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Old 08-02-2006, 12:00 PM   #124
Durelin
Estelo dagnir, Melo ring
 
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Join Date: Oct 2002
Posts: 3,121
Durelin is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.Durelin is battling Black Riders on Weathertop.
Khamir

Khamir wasn’t sure who surprised him more at this point: Hadith or Joshwan. He had looked at Hadith for the longest time and saw such a boy, still a child. But he held that blade in his hand with such confidence, so steady, and whether or not he was really prepared to kill anyone, Khamir could tell the young man could do it if he had to. But only if he had to. He was a smart young man, with a good heart. The one-armed man spared a moment to wonder how such a man could have grown up as a slave, in a world of violence, thievery, backstabbing, torture, and oppression. Hadith, who Khamir had called ‘boy’ since he met him, had not allowed the world around him, the kind of life he had been forced to live to shape him. Khamir had failed.

He might as well be like Fewerth, Joshwan, and Guilledean, thieves and backstabbers, dishonest men who took advantage of people and situations even at the expense of others. Like most of those in Mordor, their actions were based almost entirely on survival. How often did they even think about what they wanted to do? Did they actually have fun taking advantage of people, or did they simply deem it necessary? Khamir was fairly certain of the latter. The real question, though, for all Mordorians, was who they were trying to keep alive. With these three, it was obvious: they cared about only themselves.

Still, a man who vigorously defended his life wasn’t necessarily a danger to others. Perhaps he could even be of help.

Staring down at the two blades at his feet, Khamir sheathed the two in his hand, and reached down to pick up the Easterling blade. It was of beautiful craftsmanship. Khamir recalled ceremonial knives his father had owned, and he would always believe those rivaled the beauty of any weapons, but this still held its own. As he stared at it, though, and watch the sun glint off the metal, he could feel it as if it was lodged in his side. This was where the money was in Mordor, all the resources – with men like these bounty hunter pigs, men with hearts as black as Melkor’s.

Where had all that hope gone? Khamir searched for that feeling he had on that day he wrote the letter, and even more so on the day he received a message back. He almost felt prepared to believe in Gondor at that moment, though he had been more inclined to simply believe in this ‘Elessar’ than the entirety of what Gondor was and stood for. But now it seemed he was back in the same rut of survival and a hope for more, never reaching whatever that ‘more’ was.

At least he knew there were good men left in this world, even in what was still the darkest part of it.

“Hadith, give Joshwan your knife.”

The younger man looked at Khamir, his eyes suddenly wider than before, and he seemed frozen for a moment. Khamir did not blame him. Giving a weapon to an enemy…no, not an enemy. It was difficult to shake such feelings off. The one-armed man was not used to extending trust to anyone. They had to extend it to him, first, and show him somehow that they could be trusted. But, Hadith had done this, and he had failed to see it until now. This trust issue was too abstract, too fleeting – was it even a matter of trust?

Perhaps what Hadith did, was, because, after a little assertion, the young man did as the older one told. Joshwan was frozen in his place, too, glancing from Hadith to the knife to Khamir: mostly eyeing Khamir and the knife.

“You were the only man here who showed bravery other than Hadith. Use that knife well, even if only to protect yourself. And remember that I still have three knives to your one.”

Khamir extended his arm, holding out the Easterling knife, letting it rest in the palm of his hand, balancing the weight of it. “Hadith, this is yours,” he said to the boy without waiting for any kind of response from Joshwan or his friends. “He was your kill – his blade is yours now. You’ll never forget the first man you killed, anyway.”

Looking at the genuine happiness and triumph in the young man’s eyes as he took the blade that the one-armed man offered to him, it was clear that in some ways Hadith still was a boy, young, hopeful, and at least a little naïve. Khamir wondered how long Mordor would allow him to retain such a look and feeling of youth.

Picking up the last knife, he found Eirnar, and held it out to him. “Protect Aedhild with this, at least. She does not need any more pain to come to her.” Eirnar accepted it hesitantly, eyeing Khamir, perhaps wondering who this man really was. The problem was, at this point, Khamir himself did not know at all.

“The sun is fast arriving,” he called out to everyone, or at least those near him, “We’d best get rest tonight, and lay low tomorrow. We have the wounded to take care of, and we must stay together. They will not kill the children; we have time.”

Though very little…
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