
He sighed, turning his march towards the northwestern end of Dol Amroth.
