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Old 08-04-2006, 05:25 PM   #128
Nogrod
Flame of the Ainulindalë
 
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Hadith

In the end everything had happened just a bit too fast for Hadith to cope with. He had thanked and nodded to Khamir, taking his leave as Khamir had addressed Eirnar. As he withdrew from Khamir and others he realised that he was shaking all over. The excitement of the previous situation bounced back on him only now. He felt his heart beat twice the normal speed and his hands were trembling. But in those shaky hands of his there was the long knife, the beautiful blade and it’s sheath that the young Easterling had bore with him as he had fallen off from his mount. Hadith remembered just too vividly how the mutilated young man had looked like when he had turned him around after he had been beaten to death. With that memory he felt both anguished and insecure on top of all that had happened just a moment ago. The feeling of triumph was fading away fast.

He went to search for his packages from the general disorder, just to employ his mind on something else. But the thoughts and images kept flowing into his mind. And for the time being, he was finding nothing.

Suddenly there was the image of his father handing him an orange. It was soon blurred and replaced by an image of Khamir giving him the knife, not once or twice, but three times in succesion. And then there was something Hadith thought he had never quite recalled before: the image of his father bowing over him and whispering, “you’ll have to stand for the good.. never to bow to the wicked ways.” He had always related that sentence to his mother as it was something she had kept on telling him, but now it was also his father that was whispering the very same words into his ears inside.

His father had had a full beard that had covered most of his face, but more vividly than that Hadith remembered his gleaming eyes. There was something in Khamir that looked the same. Only now did Hadith actually pay heed to the colour of Khamir’s skin. It was the same his father had had. Hadith himself had somewhat lighter tone of colour on his skin but it could be easily traced back to that of his father, and that of Khamir. His mother had been so pale... Hadith tried all his strength to come up with the name of the place his mother had been from. Osglininnian? Oglithiar?... He couldn’t remember it, but it was in a part of the world that was called Gronror, or Gorondor, or something. He had heard those places mentioned once or twice but he couldn’t just come up with them.

Anyhow, Hadith had different facial features from his father, or Khamir, with high cheekbones and slim ears. That had something to do with his mother. But who had told him to stand up and fight for the good? It had been his mother. But was it his father too? Or was it himself? And what did Khamir had to do with all this? Why was he drawn to him so strongly? Just because there was something in Khamir that reminded him of his father? He had stood against three adult men in front of Khamir, because of something else than only his own pride, surely.

Hadith was baffled. He kept turning the blade in his hands as he walked aimlessly around the still confused camp of the refugees. He didn’t see his packages, but even if they had been in front of him, he wouldn’t have noticed them anyway. He was too immersed in his thoughts and doubts. Who was he? Who were all the people around him? Who were the Easterling slavers pursuing them?
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