Tarsorel heard the word shouted in the inns common room and his blood ran cold. "Quawha!" He did not know what the word meant. But he knew from where it came. It was. Southron language, either Harradric or close enough so as to make no difference. The old soldiers eyes locked onto the source of the word and found a young, olive skinned woman dressed in simple clothes. Yet his eyes were drawn to the large curved blade worn on her back. The blade of a Southron.
At once his mind flashed back in time. To his days serving in Harondor, in the contested lands between Harad and Gondor. Of being charged by one hundred Harad warriors on the dusty hardscrabble plains. He remembered the fighting, a small skirmish in reality but brutal and bloody nonetheless.
Tarsorel’s unit was outnumbered two to one and was fighting a retreating action to the river Poros, where they were to meet up with reinforcements to engage a counter attack. But Tarsorel’s unit was separated from the main, and for three days had been harassed and attacked by the Haradrim. From two hundred men they were down to fifty. The Gondorians had had no sleep and no respite from attacks for three days. They could not even recover their dead, and the vicious Haradrim slaughtered any wounded left on the field. Three days of fear and blood and death. Three days that were burned into Tarsorel’s memories. And paramount in those three days were the terrible curved swords of the Haradrim and the butchery they caused.
**WARNING - VIOLENT IMAGERY AHEAD**
He was brought back to the present when the olive skinned woman came to his table with Flynagin, whom Tarsorel had met earlier that night. She seemed pleased to smell the coffee Tarsorel had procured for himself, Emmawynn and Sicarra. He did not hear Flynagin introduce her, and so he asked her name. He pointedly did not stand, as was his custom when a woman approached. His mind was still filled with blood. Yet he did finally catch her and. Jaidhe…of Pelargir
And he went back again, to a different place and time. The same curved blades that haunted him from Harandor returned to his nightmares near Calembel. The blades had fell mercilessly in his family while Tarsorel was helpless. They removed the limbs of his parents, his wife and child, his grandmother, from their bodies with practiced brutality. Gazakh and his men were very efficient in their butchery. When Tarsorel finally was able to see his family he could not find all their limbs and pieces. He remember the terror that gripped him, and how he fled without gathering the remains of his family to bury them.
He fled, and kept fleeing, remaining at the bottom of a bottle for many years. He did, or through inaction allowed, awful things to happen while drinking his way north. And worse, while encamped with the Bannerless. He was a shell by the time he reached Bree. And still, he saw the curved swords in his dreams.
By the time he met Ryheric, though, the fear had left him. Replaced by self hatred and the desire for death. And perhaps, he hoped for in his dark Vil est moments, this young Haradrim with the Pasha’s blade would do the job of which the whisky had failed. Perhaps he would finally end Tarsorel’s pain. It would, considered the broken man, be fitting after all.
He returned to the present. Sicarra noticed Tarsorel's change in demenor. "Will you excuse us" she mouthed to Emmawynn. But when Emmawynn tried to stand, Tarsorel spoke. "Sit down" he said to Emmawynn, and it was not a request, but a command. Emmawynn sat meekly, having heard a tone in the old soldiers voice she had never heard before. Sicarra persisted, "Come with me," she said, trying to remove Tarsorel from the situation. But the man did not move, but instead watched at the olive skinned woman "From Perligar" he said with a deadly calm voice. Sicarra tried to pull at his arm, to get him to move, but the thin woman had no hope of moving Tarsorel's bulk.
"Yes! I lived there for quite some time. My family- we were bakers and paperworkers and seamstresses and things," responded the young woman, apparently as yet unaware of Tarsorel's tense stance.
"Paperworkers," asked Tarsorel. "I did not know there were paperworkers in Harad," At this something shifted in Jaidhi's demenor. The previously outgoing and bubbly became cagey. She glances to the door, as if wanting to leave.
"Harad," she asked, "You must be mistaken. I am from Pelagir, as my friend Harry said." She motioned Flynagin, and Tarsorel barely registers that the man had given her a false name.
Tarsorel stood and rounded the table. He did not consciously realize, though others had noticed, this his had was on the hilt of his sword, though it remained sheathed. "Then tell me, Jaidhe of Peligir....why do you bear the sword of a Southron?" SIcarra, who had been trying to get Jaidhe to leave the situation, stopped her efforts. The air seemed to leave the room.
Jaidhe 's own fingers twitched. She was near to trembling, though whether from rage or fear or some mixture it was hard to tell. She seemed to want to burst out, to shout, to say something in defiance: but instead she let another shaken breath. "It was my father's blade. I do not know how he came upon it." She turned to 'Harry', her eyes looking sad, even haunted. "Thank you for the drinks, Harry... I don't suppose I'll see you again in Herne." With that, she gave Tarsorel a cold glance and made purposefully towards the door.
"No need," said Tarsorel, releasing the hilt of his sword. "Stay if you will. I need some air." And with that, Tarsorel exited the inn.
Sicarra followed Tarsorel out of the inn. The old solder was breathing hard, standing by the brazier in the deep of the night. But before much would be said, a half drunk Flynagin walked towards him. The man carried two ales, filled to the brim. You ought to apologize to her, you know." he said. Tarsorel frowned at the instructions. Who was this man to instruct Tarsorel on proper manners? On when to apologies? Anger again flared in the old soldier.
"Flynagin of Combe. Tell me why I should apologize to her?" The question was simple, yet filled with deep meaning.
The young man responded, "Why should you treat her any different than me, simply cause I'm from Combe? And she's from Harad?" Tarsorel nearly laughed aloud. This young man, who had likely seen no more then twenty summers, was lecturing a Man of Gondor?
"Where did you fight, Flynagin of Combe, so be so knowledgable of the world?"
The young man responded quickly. "The arenas of Ost Forod. Two years in a row, actually. I didn't place the first year, but did get into the third bracket the second year!" A gladiator. A man who fought for coin and pride. This was no warrior, thought Tarsorel. It was no wonder he did not understand.
"Did you serve along side men you considered your brothers? Only to have them struck down by Harad arrows and swords. Did you see your fellows killed as they lay wounded, with no quarter or mercy given?" Tarsorel pressed the question, and when Flynagin responded by asking if these were the virtues that Tarsorel's brothers died defending, the old soldier erupted. "My brothers died defending Gondor! They died fighting the barbarians of the south, and she displays her sword like a trophy, like a badge of honor. Do not speak to me of virtue, gladiator. I know from whence I speak. Honor and dignity and righteous anger...those are mine today! If the girl is owed an apology," Tarsorel continued his outraged speech. "You say, 'Then I will deem it thus. Do not think to lecture me on the way things should be!" Flynigan, angered by Tarsorel's hard words, threw one of his kids to the ground in disgust, shattering it. L
Later, Sicarra and Tarsorel spoke in private. The discussed many things, foremost of which what happened that evening. And even after that, Tarsorel was not sure he was sorry for what he had said and done. He did not know if he should feel ashamed or if he had stood for his comrades who had fallen at Harondor. What he did know is that he would likely see the young Haradrim woman again. And he did not know how he would react when that happened.
