The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [33]
Then they drank tea brewed to oily blackness, ceremoniously passing around their only nicked tea bowl, somehow preserved by the sergeant through all the troubles ("Real Khandian work, I'll have you know"), and now Tzerlag was unhurriedly explaining to Tangorn that green tea has a multitude of virtues, whereas the question of whether it's better than black tea is akin to the ridiculous one of whether one loves mother or father best – each has its time and place. For example, in the heat of midday… Haladdin was only halflistening to the discourse, just like he was listening to the murmuring of the brook behind large stones, experiencing marvelous moments of quiet happiness, kind of like… family happiness, perhaps?
The fire, quickly burning down salsola roots (their gray trunks covered most of the nearby slope), cast a bright light on his comrades: the chiseled profile of the Gondorian turned towards the moon-like face of the Orocuen, who resembled some placid Eastern deity. With a sudden heartache Haladdin realized that their strange fellowship was almost over – in only a few days their paths will diverge, probably forever. The baron, once his wound heals completely, will head to the Cirith Ungol pass – he decided to make his way to Prince Faramir in Ithilien – while the sergeant and he will have to decide what to do next.
It was strange, but having gone through several potentially fatal adventures alongside Tangorn, they have not really found out anything about his former life. ("Are you married, Baron?" – "Well, that's a complicated question, can't just answer yes or no." "So where is your estate located?" – "I don't think that's important any more, no doubt it has been confiscated.") Nevertheless, with every passing day Haladdin had more and more respect, if not quite love, for this slightly ironical man of few words. Looking at the baron, for the first time he could relate to the idea of 'inborn nobility.' Another quality he could sense in Tangorn was unusual for an aristocrat – dependability, of a kind different from, say, Tzerlag's, but quite certain all the same.
Being of the third estate, Haladdin had always had a lukewarm view of aristocracy. He could never understand how one could be proud not of the achievements of one's ancestors, whether in work or war, but rather of how far one could trace their genealogy, especially since most of those "noble knights" had been nothing but lucky and ruthless highway robbers, murder their trade and betrayal their calling. Besides, the doctor had despised idlers since childhood. Still, he felt subconsciously that were the useless and immoral aristocracy to disappear, the world would irretrievably lose some of its color; most likely it would become more just, perhaps cleaner, but for sure duller, and that alone is worth something! After all, he himself was a part of a brotherhood much more exclusive than any based on heredity; Haladdin knew with absolute certainty that he had been knighted by Someone much more powerful than the King of the Reunited Kingdom or the Caliph of Khand. Isn't it strange that almost nobody realizes how undemocratic science and art are by their very nature…
The sergeant interrupted his musings by suggesting they draw for the first watch. A small desert owl drifted like a giant feather some fifteen feet over their heads, its hoot reminding all the good children to go to bed already. "You crash, guys," Haladdin offered, "I'm going to clean up, too." Strictly speaking, this whole evening – with a fire, however well concealed, and no sentry for a while – was a major security lapse. However, Tzerlag had judged the risk very small, since the search for Eloar has been called off and Elvish patrols do not stray far from the highway otherwise. After all, people have to relax sometime; constant vigilance can backfire, too.
The fire had died down in the meantime – salsolas produce almost no embers, turning