Chapter Nine: Sanctuary (III. 2924)
"Teima." Breathless, Lómëí pulled on the reins. The Ata halted. No matter how many times she had approached the city, it never ceased to strike admiration in her soul.
Haldanor gapped in awe. Never, in his life, had he seen anything like it. In all of his travels as a merchant, all of the wide and far away lands he had seen.. he had never beheld anything as magnificent as the oasis that shimmered on the brink of the desert. The walls that stood around the city of Teima seemed to reach the very heavens, shining a brilliant pearl in the late-midday sun. Several tall green fronds of trees feathered around the outskirts.
"Where are all of the traders?" He squinted, shifted in his seat.
"I do not know."
Something bothered her. Teima was the heart and life-force of this area of the desert, she had never seen it without swarms of merchants, mercenaries, religious folk, farmers and thieves bustling. The doors were closed, there was silence. It had been so long since she had been there, and it seemed the political situation had always been unstable. There were always small tribes attacking one another, always some strife plaguing the people. Her eyes scanned the tops of the walls, eventually finding what she feared. An archer leaned over, his helmet glistened in the sun.
The man called down to her in words Haldanor barely heard. Lómëí called back up to him in a clear, loud voice. "Marhabahn! Lómëí men-dowen Erindu!" There was a momentary silence before he yelled back down.
"Al-rahk makh? Bran alap?" There was mistrust in his voice. The conversation carried on that way for a good while, as Haldanor began to become very worried. There was little food left and virtually no water. If they weren't permitted entrance into the city.. well..
The doors were thrown open, Lómëí urged the Ata on through the monstrous silver walls, she slouched noticeably for a moment before stiffening her back. She whispered to Haldanor. "Look proud, say little. They are expecting an attack soon from a coalition of neighboring tribes. They will endure, as they have always done.. but still it brings great fear every time war looms on the horizon. Not good for trade." He nodded, straightened his back. What had ever possessed him to leave from the safety of known trade routes? It was madness here, the heat, the violence, the inhospitably dry land.
A man approached them, motioning with one hand for the reins of the Ata, which Lómëí dutifully handed over. "Marhabahn." She nodded at him. "Marhabahn.. B-shwana weishalma." He smiled curtly, pulling on the reins.
The man guided them into the stables. Haldanor had never seen the woman look so deadly serious, not even the tiniest amused smile broke her lips. Her chin was angled up, eyes taking in every aspect of the city. The beast rested beneath them on a floor of dead fronds, she swung her legs to the side and bounded off of it. He followed suit, surprising himself with the agility he could dismount the creature. The strange man who had led them there jabbered away in an odd tongue to Lómëí, who in turn spoke in a controlled, measured tone. Many seasons had passed since last she spoke the language of the inhabitants of Teima. What Westron was to the North, Kntahra was to the South, a common a tongue (for it literally meant, "Little bridge") for travelers.
Haldanor stood behind her, leaned forward, whispered into her ear. "Lómëí, what is going on?" His wrung his hands in distress, eyes darting from the side of her face to the man who tended the Ata.
"There is war on the horizon, as I said. We will stay here for several nights. Once the tribes throw all of their spears and hack at the outside walls with their weapons, they will tire and slink back out to sand dunes. The doors will be thrown open, Teima will rejoice, and we will trade!" She smiled, turned to face him. "I have seen this time after time. As the seasons revolve in the north, the cycle of the lives and squabbles of men repeat. Teima will fall one day, I suppose, but feel no fear. Today we will bathe and sleep, tonight we will feast and join the warriors."
His face blanched, he swallowed hard. "Warriors? I am not warrior.." Haldanor knew his power did not lie in his frail arms, but in his crafty mind. He loved history and tales of far away, and he supposed that was what drew him to becoming a merchant.
For years, since he was but a very young man, he had crossed from Gondor to Rohan, ventured into the west sometimes. He traveled with a host of fellow merchants of varying allegiances, some Rohirrim, some Gondorian. They had mocked him for the entirety of their journeys, but Haldanor remained convinced that just over the next rise of hill, just through the next glade, there would be something of unparalleled beauty and worth that he could acquire for a mere pittance of its price. And he would return to Rohan with it, make a sale to one of the noblemen. He would then have the money to collect what he truly desired: scrolls, books, tales of old recorded in writing. There were few Rohirrim who could read, and Haldanor prided himself on the ability. He wanted to live in Minas Tirith, work at the libraries, hiding in the darkness and shadow, have his life lit by flickering candles, to smell like melted wax and ancient papers and the musky, winding halls.
~
She leaned back into the water, feeling it surround her. It was beyond being merely hot, it was sweltering. A dense haze of steam filled the entire bath, no other figures moved in the wide expanses. She felt the smooth inlaid tiles beneath her skin. As her eyes closed, she gave herself over to serenity, her head disappeared beneath the scented waters. All was silent for a moment before her weary senses caught up. The her heart beating, blood coursing and pumping underneath skin, stomach churning with dull hunger pains. Bubbles of air snaked their way through her hair, now out of its braids, floating in a dark halo about her head. She was weightless, enshrouded in the searing moisture.
It was good to be back in Teima. She loved it with a passion though her father's people were from Erindu originally. They had become outcasts long ago, for some since forgotten travesty. The exiles had wandered through the deserts of Harad, into the far west, to the beaches and beyond to an tiny island not many knew of. This all was previous to her father's time, for he was the child of a mixture of the dusky warriors of Erindu and the olive- skinned intellectia of the sea civilization.
But Teima felt like home, many times she ventured with her mother to the trading outpost, had been amazed at the oasis that sprawled before her. It was welcome to enter the city after days in the desert. Half of her childhood was spent in the west, half of her time she traveled with her father.
Still she felt an exile, though. Her grasp of the language was slipping, the culture was ever-evolving and new tribes were cross-pollinating with others. Two mortal enemies in the time of her youth were now one common tribe. Chaos reigned in Harad, yet it was not without charm. The lives of men passed like the dunes in the desert, eroding, changing with time.
She sat up, leaned against the side of the bath. Several women disrobed in the mist, near the door and lowered themselves into the water, taking no notice of Lómëí, who sat a good distance away. Their voices chattered quietly, muted by the fog and absorbed by the potted plants that decorated the room.
Her arms and legs floated in the hot water, she moved her hands slowly from side to side, feeling the swirls of waves curl between her fingers.
~
Haldanor walked slowly through the narrow street, followed by a herd of giggling children. They shouted up at him, pulled at his robes. He shook them away, making sure to keep his purse close to his side and one hand on the hilt of the sword Lómëí had presented to him several nights before.
Gloaming time. What had she called it, "Me'esaw Alquir"? The temperature was fading slightly, along with the light. It was incredibly soothing. The sky burned amber and vermilion, blending with sapphire. Smells from all corners inundated him- spices, food, the sand and heat of the desert, the strange candies the noisy children were sucking on. It felt good to be clean again and dress himself in washed, cooler robes. Though he felt absurd dressing as a local, the kids seemed more fascinated with his alabaster skin than anything. They grabbed for the hand that was not gripping the sword tightly, trying to examine it. He was partially amused but more annoyed by their antics. They had never seen one with skin so deathly before. But his hair was as theirs, dark and shimmering... surely he could not be one of the Mniw-htr their parents taught them of, the horse lords from the north that made war on their people and stole children for immoral means?
The Teiman children finally left his side in interest of other spot, and he was alone, meandering through the mostly quiet streets. Strains of a musical instrument floated hauntingly on the air, every once in a while a bird or some other kind of beast would call out. Eventually he found himself standing in front of the building Lómëí told him to meet her at, and entered. He was immediately weighed down by the humidity of the place- it was a bath. He started, spun on his heel. He could not beat to enter such a place. Two women near the door- naked- smiled curiously at him. Haldanor halted a moment, looking into their kind brown eyes. One of them pointed to the far corner of the room, nodded, and spoke in Kntahra.
"You look for the strange woman?" She continued smiling.
Haldanor smiled back, perplexed. He had no idea what she was saying, but had a suspicion that the pointing was directed towards where he could find Lómëí. With a deep sigh, he summoned his courage and plunged into the silver depths of the room. The tiling beneath his feet was exquisite, he had never seen anything like it. Fired, smooth clay in various eye-piercing colors. Murals painted on the walls reenacted what looked to be common scenes from the lives of the Teimans. On one, a bird of prey dove to a bed of reeds, while several androgenous people watched on with sly, secretive smiles. They were cloaked in the same style robes that covered his pale, slender body.
"Westu hal!" a female voice called to him, he turned to see Lómëí reclined in the water, her back to him, her head craned around and a tiny smile on her lips. Her hair was limp and wet, stringy, no longer in braids. She smoothed it back, unconsciously pulled the hair back over her slightly pointed ears.
"Mae govannen. Or, what is the proper greeting here?" Haldanor stood his ground. He felt incredibly uncomfortable.
"'Marhabahn'. But the formal greeting is 'B-shwana weishalma.' It once was different, last time I was in Teima. The languages evolve so quickly." Her gaze dropped from his eyes to the tiles, then searched back up his body slowly. He squirmed under her contemplation, feeling her eyes grope him. "You look very... native." Her gray stare pierced into his, his breath failed for a moment.
"It was what you left for me to wear." He whispered.
She laughed loudly, the women near the door glanced to her momentarily, Haldanor couldn't help but smile. "Indeed. Yes. Now it is time for you to experience more things of a 'native' nature. We will eat." She lifted herself from the bath, water streamed down her stocky body, splashed from her thick hair as she wrung it. Haldanor noticed the scars which ran across her arms and legs, a scar on her soft stomach. He decided to not ask.
Lómëí continued giggling as he turned his head away, blush creeping into his silver face. He only looked up once she had wrapped herself in a gauzy white robe.
"I am dying of hunger, I fear." He laughed nervously, wondering what sort of things these Southrons ate. He had heard all sorts of terrifying stories in his travels.
She smiled at him as she slung her scabbard over a shoulder.
"After the meal, we will go to stand watch with the rest of the warriors."
"I already have warned you that I am no-"
"Yes, I am aware of that. Nor am I a warrior that can be compared to the Haradrim any longer. Once, perhaps, but now I am more of an object of distraction for my novelity of a half-breed." She held out her bare arms, motioning to the scars. "But it is of no concern. This is a good-will gesture to the dwellers of Teima, that we come in peace to them and mean Teima no harm. The tribes will not break the outside walls." She smiled, put a calloused but soft hand to his cheek. "There is no danger here, I have been inside the city countless times when attacks were imminent. I do not know why they worry so much. No perspective, I suppose."
Lómëí hated herself for sounding that way, as if the lives of men meant nothing. Of course they had perspective, better than one she could have. Just because she had outlived all the people she had known, did not necessarily make her intelligent or experienced. Her mother had taught her humility, and she feared she was losing it in favor of becoming a bitter immortal.
Haldanor nodded slowly, hoping to all the powers of Middle earth that he would not have to prove himself in battle that night. The woman's hand fell, caressing his arm and finally resting inside his hand. She led him from the steamy building into the quickly darkening streets. Crowds thronged about, mostly men with swords in the same design as his companion's. They were grim, but Haldanor was at east. Lómëí had said it was safe, and she would know better than he, a Rohirrim with no expose to the South.
Lómëí felt a sinking fear in her heart, moved to her gut. Something was different with this, the air crackled with absolute terror. Terrible things would be unleashed, and she had dragged Haldanor into the center of some kind of horrible war. And hated herself for presuming to know her mother country so well as to dismiss the obvious signs that something -bad- would happen before sunrise.
[Author's Notes:
Liqua Mire: Yes, there are many interpretations of where the origins of "Gálmód" come from, I've seen everything from 'mind of the gallows' to 'lewd and licentious.' I'm doing research on it right now and will include it in the next chapter featuring a mention of him. I'm going primarily with a 'mind of the gallows.' (see chapter six: it might have been too subtle, I'll mention it again later.)
Sorry this chapter took so long, I've been working on another couple stories and my website. Hope y'all enjoyed! And bet your bippy that the next Lómëí/Haldanor chapter will be crammed full of gorey, battling goodness!
The language: It's a hybrid of Arabic and Aramaic. 'Teima' is inspired from Byzantium/Constantinople/Istanbul, whatever you want to call it. Had thirty foot high walls, twenty feet thick...]
"Teima." Breathless, Lómëí pulled on the reins. The Ata halted. No matter how many times she had approached the city, it never ceased to strike admiration in her soul.
Haldanor gapped in awe. Never, in his life, had he seen anything like it. In all of his travels as a merchant, all of the wide and far away lands he had seen.. he had never beheld anything as magnificent as the oasis that shimmered on the brink of the desert. The walls that stood around the city of Teima seemed to reach the very heavens, shining a brilliant pearl in the late-midday sun. Several tall green fronds of trees feathered around the outskirts.
"Where are all of the traders?" He squinted, shifted in his seat.
"I do not know."
Something bothered her. Teima was the heart and life-force of this area of the desert, she had never seen it without swarms of merchants, mercenaries, religious folk, farmers and thieves bustling. The doors were closed, there was silence. It had been so long since she had been there, and it seemed the political situation had always been unstable. There were always small tribes attacking one another, always some strife plaguing the people. Her eyes scanned the tops of the walls, eventually finding what she feared. An archer leaned over, his helmet glistened in the sun.
The man called down to her in words Haldanor barely heard. Lómëí called back up to him in a clear, loud voice. "Marhabahn! Lómëí men-dowen Erindu!" There was a momentary silence before he yelled back down.
"Al-rahk makh? Bran alap?" There was mistrust in his voice. The conversation carried on that way for a good while, as Haldanor began to become very worried. There was little food left and virtually no water. If they weren't permitted entrance into the city.. well..
The doors were thrown open, Lómëí urged the Ata on through the monstrous silver walls, she slouched noticeably for a moment before stiffening her back. She whispered to Haldanor. "Look proud, say little. They are expecting an attack soon from a coalition of neighboring tribes. They will endure, as they have always done.. but still it brings great fear every time war looms on the horizon. Not good for trade." He nodded, straightened his back. What had ever possessed him to leave from the safety of known trade routes? It was madness here, the heat, the violence, the inhospitably dry land.
A man approached them, motioning with one hand for the reins of the Ata, which Lómëí dutifully handed over. "Marhabahn." She nodded at him. "Marhabahn.. B-shwana weishalma." He smiled curtly, pulling on the reins.
The man guided them into the stables. Haldanor had never seen the woman look so deadly serious, not even the tiniest amused smile broke her lips. Her chin was angled up, eyes taking in every aspect of the city. The beast rested beneath them on a floor of dead fronds, she swung her legs to the side and bounded off of it. He followed suit, surprising himself with the agility he could dismount the creature. The strange man who had led them there jabbered away in an odd tongue to Lómëí, who in turn spoke in a controlled, measured tone. Many seasons had passed since last she spoke the language of the inhabitants of Teima. What Westron was to the North, Kntahra was to the South, a common a tongue (for it literally meant, "Little bridge") for travelers.
Haldanor stood behind her, leaned forward, whispered into her ear. "Lómëí, what is going on?" His wrung his hands in distress, eyes darting from the side of her face to the man who tended the Ata.
"There is war on the horizon, as I said. We will stay here for several nights. Once the tribes throw all of their spears and hack at the outside walls with their weapons, they will tire and slink back out to sand dunes. The doors will be thrown open, Teima will rejoice, and we will trade!" She smiled, turned to face him. "I have seen this time after time. As the seasons revolve in the north, the cycle of the lives and squabbles of men repeat. Teima will fall one day, I suppose, but feel no fear. Today we will bathe and sleep, tonight we will feast and join the warriors."
His face blanched, he swallowed hard. "Warriors? I am not warrior.." Haldanor knew his power did not lie in his frail arms, but in his crafty mind. He loved history and tales of far away, and he supposed that was what drew him to becoming a merchant.
For years, since he was but a very young man, he had crossed from Gondor to Rohan, ventured into the west sometimes. He traveled with a host of fellow merchants of varying allegiances, some Rohirrim, some Gondorian. They had mocked him for the entirety of their journeys, but Haldanor remained convinced that just over the next rise of hill, just through the next glade, there would be something of unparalleled beauty and worth that he could acquire for a mere pittance of its price. And he would return to Rohan with it, make a sale to one of the noblemen. He would then have the money to collect what he truly desired: scrolls, books, tales of old recorded in writing. There were few Rohirrim who could read, and Haldanor prided himself on the ability. He wanted to live in Minas Tirith, work at the libraries, hiding in the darkness and shadow, have his life lit by flickering candles, to smell like melted wax and ancient papers and the musky, winding halls.
~
She leaned back into the water, feeling it surround her. It was beyond being merely hot, it was sweltering. A dense haze of steam filled the entire bath, no other figures moved in the wide expanses. She felt the smooth inlaid tiles beneath her skin. As her eyes closed, she gave herself over to serenity, her head disappeared beneath the scented waters. All was silent for a moment before her weary senses caught up. The her heart beating, blood coursing and pumping underneath skin, stomach churning with dull hunger pains. Bubbles of air snaked their way through her hair, now out of its braids, floating in a dark halo about her head. She was weightless, enshrouded in the searing moisture.
It was good to be back in Teima. She loved it with a passion though her father's people were from Erindu originally. They had become outcasts long ago, for some since forgotten travesty. The exiles had wandered through the deserts of Harad, into the far west, to the beaches and beyond to an tiny island not many knew of. This all was previous to her father's time, for he was the child of a mixture of the dusky warriors of Erindu and the olive- skinned intellectia of the sea civilization.
But Teima felt like home, many times she ventured with her mother to the trading outpost, had been amazed at the oasis that sprawled before her. It was welcome to enter the city after days in the desert. Half of her childhood was spent in the west, half of her time she traveled with her father.
Still she felt an exile, though. Her grasp of the language was slipping, the culture was ever-evolving and new tribes were cross-pollinating with others. Two mortal enemies in the time of her youth were now one common tribe. Chaos reigned in Harad, yet it was not without charm. The lives of men passed like the dunes in the desert, eroding, changing with time.
She sat up, leaned against the side of the bath. Several women disrobed in the mist, near the door and lowered themselves into the water, taking no notice of Lómëí, who sat a good distance away. Their voices chattered quietly, muted by the fog and absorbed by the potted plants that decorated the room.
Her arms and legs floated in the hot water, she moved her hands slowly from side to side, feeling the swirls of waves curl between her fingers.
~
Haldanor walked slowly through the narrow street, followed by a herd of giggling children. They shouted up at him, pulled at his robes. He shook them away, making sure to keep his purse close to his side and one hand on the hilt of the sword Lómëí had presented to him several nights before.
Gloaming time. What had she called it, "Me'esaw Alquir"? The temperature was fading slightly, along with the light. It was incredibly soothing. The sky burned amber and vermilion, blending with sapphire. Smells from all corners inundated him- spices, food, the sand and heat of the desert, the strange candies the noisy children were sucking on. It felt good to be clean again and dress himself in washed, cooler robes. Though he felt absurd dressing as a local, the kids seemed more fascinated with his alabaster skin than anything. They grabbed for the hand that was not gripping the sword tightly, trying to examine it. He was partially amused but more annoyed by their antics. They had never seen one with skin so deathly before. But his hair was as theirs, dark and shimmering... surely he could not be one of the Mniw-htr their parents taught them of, the horse lords from the north that made war on their people and stole children for immoral means?
The Teiman children finally left his side in interest of other spot, and he was alone, meandering through the mostly quiet streets. Strains of a musical instrument floated hauntingly on the air, every once in a while a bird or some other kind of beast would call out. Eventually he found himself standing in front of the building Lómëí told him to meet her at, and entered. He was immediately weighed down by the humidity of the place- it was a bath. He started, spun on his heel. He could not beat to enter such a place. Two women near the door- naked- smiled curiously at him. Haldanor halted a moment, looking into their kind brown eyes. One of them pointed to the far corner of the room, nodded, and spoke in Kntahra.
"You look for the strange woman?" She continued smiling.
Haldanor smiled back, perplexed. He had no idea what she was saying, but had a suspicion that the pointing was directed towards where he could find Lómëí. With a deep sigh, he summoned his courage and plunged into the silver depths of the room. The tiling beneath his feet was exquisite, he had never seen anything like it. Fired, smooth clay in various eye-piercing colors. Murals painted on the walls reenacted what looked to be common scenes from the lives of the Teimans. On one, a bird of prey dove to a bed of reeds, while several androgenous people watched on with sly, secretive smiles. They were cloaked in the same style robes that covered his pale, slender body.
"Westu hal!" a female voice called to him, he turned to see Lómëí reclined in the water, her back to him, her head craned around and a tiny smile on her lips. Her hair was limp and wet, stringy, no longer in braids. She smoothed it back, unconsciously pulled the hair back over her slightly pointed ears.
"Mae govannen. Or, what is the proper greeting here?" Haldanor stood his ground. He felt incredibly uncomfortable.
"'Marhabahn'. But the formal greeting is 'B-shwana weishalma.' It once was different, last time I was in Teima. The languages evolve so quickly." Her gaze dropped from his eyes to the tiles, then searched back up his body slowly. He squirmed under her contemplation, feeling her eyes grope him. "You look very... native." Her gray stare pierced into his, his breath failed for a moment.
"It was what you left for me to wear." He whispered.
She laughed loudly, the women near the door glanced to her momentarily, Haldanor couldn't help but smile. "Indeed. Yes. Now it is time for you to experience more things of a 'native' nature. We will eat." She lifted herself from the bath, water streamed down her stocky body, splashed from her thick hair as she wrung it. Haldanor noticed the scars which ran across her arms and legs, a scar on her soft stomach. He decided to not ask.
Lómëí continued giggling as he turned his head away, blush creeping into his silver face. He only looked up once she had wrapped herself in a gauzy white robe.
"I am dying of hunger, I fear." He laughed nervously, wondering what sort of things these Southrons ate. He had heard all sorts of terrifying stories in his travels.
She smiled at him as she slung her scabbard over a shoulder.
"After the meal, we will go to stand watch with the rest of the warriors."
"I already have warned you that I am no-"
"Yes, I am aware of that. Nor am I a warrior that can be compared to the Haradrim any longer. Once, perhaps, but now I am more of an object of distraction for my novelity of a half-breed." She held out her bare arms, motioning to the scars. "But it is of no concern. This is a good-will gesture to the dwellers of Teima, that we come in peace to them and mean Teima no harm. The tribes will not break the outside walls." She smiled, put a calloused but soft hand to his cheek. "There is no danger here, I have been inside the city countless times when attacks were imminent. I do not know why they worry so much. No perspective, I suppose."
Lómëí hated herself for sounding that way, as if the lives of men meant nothing. Of course they had perspective, better than one she could have. Just because she had outlived all the people she had known, did not necessarily make her intelligent or experienced. Her mother had taught her humility, and she feared she was losing it in favor of becoming a bitter immortal.
Haldanor nodded slowly, hoping to all the powers of Middle earth that he would not have to prove himself in battle that night. The woman's hand fell, caressing his arm and finally resting inside his hand. She led him from the steamy building into the quickly darkening streets. Crowds thronged about, mostly men with swords in the same design as his companion's. They were grim, but Haldanor was at east. Lómëí had said it was safe, and she would know better than he, a Rohirrim with no expose to the South.
Lómëí felt a sinking fear in her heart, moved to her gut. Something was different with this, the air crackled with absolute terror. Terrible things would be unleashed, and she had dragged Haldanor into the center of some kind of horrible war. And hated herself for presuming to know her mother country so well as to dismiss the obvious signs that something -bad- would happen before sunrise.
[Author's Notes:
Liqua Mire: Yes, there are many interpretations of where the origins of "Gálmód" come from, I've seen everything from 'mind of the gallows' to 'lewd and licentious.' I'm doing research on it right now and will include it in the next chapter featuring a mention of him. I'm going primarily with a 'mind of the gallows.' (see chapter six: it might have been too subtle, I'll mention it again later.)
Sorry this chapter took so long, I've been working on another couple stories and my website. Hope y'all enjoyed! And bet your bippy that the next Lómëí/Haldanor chapter will be crammed full of gorey, battling goodness!
The language: It's a hybrid of Arabic and Aramaic. 'Teima' is inspired from Byzantium/Constantinople/Istanbul, whatever you want to call it. Had thirty foot high walls, twenty feet thick...]