Alabaster, Gold, And Onyx

Nida watched the small form dart off, a fondness in her eye she could not mask, but inside her heart wept. Her Hala, her Bahadur—too long had she been away, and she felt each second like years in her spirit.

”You have a way with children, I see.”

Nida blinked, the haze that had fallen on her like veil disappearing, and she turned slowly, slate eyes looking upon Golasgil with a careful mask of sandy hue. “Hmmm,” she hummed, voice rich. It was as torture to bring her lips to smile to him, though she managed a tempered one nonetheless, sadness hanged in her eyes. “That is the province of women, my lord,” she drawled to him dismissively. Still, there was a weight in her eyes that perhaps revealed it was not the whole truth.

She was not ready to speak on her son or daughter, not to a Lord of Gondor, not to someone who might easily turn once he learned who she was and who she belonged to. Chief Maalik Asad was a warlord with a reputation as great as his power, and had been a festering wound to the country of the White Tree for as long as he had been upon his throne. To speak of her children was to speak of Amira Ikraam, a name that would either buy her death here in a foreign land, or call upon those of her own who might yet do her harm.

”Come. Let us return to the inn, and a quiet place, and you can tell me about these…other weapons you spoke of back in the shop. And I in turn will tell you how the men of Gondor may act from concerns overriding the beguiling charms of a beautiful woman. A mailed hand may not stay from striking simply because the face is pleasing.”

A smile, dallying though silken in nature, played upon Nida’s lips. “A man such as yourself surely already knows what my weapons are,” she hummed to him, low and sweeping as desert winds. He was handsome among his people, an air about him of elegance that seemed to be complimented by the faint light of his eye. They were like stars or lanterns; none of her land held such glow about them, though stories said it was of the province of the Black Númenóreans, and those of their blood, to have held the light of skies within them.

Still, despite the smoothness of her words, Nida felt within that the Lord of Anfalas was not entirely jesting; she could see indeed upon his face his intent to speak to her on the refusal of the dagger he had purchased for her. She took a small breath, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders. “I would not think a man such as yourself easily fooled by a woman’s features, my lord,” she said quietly, almost a mumble. “Though perhaps you regard your fellow men too high.”

Even mighty Maalik, the Lion of the Haradrim, had been befuddled by fair features. Her fair features. She had been, once, the most powerful woman in Kahf Al’asad; perhaps that feat made her also the most powerful woman in Near Harad.

She motioned with her arm, and followed him as he lead the way back toward the inn. The market was pulsing with bodies, though many eyes eyed them as they passed. It was no longer the state of her dress that was drawing their attention. Nida knew now, without doubt, it was the color of her skin, the way she stood stark against the white stone and the pale faces of Minas Tirith’s denizens. Nida walked, without speech offered, a well-practiced coolness worn upon her face.

The inn was truly not far from the market stretch, and it took them little time to get there, and they passed inside into the darkened lobby, also a low-lit tavern for the weary guests that graced the quiet establishment. At the bar, a man of simple garb stood, paying for what seemed a hearty meal, for the bones of it were yet on the counter on mostly-cleared plates.

“Down near the border, you say?” The innkeep was asking, seamlessly continuing a conversation that had perhaps started long before Nida and Golasgil arrived.

“We’ve been running into them a lot down there lately,” the man answered. There was something in the way he carried himself, the way his voice resounded; Nida knew intrinsically it was a soldier. She cast an eye to him in mild interest, wondering what it was they had been running into at the border and if perhaps the orcs she and the others had escaped hunted for them yet in that strange land of Ithilien.

“Maalik’s men are getting bold,” the innkeep sighed, shaking his head gravely, though suddenly noticing Nida and Golasgil. “Ah…my Lord. My Lady.”

Nida, though, did not hear. Long had it been since the woman had heard Maalik’s name spoken aloud, however often her own thoughts might have strayed to her home. She froze, the sweep of her feet falling still. Her face held surprise, though perhaps she should not have been. Maalik had been turning his men to Gondor for years; surely he had not stopped, and only grown more crafty with his schemes.

Golasgil