[Durelin]

Khamir

At first, Khamir was surprised that Shae would stand up, and actually defend him. But it quickly turned for the worse, and even more quickly the man’s surprise turned to anger. Foolish woman; she would’ve gotten herself killed by now if he hadn’t been looking after her. And right now he felt that the others weren’t any better. To think he had trusted them for years, guarding his back. He had allowed himself to sleep at nights, even next to a man he knew was armed, because he trusted them. Perhaps he was just lucky to be alive. Maybe trust had nothing to do with it. Maybe it was all a matter of survival.

And that was all his goal had been, for years...until they showed up. Those fifty wanderers. He had let himself go soft, let himself get caught up in dreams while reality was rushing past him, and now he found himself left in the dust. It was back to mere survival. And his chances weren’t great. Shae’s gift to Johari didn’t help increase them much, either. That girl with a knife...Khamir nearly shuddered. If she got fed up with any of them, he would have no doubt she wouldn’t hesitate to slit their throats. And in such a large camp, there was a good chance there would be no way to prove she had anything to do with it. She certainly seemed capable of coming up with a reason for doing it, though.

Khamir stared at Shae as she walked away, his one hand gripped tightly into a fist. For several moments no words would come out. At least even in his rage the Southron had a good head on his shoulders. He knew to think before he spoke. Another thing he had to learn to survive, though it seemed insignificant. But even if words were about to come to him, he did not have time to speak.

“Do you know what they are quarrelling about?” came a voice from somewhere above him. It seemed the mad woman had some kind of wits about her again - at least enough to speak. His eyebrow raised as he looked at her, he lasted but a second before he succumbed to laughter. Completely oblivious, though not ignorant, unfortunately for her. Still, it seemed likely to Khamir that she was the least mad of anyone present.

The woman’s response seemed to betray remnants of a woman who had lived a normal life, had been a mother, had loved her children and scolded them because she did. It made Khamir feel even sorer at heart, which in turn helped his irritability along rather than softening him. He snapped at her. And then came words the echoed in his mind for moments after, imprinted there, and so able to be recalled at any time, even unto the very sound of her shrill voice as she spluttered and shrieked. Her frozen body on the ground was a testament to how the one-armed man felt.

You child of Mordor!

He had been born Haradrim but he had forsaken that country long ago, and he would never say he belonged to any other. He was the man he was because of a need to survive and a desire for revenge. He had allowed this land to shape him in more ways than he had ever realized; he was not a man built by his choices in life, he was one formed by the very things that tried to bring him down. He had not gained his freedom. Would he ever be able to?

Perhaps it was time he tried.

He helped Eirnar pick up Aedhild and move her to where she could be cared for, but Khamir returned to the same spot where he sat, though he stood now.

“Johari,” he called out to the young woman. She hadn’t moved on yet, though he expected she would try and get away from everyone ask quick as she could, if she didn't have anything left to say. “If I were the man I wanted to be, everyone would be the same to me. But I will tell you now that I see uses for people. If you think that is wrong, then so be it. But I am here to survive, just like you, just like everyone else. I am here to help everyone survive that I can. Maybe I would be smarter if I only looked after myself...like you...like everyone else in this forsaken land.”

His voice was even except for his final words, which he spat violently as a curse. He turned away, prepared to escape the turmoil in the camp somehow, though he knew how unlikely it was he would be able to do that. Suddenly he felt a tug at his shirt, and turned to see Adnan. The boy held out his knife to the man, and Khamir looked down at him for several quiet moments between them that dragged on.

“I don’t want it,” the boy finally said. Khamir could tell he was trying very hard not to cry. Adnan looked down at his feet, his eyes glistening.

“Keep it,” the one-armed man said, turning away. The knife fell with a small thud into the grass.

“Pick it up, boy. You’ll need it, and you’ll use it well,” he looked back down at the boy, with a warm twist of his lips. “You’ve got the third watch tonight.” The blade was back in the boy’s hands, and he looked up at Khamir, a smile starting to form in his face. But then he ran off, gripping the blade in its makeshift sheath, wishing to hide even tears dashed with joy. With a sigh, Khamir settled himself back down in the grass. He wouldn’t be able to escape this mess, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.