[Durelin]

Khamir

The “Dwarf,” as Khamir had learned the short, flame-haired man was, had been incredibly kind, and the Southron was still surprised by his kind, soft-spoken nature. His respect for the Fellowship had only been increasing since they arrived, and it left him feeling a little lost – though it was a more pleasant feeling than any like it he had ever had. There was little joy for himself, but plenty for others, and that made up for his losses. He was unhappy with his position, mostly because he had no idea what it was.

He was a raging mix of pride and disappointment, happiness and bitterness, strength and fear. The coming battle filled him with excitement, and he still stuck to his belief that they could not lose now, not now that they had spirit and, though he shocked himself to think it, the help of Gondor. They had waited for it for so long, that, now that it had been received, these heroes of the King were more like men out of legends than ever. And there was even an Elf among them! The tall, dark-haired man with strange ears, it was said, was an Elf, thousands and thousands of years old! With such wisdom and experience, they were in good company.

But what place did Khamir have in the coming battle? He had only one arm, he could not draw a bow, he did not have a sword and had not carried one since his youth. The Dwarf, Vrór he was called, only reassured him when he voiced his concerns, but gave no suggestions. His face, even with the majority of it covered with orange hair, appeared a little perplexed. Khamir said nothing, but inwardly thanked him for his kindness. Unable to remain with the Dwarf, obviously a natural warrior if this was the natural appearance and nature of his people, the one-armed man went to find Beloan. Even now, he would seek the man’s counsel.

His friend was leading the group of foot soldiers, and was going over plans for where they would conceal themselves until all the traps had been sprung and the archers had their share of the enemy, and how they would time their attack with regards to the predicted sandstorm. Seeing him busy, and with Joshwan, Khamir decided that now was not the best time to speak with him. His pride just could not handle being looked at as some poor injured creature, beaten down from its former position – for that was surely how many of them saw it, when they had been adverse to his leadership for some time now.

Discovering that Shae was to be a member of a small group of horsemen, he felt particularly alone.

He had to take his place somewhere in the battle, and he supposed that with these other regular “soldiers” as they suddenly called themselves was as good a fit as any. It seemed like another life in which he had drawn back a bowstring, his sights on a black-tailed jackrabbit, a kill to impress his father…

With only three throwing knives, they would not last him long. And however quick he was with his longer hunting knife, it would be nothing against the slavers’ swords and spears. He had always been about survival, and now he found himself feeling almost trapped. Over the past couple months, he had begun to realize that his own survival had been surpassed in importance by that of others. Perhaps now he could resign himself to that.

“Wi…will this knife be enough?” came a hesitant but clear and assured voice from somewhere behind him, whispering under the louder voices of Beloan and Joshwan. He turned to see the boy – or young man – who had been on watch when the slavers first attacked. Adnan. Khamir could picture his face that night, the grief and rage and shame twisting it, and looking at the fifteen year old now, he was certain that it already bore new marks of age. The way Adnan held out the knife he had been granted not too long ago it seemed he had been using it for years.

Khamir smiled, a slight smirk, from pride and compassion rather than from happiness, but his voice was as steady and heavy as ever when he spoke. “Yes, yes it will. But we will have to watch each others’ backs, won’t we?”