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Time seemed to pass by both languidly slow and entirely too fast in the City of Many Waters. Eldarion arose each morning to the soft trilling of birds in the gardens beneath his windows and whiled away the heated afternoons either reclined on soft rugs beneath a canopy of scarlet linen or taking long walks through the streets of Harmindon (never without at least a pair of Haradrim guards by his side). On the days when he stayed in the citadel, he spent much time getting to know more of Harad's customs and history. Bakr taught him how to read the simplest of Haradrim calligraphy, Na'Man taught him the strings on their lute-like instrument known as a tanbūr, and Zamira taught him that pointing the bottom of one's shoe at another person was considered extremely rude. After one such unfortunate lesson over lunch, Eldarion took enormous care to be aware of the positioning of his feet at all times. Túrien was still teasing him whenever the ramyah of Abrakhân happened to pass by, which was not often given how many hours the women spent in Harmindon's council chambers with Aragorn, Elphir and Éomer each day.

As for Túrien, she grew brown as a berry and as forthright as any ramyah the longer they stayed in Harmindon. Eldarion had always known his middle sister to be unafraid of speaking her mind, but now Túrien became downright bold. She came and went from the citadel with impunity, earning her a scolding from their father one evening after she was not to be found for dinner. Túrien seemed completely unafraid of the Haradrim though, despite all the years of scarcely forgotten blood and emnity that lay between their two peoples. Every day she went out, clad in borrowed silks and woven sandals, and mingled with the people. Sawda reassured Aragorn and Eldarion that Túrien was being accompanied, and every evening she eventually reappeared unscathed, her pockets filled with bone carvings and little knives which she had bartered for. Sometimes she would come to Eldarion's rooms after dinner and regale him with tales of her adventures.

"...and then the old woman told us that blue eyes were the mark of a seer. She said that there was once a Bone Mother in Bozisha-Dar who had blue eyes, and could read when the rains would come every time without fail."

Eldarion had never heard of Bone Mothers or Bozisha-Dar, but Túrien spoke with such animation that he could hardly wish to interrupt her. He did however pick up on something that made him quirk an eyebrow.

"Us?"

Túrien batted the question away as though it were an irritating fly. "Never you mind. Tomorrow I must show you the old marketplace though! You wouldn't believe the things which..."

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Even adventures must come to an end, and soon enough they found themselves measuring the time until their return to Minas Tirith in days rather than weeks. Aragorn told Eldarion and Túrien that negotiations for peace were making good progress, but that one matter remained to be settled; that of South Gondor. The ramyahs had made it clear that they expected an answer regarding the question of that vast land, an answer which Aragorn did not feel he was in a position to freely give, even as king. Éomer could hardly help him in that arena, although he had capitulated that Rohan would back Gondor no matter their final answer.

The decision could be delayed at least for one more day at least. Over a dinner of roast lamb and spicy soup the night before, Na'Man had informed them that Sawda had something special planned for them on the morn. When Túrien tried to press him for more information, the chieftain had simply chuckled and tugged the hem of Túrien's shawl.

"You are as eager as a meerkat, daughter of queens. I promise you, what you will see tomorrow is something no child of the West has even witnessed before."

"At least, not something they have ever witnessed in safety and ease," interjected Tufayl from down the table. The scars marring his face pulled as he smirked, making Eldarion swallow uncertainly.

That uncertain feeling lingered even as Eldarion followed Túrien and the others down from the citadel and through the city. The sun had barely begun to rise over the cliffs surrounding Harmindon, and the ever-present bubbling of water in the aquaducts echoed faintly overhead. All the Haradrim were awake though, and a growing throng of people were making their way through the streets. Beyond the perimeter of their Haradrim and Rohirrim guards, children stared openly and pointed. Even after three weeks, the presence of the pale-skinned 'Westerlings' was still a sight to be remarked upon.

Na'Man led them out into the labyrinth of stone once again, but this time they did not come to the oasis where the Mûmakil herd dwelt. Instead, following the swarthy river of humanity between walls of pale sandstone, they emerged out into a vast, sandy bowl. Wooden benches on five levels ringed the space along the walls, and hundreds of Haradrim were already picking their way among these, finding space for families large and small to all sit together. A hum of anticipation suffused the voices of the masses, making the stony clearing sound as if it were home to an enormous bee hive. The flag of Near Harad – a black serpent rampant on scarlet – was to be seen hanging along the rock walls nearly every ten paces. It was very much the sort of atmosphere one might expect from an arena before a joust.

"Come, we shall sit in the ramyah's box."

Na'Man ushered them along the front of the stands. They came to a raised section set atop the tallest two rows, bounded by low screens and clearly meant for dignitaries. Rather than benches, individual seats of carved wood awaited them, and Eldarion sat at his father's right with Túrien beside him. She had mutilated yet another of her gowns to suit the Haradrim tastes; in addition to being parted from its sleeves, the tangerine-orange dress had been severed and re-hemmed with beads at the midrift, exposing almost a full hand-span of Túrien's waist. Éomer had raised his eyebrows when he saw the newest fashion statement but held comment, seeing as Gulim had worn a similar gown only just the day before and to remark would be to possibly offend Pazghar's proud young ramyah.

"Ada, do you know what it is we're going to be seeing?" Eldarion leaned in to murmur in Aragorn's ear. He liked surprises as much as the next person, but the presence of so many black serpent flags was making him antsy.

Aragorn shook his head subtly, and the desert sun turned the frost in his beard into gold. "No, Eldarion, but all is well. I have come to trust Lord Elphir's earlier assessment of our hosts. Whatever spectacle they have planned for us, the chieftains and ramyahs will not allow it to go awry."

Seeing that even Éomer was comfortable enough to lean back in his seat and chat with Bakr, Eldarion tried to dispel the lingering feeling of...anticipation which hung heavy across his shoulders like a cloak. Just as before when the army had marched to the Sea of Rhûn, there seemed to be something unseen in the air which troubled him and him alone. Briefly he wished that his mother were here, or Legolas. He wondered if either of them would have sensed what it was that kept his stomach tight and neck tense, even as acrobats - all as colourful as May-Day flowers - capered across the sandy arena to entertain the crowd. Their antics were clearly just preamble to something far more important though. Eldarion caught Na'Man's eye. That same raptor-sharp look of deeper knowing which the chieftain had first worn when they met in the kings' tent in Rhûn pierced Eldarion. Something significant was about to happen here. For good or ill....Eldarion could not say. He opened his mouth to speak to Na'Man.

It was at that precise moment that the piercing music of long, thin horns filled the ring of stone. The ramyahs were ready to make their entrance. All rose as Sawda, Zamira, and Gulim entered from the north under a canopy of gold cloth born aloft by servants. The Haradrim women were resplendent in wraps of bead-encrusted silks, their dark eyes glittering beneath shawls of the lightest greens and richest blues. They were greeted by both arms outstretched from all the people in the stands, as a child would reach out toward their mother. None of the ramyahs wore jewels though, and a week ago today Eldarion had learned why. According to Túrien, all the ramyahs of Near Harad had been asked by Zamira to give up their precious stones in the aftermath of the War of the Ring. They had sold their treasures to traders from Far Harad and Rhûn, and used the resulting gold to rescue their people from near-starvation. Between war and drought, Haradwaith struggled to hide their weaknesses from their Westerling guests. So detailed and bright was the beadwork on the ramyahs' shawls, Eldarion never would have known that they were diminished so. He thought Gulim hardly needed jewels to be beautiful anyway. Still he felt his nerves clench with unease. Why did he feel this way?

The ramyahs settled themselves in the box as the crowd took to their seats once more. A hush fell across the crowd of more than a thousand strong. It was an eerie stillness in a space so large. Aragorn slid a hand onto the arm of Eldarion's chair and squeezed silently. Could his father read the coiled readiness in Eldarion's frame? Hear the way his heart thundered in his chest as an unseen voice murmured 'something is coming' from the back of his mind?

Something was indeed coming. The call of horns and the pound of drums began low at first; more a rumble than a song. A chorus of men on the far side of the arena with voices nearly as deep and rich as Bakr took up a droning that gradually grew in strength and took on notes. They sang in an earthy harmony that echoed within the space and mingled with the drums.

Doom...doom...doom....

The drums spoke, and Eldarion felt the ground begin to rumble beneath them even up through the wood of the stands. Something, no....many somethings were drawing near, their approach moving in time to the beats of the drums. The horns swelled, carrying the voices of the choir aloft with them, and every head turned to greet their arrival.

Mûmakil, every bull left remaining in the herd of Harmindon. They emerged from a channel in the sandstone out into the arena, so tall that the towering howdah each of them carried on their backs - over one hundred feet in the air - nearly scraped the roof of the passage. They were arrayed in all of the armour, the chains, the war-paint, which Eldarion had seen in paintings depicting the Battle of Pelennor Fields. The Mûmakil's heads swayed back and forth in enormous arcs, and Eldarion remembered how those chains strung from tusk to tusk could sweep a dozen riders from the field in the blink of an eye. The stark black, white, and red paint lining their trunks and edging their faces made them appear even more fiercesome, like a creature from a storybook come alive straight off the pages. All told there were twelve of them, and the Mûmakil made the ground shake as they arranged themselves into a wedge in the centre of the arena. These were not the docile, lumbering creatures which Eldarion had seen around the oasis two weeks back. These were Mûmakil, and their presence filled even that vast space in such a way that Eldarion felt smaller than a sparrow.

That was when the march began. The drums started anew, setting a firm, methodical rhythm which countered the beating of Eldarion's heart. Their vast heads still swinging back and forth in time, the Mûmakil arranged themselves in a line from the innermost point of the circle out. On some unseen signal, all the beasts took a step forward together, and the impact made the ground tremble. The choir took up their chant, and this time they were joined by the answering voices of the Haradrim riders. Their voices echoed outward from the towering howdahs, both a song and a command in one.

Éomer stiffened in his seat, calloused hands instinctually finding the hilt of his sword Gúthwinë where it rested on his belt. There was an odd look in his eye, as if he were seeing and hearing a ghost. Elphir was quick to catch Éomer's wrist even as the king of Rohan gathered himself. Éomer's gaze remained fixed on the swaying Mûmakil. He sat transfixed, a look of both awe and something more akin to horrified recognition tightening his sun-weathered face.

"The last time they looked like that...sang like that, a city was burning," Éomer whispered.

Then, the beat of the drums changed. No longer circling the arena together in a sundial's line, the Mûmakil fanned out and began to weave in what could only be described as a dance of giants. The Mûmaks, their drivers, or both together found their ways into a pattern which saw them swing and sway, the riders on the howdahs coming so close together at the turns that a man on the back of one creature could have reached out to touch his brother on the back of another. To see such vast beasts move together in such a precise, nay graceful way baffled all expectations.

"Behold, Lords of the West, the glory of our people!" Sawda proclaimed, her hands outstretched upward toward the Mûmakil.

Eldarion sat like a man enspelled, his mouth open and his heart shuddering with each thunderous beat of the drums. His wonder and anticipation only grew when the riders stood upon the edges of the howdahs...and leapt out into open air. Rather than fall to the ground, they flew. Tethered to long cables of fibrous, vine-like rope, the Haradrim swung back and forth from Mûmak to Mûmak. Sometimes they met in midair and, catching hold of one another's cables, switched places on their arcing journeys. All the while the music of the choir and the beating of the drums kept tempo, like the clockwork ticking of an ancient heart. This was a moment as fiercesome and proud and primal as had ever been seen before in all of Middle-Earth, and Eldarion knew then that his life was forever changed. How could he ever hate such a people, no matter where their paths led them beyond this day? Even if fate saw fit to place them on opposite sides of a battlefield again, Eldarion knew he would mourn each Haradrim life lost as dearly as that of any son of Gondor or Rohan.

Túrien was up and moving. Ignoring the calls of her father and brother, she swung herself down and over the barrier between the box and the lower stands. A leap and a bound placed her down onto the floor of the arena. Her skirts fluttering behind her, Túrien ran forward, into the path of the approaching Mûmak. It's tusks swept the sand, red blood-red banners streaming overhead as its endless shadow fell upon Túrien.

"Túrien!" Aragorn shouted, on his feet but too far away to stop her.

A single rider swooped through the air, his tether to the howdah stretching to its fullest length as he swung to the ground. A golden sash tied around his waist marked him out like a gleaming falcon. Túrien stretched up her arms to the sky. One moment she stood there, a single tiny figure amongst the Mûmakil, and the next she was gone, caught up by the golden rider as he flew. They flew together, her holding tight to him and him guiding them both up and onto the back of the Mûmak.

Aragorn, Eldarion, Éomer and Elphir were stunned. Éomer looked ready to start shouting. Elphir stammered helplessly and pointed back and forth between Túrien's empty seat and the Mûmakil. Eldarion looked to his father. Aragorn stood like a man struck over the head. His grey eyes remained fixed on the orange of Túrien's gown for as long as they could until the Mûmak carrying her veered away into the throng. Then he met Eldarion's eye. They stared at one another, and for the first time ever Eldarion realized that his father did not know what to do. Both lost, all they could do was turn to their Haradrim hosts.

The ramyahs and chieftains were also on their feet, but unlike Eldarion and the others they seemed more concerned with the men in the box rather than the girl on the Mûmak. Zamira slowly laid a hand on Aragorn's elbow, her cloudy eyes understanding.

"Do not be afraid, King of Gondor. Your daughter is in no danger."

"No danger?!" Éomer exclaimed, pointing at the still-parading Mûmakil. "That...madwoman ran out into the path of the Oliphants with no warning, none at all! She could fall, she could be-"

"She will not fall, King Éomer," said Na'Man firmly. "She is with Sufyan, and he knows the ways of the Mûmakil better than I ever did."

"Perhaps there is yet hope for our two peoples after all."

Everyone's shock and concern was interrupted by the calm, throaty voice of Gulim. Consternation still written on their faces, the men of the West turned to the ramyah of Pazghar.

"What do you mean by that, Lady Gulim?" asked Aragorn.

Gulim smiled, a small quirk of the lips but more than had been seen from her since their arrival in Harmindon. "If a Princess of Gondor can ride a Mûmak, then perhaps there is yet hope that our two peoples might find a common future. Look."

Eldarion glanced at his father before following Gulim's outstretched finger to the seats ringing the arena. To his surprise, he saw that they were just about the only ones unhappy with this sudden turn of events. The Haradrim people were agog. Children pointed and babbled at their parents. Elders raised their eyebrows and shook their heads in bemusement. Men and women alike seemed fascinated by the sight of a princess of Gondor, perched atop the howdah of their clan's Mûmak with ebony hair streaming her like a pennant. Sufyan stood at her side, his hood undone and a broad-lipped smile on his face. Beneath them, the Mûmak carried on its weaving dance, trunk curled and painted ears flapping.

Aragorn and Eldarion stood together in the ramyah's box, watching the scene before them unfold. Beyond shade of doubt, Eldarion knew that this was what the breath of foresight carried in his blood had been warning him of. Túrien was beyond their reach, and all they could do was watch her fly.

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That evening, the decision was made to take the drafted peace treaty drawn up over their stay in Harmindon to the Great Council of Gondor. Sawda, Zamira, and Gulim put their seals on the parchment next to Aragorn and Éomer's signatures. The treaty would not be legally binding until it carried the Great Seal of Gondor on its bottom line. That would remain to be done in Minas Tirith. The ramyahs were placated in having to wait though when Aragorn assured them that Arwen would also be overlooking the treaty at it ratification.

"Take our words and our hopes back with you to your White City, King Aragorn. Show them to your queen, and tell her of all that you have seen and done here in our City of Many Waters," Sawda told Aragorn as she handed the sealed document to him. "Take with you my chieftain Na'Man and my son Sufyan as well, so that they might learn of you as you have learned of us."

Aragorn bowed deeply before the ramyahs and chieftains, holding their treaty to his breast with both hands. "Your husband and son will be as welcome and honoured in Minas Tirith as you have made us here, Lady Sawda. Although our accord does not yet bear the seal of Gondor, I speak with hope when I say that I foresee a long and honourable future between your people and mine."

Sawda smiled. She spoke then to Éomer. "Think well on us, King of the Green Mark. There is much blood between our two peoples, but now I hope that there is also some understanding at least."

Éomer bowed, slowly yet deeply. "Much has passed between Rohan, Gondor, and Harad since the Third Age of Middle-Earth. Long will I remember the horns of Harad and the thunder of Mûmakil before the walls of Minas Tirith. But..." He straightened, gazing unflinchingly from Sawda to Na'Man and back. "Longer will I remember the majesty of Harmindon's herd, and the skill of her riders."

"Then I am content," said Sawda. "May the stars and the Golden Serpent of the Dawn watch over you on your journey home, Men of the West. And you, Daughter of Kings..." The ramyah looked to Túrien, who stood silent yet smiling beside Eldarion. "Watch over my husband and son for me while they are with you in Minas Tirith. Now it is your turn to guide a stranger through a new world."

"I will, Dayikek mezin," said Túrien, the Haradrim words flowing stiffly yet warmly off her tongue. She bowed to Sawda and the other ramyahs, and Eldarion did the same.

They spent the rest of the week in Harmindon preparing for the long, hot journey home. The first days of autumn were upon them, and the sun was beginning to go down in the west. Eldarion stood upon the balcony outside his room, watching the desert sunset as it sank behind the stone walls of the city. The sky bled slowly from fire to gold to starlight, and Eldarion recognized the constellation that the Haradrim called 'The Eye'. He watched the stars come out until no light remained upon the horizon, and then he listened to the sounds of a city at the closing of the day. Somewhere beyond those stones, his mother and sisters waited for him, as did Elboron. Arms folded across his linen nightshirt, Eldarion tipped back his head, closed his eyes, and let the night breeze ruffle his hair. He would miss Harmindon, but he was also ready to return to the world where he belonged.

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