If Prince Eldarion was afraid, he hid it well. At least, so it seemed to Malbeth. With each passing hour, they drew closer to the borders of Rhûn. With the memory of the aftermath of The Black House still uncomfortably fresh, Malbeth had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on his captain for any signs of distress. It seemed he was not the only one doing so, if the way King Aragorn kept his horse always in step with his son's was any proof. Thus far though, Eldarion appeared as calm in his saddle as any of the men (not to say that anyone was particularly at ease about their current destination...). 

There were no signposts, towns, nor lines in the earth by which one might know that 'this was Gondor' and 'that was Rhûn'. The further north and east they traveled though, the more the character of the land changed. Far behind were the marshy green furrows of Emyn Muil; even the Plains of Dagorlad and the Ruins of the Black Gate, horrible as they were, had been familiar landmarks. With the crossroads at Osgiliath nearly three days behind them, Malbeth was just about as far from home as he'd ever been before. The last time the army of Gondor had ridden for Rhûn, Malbeth had been a young foot-soldier, only just come of age and stationed in his home city of Pelargir. Prince Eldarion and King Elfwine had both been on that campaign to the Sea of Rhûn though, and were likely reliving this journey with at least some degree of recognition. So much had happened in the five years between then and now though. 

A marsh harrier flew by overhead, its dark-tipped wings and pale breast oddly reminiscent of the gulls which frequented Pelargir's ports. The bird of prey let out a short cry before catching up updraft and spiraling into the clouds. If there were any rodents nearby, they would have little refuge from the keen eyes of the circling hunter. These lands were broad and open; brown-grey hills rolled endlessly beneath the horses' hooves, with few trees to break the vastness of the horizon. Low mountains could just barely be seen away to the north-east, brooding over the landscape like hunchbacked sentinels. Recalling maps of Middle-Earth, Malbeth understood that somewhere beyond these mountains lay the Sea of Rhûn. Somewhere even further beyond the sea lay Morgothrone, the shadowy Easterling capital. No man of the West had ever seen that city and returned to speak of it, or so it was said. 

That was precisely their aim though. King Aragorn and King Elfwine had chosen their men with care for this journey into the east, and Malbeth swelled with quiet pride as he looked around himself. Ohtar was here too, as were Fulthain and Fasthelm, two of Elfwine's favourite Riders. Bergil meanwhile remained in Minas Ithil in Lord Elboron and Lady Eruthiawen's service. Qufar, the Haradrim driver who had survived the Siege of Minas Ithil, also remained in the Vale with Princess Túrien and Prince Sufyan; Chieftain Na'Man had brought several of his own men along the road to Rhûn. The Haradrim rode near the rear of the column of fifty, some looking less disgruntled than others to be traveling on the backs of horses rather than Mûmakil. 

Two dark shapes appeared in the distance, cresting the swell of the hills like a pair of ships upon a sea of grey-green grass. Their horses closed the distance quickly, and when everyone recognized the scouts whom Aragorn had sent ahead there was a visible easing of tension amongst the ranks. 

"Hold." 

Aragorn gave the order with a word and an upraised hand, and all reined up their horses mid-stride. When the scouts rode up before the king, Malbeth couldn't help but lean forward in his saddle, eager to catch every word of their report. 

"There is a party of riders, Your Grace," announced the younger of the two knights. "Just over yonder ridge. They no doubt saw us, and are aware of our presence." 

King Elfwine shifted in his saddle, the handle of his axe rising up within easy reach of one shoulder. Many of the other Riders of Rohan were similarly put on their guard, as were the men of Gondor and the Haradrim. One again though, King Aragorn held up a hand, asking for calm. 

"Riders? How many? When you say they marked your presence, how exactly did they look to react?" 

The second scout spoke. "We counted thirteen, my lord, fourteen if you include the eagle which perched upon the shoulder of one. Though it was difficult to tell at such distance, they did not strike us as a party armed for battle. In fact...I daresay there were women among them." 

"Women?" King Elfwine sounded taken aback. "Are the Easterlings' numbers so depleted that they task their womenfolk to defend their borders now?"

"If so, then we must take extra care," said Na'Man gravely. "The land of Rhûn has seen much of defeat since The War of the Ring, and such defeat plants the seed of desperation. We may find ourselves confronted by a people who feel they have nothing left to lose." 

Eldarion nodded, his dark grey eyes unreadable as he watched the eastern horizon. "Agreed, Na'Man. We must assume nothing when it comes to this place." 

"Legolas," King Aragorn turned to where the elf-lord of Ithilien rode bare-back astride his venerable white steed. "Would you ride out and have a look?" 

With a laugh - an oddly reassuring sound in such an uncertain situation - Legolas tossed his hair and patted Arod's neck. "Once the eye-piece, always the eye-piece it seems. Come, old friend, let us see what the eyes of Men cannot!" 

Fifty men sat in uneasy silence upon the plain as Legolas rode ahead. This was an exposed land, and soon the constant drone of the wind covered even Arod's hoof-beats. Malbeth had to reach up and brush escaped strands of his own hair back off his face and under his helmet. The Riders of Rohan had no such issues though; their hair and braids floated freely about their heads like a golden nimbus, especially King Elfwine's, which mingled with the long black tail of horsehair trailing from the top of his helm. The wind whistled amidst the Riders' spears, pulled at the banners of Gondor, Rohan, and Harad, and rippled through the grass upon the plain. The wait for Legolas's return seemed endless, especially after he disappeared over the crest of the hills and passed out of sight. 

Ohtar leaned over in the saddle and murmured to Malbeth. "If these folk come at us suing for peace and expecting land and friendship in return, they have another thing coming." 

"Is that not exactly what Chieftain Na'Man and the other lords of Harad did?" Malbeth whispered back, keenly aware of the presence of almost a dozen Haradrim nearby. "Besides, were we not bitter enemies with Harad just as we are now with Rhûn? Perhaps this really is an envoy of peace." 

Ohtar shook his head at Malbeth, the smile beneath his helmet almost a little pitying. "Your heart has always been younger than your years, my friend." 

Malbeth had his own doubts and misgivings about this whole venture; of course he did, having seen what Easterling plots had nearly done to the royal houses of Gondor and Rohan. He also remembered watching the Haradrim plunge ahead alone to Minas Ithil, risking and for the most part giving their lives to save people not their own. Perhaps he was not truly as optimistic as his words to Ohtar suggested, but neither did his hand tighten upon the hilt of his sword like so many others.  

Two minutes...three minutes...four Legolas was gone, and even King Aragorn was beginning to show signs of private worry when at last a flash of white and gold round the top of a hillock captured every searching gaze. Sure enough it was the elf, and he rode back toward their party with such speed, every hand instinctively began to stretch toward the hilts of sword, axe, and spear. Perhaps the group of thirteen spotted earlier had simply been bait for a larger ambush, lying in wait amidst the hills...

When Legolas reached them, still at full gallop, Malbeth was bewildered to see, not determination, but wonder in the elf's fair face. 

"Ai! You will scarcely believe what awaits, my friends! Come! Come! They are expecting us!" 

"Expecting us?" asked Aragorn. "You have spoken with them?" 

"Only briefly, but yes. Come! Be assured, there is no trap here." 

Elfwine looked uncertainly to the hills. "How can you be so sure?" 

"Because" said Legolas, "They are led by an Istari." 

OoOoO

From the tales of the War of the Ring told by the elders, Malbeth had always envisioned Gandalf the White as a powerful, awe-inspiring figure. Either his imagination over-exaggerated the true stature of a wizard, or Gandalf had been far-and-above the most imposing of his order. The thin, wizened figure - draped in a threadbare blue-grey robe with matching hood and seated upon the back of a creature which looked more donkey than horse - hardly lived up to the stories of his lordly counterpart. Then again, perhaps this fellow was more in the vein of the likes of Radagast the Brown. At least there were no bird droppings in his beard; it hung smoky grey and beaded down to his belt, upon which were tied numerous leather pouches and bundles of herbs. The old man's eyes as he watched the Men of the West approach were keen though, and shone with a certain secret knowing. 

No less strange were the people with whom the supposed wizard rode. They were Easterlings, of that there could be no doubt. They were a weathered people, with hands and faces browned by long hours out in the elements. Their dark, angular eyes narrowed even further as the Kings of the West and their men reined up within speaking distance. Some elements of their garb evoked the Haradrim style; the wide, colourful belts at their waists and wide sleeves namely. The Haradrim tended to dress lightly though, in flowing shawls and scarves with loose shirts and pants beneath. Rhûn was a land less subject to the constant attention of the sun though, with tall, mountains steppes and rolling, windswept plains. As such, its people - both men and women alike - appeared to dress in variations of a thick, high-collared cotton robe. Their long, smooth black hair hung in matched, bead-woven plaits over their shoulders. Like the old man, all rode short, stocky little horses with thick manes and tails nearly long enough to sweep the grass. Thirteen there were, and the Easterlings sat in stony silence, eyeing the fifty men who had dared to enter their homeland. Oddly enough though, Malbeth noted, none of them were carrying weapons, save a hunting knife or shortbow here and there. 

It was Aragorn who broke the silence first. Nudging Brego forward a few paces, he held up a hand in greeting. 

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King of the Reunited Realms of Gondor and Arnor. I have come today to speak, not to fight." 

"Ta yarikhyg khüsdeg khümüüst zoriulj olon daichdyg avchirdag."

One of the Easterlings, a man with a thick black mustache perhaps Ohtar's age, spoke in the tongue of Rhûn. It was not a language that any within Gondor spoke with proficiency, and so it was that Tonnor, the older soldier whom Aragorn had chosen for the limited Rhûnic he'd managed to pick up during the War of the Ring, stumbled over the attempted translation. 

"Your Grace...he said...well...I heard mention of 'warriors', and something about-"

"Baatar said 'You bring many warriors for a man who wishes to speak'." 

The old man interrupted in a calm, almost unconcerned manner, his tone that which one might use to remark upon the state of a roadway or tomorrow's weather. 

"Ithryn Luin." Aragorn dipped his head respectfully. "Long have I wondered if our paths would ever cross." 

"And so they have at last, Elessar. I am called Pallando, one of the two Blue Wizards as you have so named me. To you I offer greetings on behalf of the people of Rhûn." Pallando's sea-grey gaze shifted to fall upon Elfwine. "And to you as well, King of the Mark. Before I passed into the East, I seem to recall having known fond memories of the lands once called Calenardhon." 

Elfwine likewise bowed in deference to the presence of an Istari. "Well met, Master Pallando. 'Calenardhon' was indeed the name of the plains of Rohan, a long time ago. That you remember them by that name impresses me beyond measure." 

"Many long years has it been since I traveled those lands" said Pallando. "My brother Alatar and I have called the east home for so long now, our fellow wizards have forgotten our names. In all that time, never has a King of the West entered Rhûn wishing to speak instead of fight. Tell us, why do you come seeking talk now?" 

King Aragorn spoke slowly, considering his words. Malbeth was not the only soldier of Gondor who also listened intently; many among them had spent the trip from Minas Ithil quietly asking themselves the same question.  

"Nearly thirty-five years have passed since the Fall of Sauron. In that time, peace and plenty have come into the west. The herds of Rohan graze upon a sea of green. Gondor's crops and people flourish, as do our dreams for a future of beauty, music, and wisdom. Our old enmity with the lands of Harad has been laid aside, and with each passing year the bond between our nations grows stronger. So much has been won, and yet it is from Rhûn that echoes of war and grief continually arise. We have come seeking answers as to why." 

"Indeed," Elfwine added "I believe we are owed as much, given what Rhûn's continued hostility has recently cost." 

As Aragorn and Elfwine spoke, Pallando translated each word to the Easterlings. When the wizard repeated Elfwine's words, many expressions amongst the group darkened. A sliver of worry pricked at Malbeth's heart. This group did not appear armed for battle, but if they attacked the men of Gondor, Rohan, and Harad would of course defend their lords. Enemies though they were, Malbeth was loathe to raise his sword against young boys, old men, and women. 

One of the women spoke, her voice deep and firm as the syllabic Rhûn language rumbled in her throat. She wore a dark blue robe styled in the fashion of her countrymen, and at her waist was a pouch-laden belt similar to the one Pallando wore. Her face was tattooed in strange, stacked symbols across her leathery brow and cheeks. She could have been as old as Ohtar, or perhaps younger and deeply careworn. Her black eyes as she addressed the kings were stern, unflinching. 

Pallando translated. "This is Markîz. Before the War of the Ring, she was a priestess in the Temple of Morgoth. Now she walks another path. She says 'As much as Rhûn has cost the West, a similarly high price has been paid by Rhûn. With the defeat of the army at Minas Ithil, the last of the mighty khans is dead. The khanganates, or clans, now clamor amongst themselves, quarreling over successors with no clear leaders left to follow. The common folk have no patience for these quarrels over power, not anymore. The years of war with the West have come to feel endless to many, with no clear purpose or reward. Many have become disillusioned, not only with war, but with the temples who have continuously preached of the need to spread Morgoth's influence. Unrest is rampant, the dark faith is breaking, and everywhere the voids of power left by the last of the khans threaten the very fabric of Rhûnic society." 

Throughout all of this, Malbeth took careful note of Prince Eldarion's reaction. The prince sat stock-still in the saddle, his gaze never once leaving the Easterling woman and her tattooed face. Malbeth realized with a start why; the marks on the former priestess's face were unnervingly similar to the bloody runes which Serthîk had painted upon Eldarion. Markîz bore Prince Eldarion's stare calmly, as if defying anyone to judge her for the past which she wore upon her face. 

"And where do you stand in all of this, Master Wizard?" asked King Aragorn. 

"We Istari all have our parts to play in this world, King of Gondor. You knew he whom the Common Tongue named Gandalf, first as the Grey pilgrim, later as the Gandalf the White. He was always one for guiding and guarding the paths of men, much like a pilgrim guiding fellow wanderers. Radagast's purpose meanwhile was among the birds and beasts of the world, while the fallen Saruman was once a master of wisdom and lore. I, for my part, am a healer. To me falls the task of healing that which ails the hearts of men and nations alike. It is for this reason, Lords of the West, that I must insist you go no further." 

"But we have come this far seeking answers!" exclaimed Elfwine, both dismayed and indignant. "Are we to simply turn around and trust that the next generation will not yield another campaign of kidnapping, manipulation, and murder?" His mighty charger - sleek, black-maned Baldor - echoed his master's sentiment by cantering forward half a step. 

"Edgeer gazruudad odoo nevtrekh ni zövkhön aidag züilee l khangakh bolno."

"What did she say?" Malbeth, forgetting himself, interrupted rather thoughtlessly. 

Pallando, far from being offended, answered Malbeth directly. "Markîz said 'To enter these lands now will only ensure what you fear.' And she is right, King of Rohan. Now is the time, when all the dark tapestry of Morgoth is coming unraveled, for Rhûn to set about the long task of healing itself. Interference by the West, however well-meaning, can only sew further chaos and conflict." 

"What of Harad?" Na'Man, who thus far had patiently sat listening, now spoke up. "Rhûn and Harad were allies of a sort, once. There is much distrust between our two nations, but also shared borders and history. If Rhûn will not stand the presence of Gondor and Rohan during such a time of upheaval, with they accept a message from Harad?"

Markîz inclined her head."Yari, Uulchid." 

"Tell your people that, however bleak the future may seem, there is a path to better things. Tell them that Harad does not apologize for our betrayal at the Sea of Rhûn...but in atonement for that breaking of faith, Harmindon's door will stand forever open to any Easterling who wishes to meet and speak of peace. This I swear by the Golden Serpent."  

The Easterling called Baatar signaled to Markîz for her attention, and the two of them spoke together in low tones for several moments. Both pinned steely gazes on Na'Man, who accepted their skepticism patiently. Finally, Markîz straightened in her saddle and gave a curt nod. 

"Bayarlalaa," she said. 

Na'Man answered with the Haradrim salute of a palm turned inward toward the face, then outward. Malbeth got the distinct impression that peace with Rhûn, if it were even possible, would likely begin with Harad.

"Excellent," said Pallando, looking quite pleased. Looking back to Aragorn and Elfwine, the wizard smiled. "Go home, Lords of the West, and have faith. There is a greater design at work here...greater than any of us can ever know. Gandalf the Grey's work ended with the War of the Ring." Pallando indicated himself and the thirteen Easterlings around him. "My work is just now beginning."

Nothing changed about Pallando's voice as he spoke this pronouncement - neither pitch nor timber nor volume - and yet there was a certain finality that could not be gainsaid. Even Elfwine, young and bold and filled with righteous grief on his father's behalf, at last bowed his head in acceptance. The will of a wizard was a difficult thing for mortal men to disobey. And besides, in their heart and hearts, Aragorn, Elfwine, and all their folk knew that the West had no place in this stage of Rhûn's journey back toward the light.

And so it was with a lighter heart that Aragorn too bowed to Pallando. "I respected and honoured Gandalf's wisdom when I knew him, and so I will also respect your word that we must go no further. My folk and I will return to Minas Tirith, there to look to our own future and, perhaps, to await the day when Rhûn at last extends the hand of peace. Until that time, I give you my word, people of Rhûn, that Gondor will seek no quarrel with these lands."

"Rohan pledges to do the same." Elfwine gazed long and hard from face to face amongst the wind-weathered, stoic Easterlings. "I make no promises to ever forgive what Rhûn has taken from my family, nor do I offer any hopes of future friendship. If there is ever again to be war between East and West though, it will not be Rohan that strikes the first blow." 

Pallando translated all that had been said for Markîz and her folk, and the response was a ripple of quiet 'hmmmmms' from amongst the Easterlings, barely heard over the wind. Aragorn raised his hand in farewell though, and both Pallando and Markîz did the same. 

Malbeth was just beginning to let the tension which had gathered in his shoulders throughout the entire meeting slip, when a sudden call from Prince Eldarion brought all heads spinning back around. 

 "Wait! You were a priestess in the Temple of Morgoth, Lady Markîz?" 

Upon hearing the question repeated by Pallando, Markîz's brows rose and her jaw firmed. She nodded in the affirmative though. 

"You are aware of what your countryman, Serthîk, intended?" 

Again, a curt nod. 

All eyes were upon Eldarion, and the question which appeared to sit upon the prince's tongue seemed to weigh heavily. 

'You don't have to ask, my prince,' thought Malbeth to himself. 'We don't have to know'. 

Eldarion did have to know though, and so he squared his shoulders and bravely asked the Rhûnic priestess the question which he had feared to have answered ever since The Black House. 

"Would it have worked, if the rite had been completed? Could Morgoth have returned in such a way?" 

For a long time, Markîz did not answer. Then, without warning, she urged her mount forward toward the party of Westerlings. Many hands went to the hilts of sword and spear, but Aragorn, understanding something deeper to this exchange, held the men at bay. Undeterred, Markîz rode straight up until she was close enough to reach Eldarion. 

With fingers roughened from a lifetime of toil, the elder woman stretched up and brushed back the hair from Eldarion's brow. Eldarion twitched slightly, whether in surprise or unease, Malbeth could not tell. Everyone held their breath. 

Then, all of the sudden, Markîz began to chuckle softly under her breath. Turning her little horse about, she rode back to her people, leaving Eldarion blinking in confusion at her back. When she reached Pallando, she murmured something inaudible to the wizard. 

"What did she said?" called out Malbeth, again unable to hold his tongue in the midst of such tension. 

Pallando answered, his blue eyes gleaming softly at Eldarion from amidst a maze of wrinkles. "Be at peace, son of Gondor. There are many who believe themselves masters of power...power far beyond any child of Men. Serthîk was one of them." Just as relief began to flood Eldarion's face though, a wry smirk tugged at the old wizard's face. "If I were so inclined as to attempt the rite though..." 

It wouldn't have been a stretch to say that Eldarion turned nearly as grey as Pallando's faded beard. He wasn't the only one; Elfwine looked ready to fall straight over out of his saddle. Aragorn wore a pained grimace, and even fair Legolas's mouth fell open. Pallando seemed to find the collective horror from the Lords of the West amusing, and leaned back in his saddle, laughing. 

"Go home, home I say!" he exclaimed. "Enough poking about for answers to questions which you would have rather not heard in the first place! Leave the East to the Easterlings, and all shall unfold as it is meant to. Away with you, Lords of Gondor, Rohan, and Harad! Return to your hearths, your homes, and those whom you love the most." 

And so, still somewhat shaken and disbelieving at all they had seen and heard, they did just that. 

OoOoO