Where the Stars are Strange



1. Fugitive



Heat unrelenting beat down upon the southern plains, and mirages caused the ground and air to shimmer with a liquid translucence. Aragorn pulled himself painfully through a break in the rock wall and up onto a narrow shelf, gasping for air. Leaning against a looming granite monolith, he closed his eyes and pressed his left hand hard over his breastbone, feeling fresh blood leak from the wound to soak the layering of bandages. Once the hunter, now hunted in earnest, he had hoped that the journey through the desert lands of Harad would defeat his pursuers, and thus far it seemed to have worked. Only two had come for him, and the carrion hawks had doubtless stripped their bones clean after two days of lying on the sun-bleached plains. But even if I elude them, I doubt my strength will last 'til the next town, assuming I can find it! Aragorn thought, clenching his teeth as a convulsive shudder rippled through him. Wounded even ere he had fled, he had done what he could to stop the bleeding and guard against illness, but a hard journey prevented the slash from closing. And in spite of his precautions, he knew he was feverish. Exhaustion and short supplies did not help his predicament, and he sought now only shelter, a place where he could rest and recover… if that were his fate.

Opening his eyes, he gazed wearily down from his perch which overlooked a vast and ancient floodplain. Here and there, the ground shimmered white: there lay salt basins, evidence of Harad's lost seas. The sea! A sudden yearning to hear the roar of the waves as they crashed against the shores of Gondor flared in his heart. Two years and more it has been since last I set eyes upon it… since I crossed Anduin and came to this place. Nearly three years, in fact, since Thorongil had disappeared from Ecthelion's realm, shedding name and rank and all other signs of the West to take up the habit and speech of Harad. In that time, he had learned to hide in plain sight, even here where men were suspicious of strangers, and the Dark Lord's power held sway. After nearly thirty years of wandering, Harad was simply another place, another country, and its people were Men, no more and no less, and Aragorn was an adept mimic, well-versed in his art. But I am so weary of this, Aragorn thought, wincing as he dragged himself once more to his feet and stood, swaying slightly, in the shadow of the boulder. Drawn ever onward, to another name and another mask to hide behind, another role upon the stage that hosts this tragedy that Men call "life"… or is it a comedy? It matters little when one is alone. Arwen's face flashed through his mind, and he bit his lip hard enough to taste blood as a wave of heartsick longing swept over him. What I would not give to hear her voice, just once… in case.… He shook his dark head violently, rejecting the idea. Not to think of that now! While I have the strength, I must go on.

Slowly, taking great care not to make a misstep and plummet headlong to the rocks below, he made his way along the ledge. Rock like this was riddled through with caves, and where there was shade, one could find moisture enough to survive even the heat of the desert. On the ragged edge of feverish exhaustion, Aragorn did not notice the smear of blood he left behind on the rock face.

***

The Dog Days of summer had arrived with a vengeance, and all the land lay sweltering in the brassy afternoon sunlight. The streets of Dargalt were silent and empty, yet in the desert, a solitary figure moved. Indirkan squinted into the distance, and despite the scarf that shielded his mouth and nose from the dust, he felt a sneeze coming on as a hot breeze stirred. His dark hair hung in fine, dark braids about his face, and the beads that traditionally ended them were a stark jet black, out of respect for those older and more seasoned than he. For Indirkan was yet a young man with little battle experience, and his father stood not high in the ranks of the Haradrim. A fallen family, his, or so they said: born of a line of the Unrepentant out of the dark days of the Kin Strife of Gondor, the family had fled south with the restoration of Anárion's line. But a traitor earns trust slowly–perhaps never–and the Haradrim were a people who placed much value on etiquette, on the infinitely refined and brutally ironclad codes that had evolved during the long years of war and struggle. Disloyalty was a sin that was never forgotten, and only power could cover it over. But as the long centuries passed, his family's wealth had dwindled, ending any hope of rising from the ashes of that centuries-old defeat.

Such a hopeless fate was hard for a young man to endure, and Indirkan was restless. On the one hand, he longed to prove himself, and thereby gain in standing and respect; but on the other, he felt himself riddled through with doubts. Dargalt, where dwelt his family, was a town little deserving the title of 'city' and it was far removed from tidings of war. Yet of late and at last, messengers had come riding: messengers out of Mordor bringing demands for more men in the service of Barad-dûr. Like all within the city's walls, he had been born to a regime that had not changed since the ending of the Second Age, and he knew well what he owed Sauron, Overlord of Harad. With his fellow citizens, he had gone to hear the commands that issued from the Great Tower, and to gaze upon the splendor of red and sable banners. The Messenger, proud and haughty, had been swathed head to foot in midnight black, upon which were embroidered in scarlet and gold the sigils of Mordor in Haradrim style, and Indirkan thought he had picked out the clan markings entwined in the design. Indirkan had stared as the brassy trumpets rang out, but the Messenger had not dismounted, disdaining to abandon his lofty perch and come among them. Indeed, he had held the crowd in silence for so long a time that even the Haradrim, accustomed to harsh discipline, had begun to shift uncertainly where they stood. Such arrogance was not uncommon among the high-born, and it might have troubled Indirkan little, accustomed as he was to the contempt of his neighbors, but that the Messenger's coal-black eyes had fallen upon him for a brief moment. And Indirkan, staring back, had felt a dread seize him.

For those eyes, darker than any he had ever seen, were as the depths behind the stars, empty and opaque. Not as the eyes of other men were those obsidian orbs, and insight had stabbed through him, sharp as a blade and as painful. Stained they are, those dark eyes! he thought as he began the ascent into the line of rocks that piled high above the plain. Stained with how much blood and suffering? What has he wrought, this one, to earn those robes? And intuition, certain as sunrise, replied instantly: murder. There had been a morbid quality to the other, as if the Man-form were but a shell inhabited by something inhuman, cruel…. And evil, he thought, shivering in spite of the heat. Since that day, he had lived in fear for his life, for he thought that surely he must have given himself away somehow, that such horror as he felt at the thought of serving such a one as the Messenger–and beyond him, the Overlord Sauron–could not possibly be concealed. Yet none had accosted him: his name had not been posted in the square upon the scaffold plate, nor had he been seized in the streets; his wanderings in the dry lands beyond the city had not been curtailed. For the first time, Indirkan began to think that his ill-fortune served him well, for people were accustomed to dismiss him, to ignore and overlook him so long as he guarded his silence. But how long will that be?demanded the nagging whisper in his head, despite his efforts to shut out such doubts as it voiced. How long, before some word or action of mine declares my unwillingness… my disloyalty? Or is it disloyalty? Ah, I know not, and I wish I could be free of this deadly game of silence!

That was why he spent his days in the desert, for though it tested a man harshly, it was at least clean. Here there are no others to judge, no others to scorn me–no others from whom I must hide my thoughts! Here there is space enough to reflect, he thought with vast relief, as he scrambled up among the rocky outcroppings that thrust at intervals from the earth. Shade was a precious commodity in such an arid land, and where others might see nothing but barren waste, Indirkan saw among these rocks a tiny oasis. Here might be found water, for the stones showed layering and were porous even at the base; and where there was water, there was life. Wending his way through the crevices, Indirkan's ascent was steady, and he marked well his trail, noting the hints of green clinging to the sheltered sides of rocks. Absorbed in his thoughts as he climbed up through a narrow chimney of rock, he almost missed it, but in the midst of his reflections, he stopped abruptly. A heartbeat passed, during which he knew not what precisely had caught his attention, but after a moment he perceived what his eyes had noted already: a darker mark upon the shaded-side of a high sandstone slab. Frowning, he approached carefully, and stretched out a hand to touch it. Damp… yet this is not water! For when he drew back his hand, his fingers were stained scarlet. Blood! This is blood! And not from an animal!

Feeling his hackles rise, Indirkan looked up sharply, searching the area for sign of danger. Away to his right, on the narrow ledge that led round the sheer rise of the rock formation, he noted another smear of blood, and rose slowly to his feet. As quietly as he could, he drew his dagger from its sheath, and followed the ominous trail. Already he suspected where it must lead, for as he rounded a bend, the ledge widened and plunged between two stony spires, ending in a deep patch of darkness: the entrance to a cave. A perfect hiding place for a bandit, Indirkan thought grimly. If bandit it be! There is little of worth in these parts, no trade wains that cross into Dargalt from this direction… who indeed would come here, other than I? The answer–someone similarly disaffected–did not inspire much hope, for Haradrim society made a virtue of fierce loyalty and equally fierce resistance in the face of the enemy. If I find him, he will fight, though the wound be mortal. I must be cautious!

So Indirkan advanced slowly, silent as a desert hawk gliding high over the sands. By the cave's mouth he paused to let his eyes adjust to the low light. And then, drawing a deep breath, he stepped within….

***

At first, he saw no one, only the vague shapes of rocks, yet a voice within him insisted that he was not alone. Indirkan scrutinized the cave's interior, wondering if he ought to retreat and return with help….

At that moment, he caught a hint of sudden movement out of the corner of his eye, and swift though he was, he turned too late. The dagger was knocked from his hand and skittered away out of sight. His assailant jabbed him hard in the solar plexus, and Indirkan felt all the air go out of his lungs in one shocked gasp as he collapsed to his knees. Sheer instinct, guided by training, let him lash out, directing his attack to the width of the other's body, seeking only to force him back. Thus he was quite surprised by the anguished grunt that came back as his opponent recoiled unexpectedly. Surprised as he was, Indirkan was not one to let an advantage slip away, and he lunged at the other, bearing him down beneath him. He felt the shock of impact jolt through them both, but either he had misjudged the other's condition or his enemy was better trained than he had guessed, for the blade of the other's hand slammed into the juncture of Indirkan's neck and shoulder, and the young Haradrim felt his arm go numb. Ere he could move to recover, he was thrust away expertly and with such force that he hit the rock wall of the cave, cracking his head, and he slid gracelessly to the ground, stunned. His ears rang and his vision blurred from the blow, and he felt his enemy's hands hard upon him as he slid into the darkness. His last sight, ere oblivion claimed him, was of brilliant silver-grey eyes in a fierce face, and then he knew no more.



2. Hard Questions



Aragorn hovered over the winded, gasping young man, pinning him to the ground, and his right hand held a dagger, poised to strike. And yet, he hesitated. Prudence demanded, fairly shouted, that he must slay the other quickly, that to spare this one was madness. Already, he could feel himself beginning to tremble as shock and sickness returned in full force. If I wait, then he will doubtless kill me for my pains, for this one is a warrior, however young, and he will not be an idle captive. He knew that, and yet… gazing down at the other, into defiant eyes that nonetheless bespoke fear and confusion ere the lad fell unconscious, he perceived a glimmer of curiosity … and innocence. I cannot! With a groan, Aragorn sank exhausted to the ground beside his foe, sheathing the knife. It seemed a bitter irony after all the years of hunting and hiding that a mere child should bring him to this pass, and yet he supposed pity had always been the chink in his armor, though one that (fortunately!) orcs and their like could never comprehend, and so could never exploit it against him. Now though…. One boy, likely scarce old enough for his braids, who never asked for mercy, and I am disarmed utterly!

What shall I do with him when he wakes? Aragorn wondered, mind racing furiously. Or is that the question? Shall I have a choice? For how indeed would he convince this youth to trust him after so poor a beginning? Or should he even try? What would a Haradrim expect of another Haradrim in this situation? An outlaw would fight, and would have no qualms about murdering the boy in his sleep, let alone after a fair contest. But though I look the part, I am no outlaw. Or rather, a most unusual one! Aragorn closed his eyes, thinking. Harad was not Mordor, for all that many in Gondor held the two equal. Sauron ruled here, yes, but beyond the ties of politics and servitude, Harad was its own entity. The Haradrim lived according to their own customs much of the time, and so there were outlaws and citizens, even as there were in the West. A foreigner with a gift for tongues, who was cautious and observant, could learn enough to pass through this arid land, if he dared. But though Aragorn respected the laws that all Haradrim lived by in their daily lives, there were certain questions and demands that he was not prepared to answer or accede to.

Such as my service to the Overlord! He grimaced, tracing the path of the sword stroke that had nearly killed him, feeling the injury burn like fire. The Messenger of Mordor had arrived in Hastar, a squalid pit that barely deserved the name of 'village,' let alone 'town,' and had ordered all the gates shut. No one was to enter or depart until the Messenger gave leave, and even Aragorn knew why. In so desolate a place as Hastar, there was little likelihood of finding trained warriors, but conscripts, too, could serve Mordor's purposes… or slaves. Having escaped for the moment, he could even appreciate the morbid irony that his own actions on the quays of Umbar were likely the cause of the sudden increase in unannounced conscriptions, for in the northwestern regions of Harad they had grown quite common since the burning of the Corsair fleet. He had thought to avoid them this far inland, but luck had failed him in that instance. Caught seeking a way past the barriers, he had left behind him three dead men, a host of vengeful guards, and the enraged messenger, whose curses had followed him into the night.

And so I suppose I am not even an outlaw, but a traitor, he thought, and was surprised by how bitterly that word lay upon his tongue. He had never sworn an oath to Harad, nor had he any obligation by birth or blood to obey the laws of a people in the service of his mortal enemy, and yet he felt unclean for the deceptions he practiced here. Subterfuge and misdirection, silence and reserve were a Ranger's weapons, as well-honed and familiar as sword or bow or dagger. And at the moment, he hated all such arts of concealment. Perhaps it was delirium, or perhaps he had harbored his doubts and cares too long alone, but he felt that to save his life he could not now decide how to deal with this Haradrim. The many masks that he had worn swirled with vertiginous malice within his memory, pricking his conscience with their separate demands while refusing to coalesce into a decision. Thorongil would try to reason with this boy, he thought. Estel, ere he knew what he was, would have tried to charm him; Strider would warn him against rash acts and I suppose that the Haradrim I have become would slay him. What Aragorn would do I know not. I have, perhaps, spent too little time in his skin to know his mind. A dry wind whistled through the passes, carrying dust, and Aragorn coughed, doubling over as the spasm wracked him. Pain burned with each breath as torn muscles contracted, and he felt heat trickle wetly from beneath the bandage, down his side and stomach as fresh blood welled up in response. And beside him, he heard a low moan as his captive began to stir….

***

Sensation was slow to return as Indirkan clawed his way through the veiled layers of unconsciousness, resisting the currents that threatened to drag him back down into the darkness. I know not why I struggle, for surely I am dead? It was not a question he had ever thought to ask himself, and he wondered what it meant that he could ask it. But eventually, after he knew not how long, he became aware of his body once more, of himself lying flat on a hard surface. A dull ache localized somewhere near the base of his skull, and his right arm tingled painfully. Dust-laden air stang as he breathed it in, and of a sudden there came a fit of coughing… but not from him! With a low moan, Indirkan forced his eyes open to a stony roof, and, using his left arm, he pushed himself up on one elbow as he muzzily glanced about, seeking his enemy. A shape huddled some short distance from him, and Indirkan bared his teeth in a grimace as he sat up, rubbing a hand against the back of his head, and peering at his opponent.

The other had his back to the wall, one leg drawn up to his chest and his left arm was cradled in the crook of leg and hip. His right hand was laid upon the hilt of his dagger, but he did not draw it, and Indirkan frowned at that. Weaponless, and still dazed as he was, Indirkan knew he would have been an easy mark. Indeed, his assailant could have slain him easily while he lay senseless upon the ground. Why did he stay his hand?

"Why do you wait?" he demanded, voice taut with suspicion and an effort not to let his fear show too baldly. Silence was his only response, and as the protracted moments slipped away, he felt an anguished and angry frustration fill him. "Do not think to toy with me! Speak! Why did you not strike?"

"What is your name, lad?" The words came back softly, wearily, in a tone whose gentleness surprised him.

"Indirkan," he replied, responding to that voice before he could think to censor himself.

"Indirkan," the stranger repeated. "Of what house?"

"Why should I tell you?" the Haradrim snapped, berating himself for the slip. "I owe nothing to a bandit!"

A low chuckle emanated from the other, though he grimaced in pain. "Then well for you that I am not one!"

"Tell me your name, then, if you be an honest man!" Indirkan challenged.

"You may call me Khordan, if you must have a name, and I shall leave my honesty to the judgment of others," said the stranger.

"I may call you Khordan?"

"Yes, you may ," the stranger replied, stressing his permission, as a slight, rather cynical smile played about his mouth. Indirkan's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the other, seeking the key by which to read his enigmatic opponent. His captor's face was lean and sharp-angled, seemingly young, yet Indirkan suspected him of carrying more years than his appearance admitted. Dark brows arched over deep-set eyes of a startling grey, lending an almost ascetic severity to the other's face, though full, pouting lips added an oddly sensual touch to that otherwise stern and earnest portrait. Dark hair, worn just below shoulder length, framed all, and was caught back in a queue, bound loosely with a simple thong and unbraided. At the moment, his captor's expression was closed, taut, and etched with pain, but his regard was clear and sharp still. Indirkan could not help but stare at him, trying to determine what the other might be. For though the man's grey eyes and strongly carved bones suggested Corsair blood, there was something about him that argued against so ready a conclusion. His attire, for one thing, was better suited to travel by land, and no Corsair would have ventured so far from the broad waters alone. For another, he spoke too readily after the manner of the Dargalt province, which those of Umbar disdained. Whence comes he? Indirkan wondered. No common thief this one, I wager! But what then? Or was I right to think only one such as myself would come here?

His eyes dropped to the blood that stained "Khordan's" shirt, and through the tear in the fabric, he could see a darkly stained bandage that seemed to do little to stop the bleeding. "How came you by that? And what meant you when you said others would judge your honesty? Or do you play now another game?" Indirkan asked, surreptitiously tensing, ready to spring. He thought he had made no discernible movement in the dim light, but those piercing grey eyes narrowed instantly.

"A word of caution, my friend," said Khordan, and now his voice was stern and steady. "I play no games when my life is at stake. Wounded I may be, but I can wield a dagger, and if you move to escape or offer me violence, I will use it! We both know, I think, how that must end." He pinned the other under his stare, and Indirkan felt his cheeks heat as he bowed his head. "Now, from what house do you hail?"

"The House of Rhanion," Indirkan replied in a low voice, recognizing the futility of any escape attempt at this time.

"Rhanion. And why comes one of that line to a place such as this? You accuse me of thievery, but I could say the same of you," said Khordan, and fierce anger flared in Indirkan. The stranger saw it, and nodded slowly. "Well? Speak, lad!"

"I am no more a thief than are you, if you did not lie!"

"Is that so? Then why came you here?"

"Tell me your tale first, and then I shall tell mine!"

"Or perhaps I could tell it for you," Khordan replied as if Indirkan had not spoken, gazing at the other intently. He paused a moment, and those unnerving grey eyes seemed to cut through Indirkan to lay bare his soul. "By your manner and your face, you are young, and newly come to your station," Khordan continued, slowly, with deliberation. "And perhaps you wish for war, to prove yourself loyal to your House and the Overlord. Yet you come here. House Rhanion is not well-known for its valor. Mayhap you resent such… attention… as is lavished upon you for your blood. Or perhaps–" and here Indirkan's jaw clenched as the other's voice, never loud, sank still lower to a bare, almost intimate murmur. Indirkan might have thought he spoke to himself, and had forgotten his audience, but for the keen focus those bright eyes exhibited–"perhaps the power of Mordor frightens you, for you see in its darkness the sickness of this land."

"'Tis treason to speak so!" Indirkan grated, feeling a flare of panic in his breast nonetheless, for Khordan's musings were terrifyingly astute. He might have expected the jibe concerning his family (if jibe it was), for Rhanion House was infamous for its fall. But no one knew of his secret fears, not even his father or sister! How could a stranger, wounded and on the brink of collapse, discern in only a few minutes of guarded conversation his mistrust of the power he was duty-bound to serve? Traitor, traitor! Thou art a traitor! whispered that terrible—and terribly honest—inner voice, with an obscene glee. And how could I have overlooked that what I think and breed in my heart is treason? I must have known, I did know, on some level what I wrought in myself, but I could not name it 'til he spoke! Fear mingled with his earlier anger, and he glared at the other with loathing for having torn the mask from his own false face and forced him to look directly into the mirror at last.

"Aye, it is treason to speak thus," Khordan said softly in reply, undaunted by Indirkan's resentful stare. "And treason to feel thus, or so we are told!" And of a sudden, Indirkan understood.

"You feel it too!" Brown eyes met grey ones briefly, and then flicked down once more to the bloodstain ere they rose again to search Khordan's face. "Nay," he continued after a moment, and his voice was laden with dark emotion, "Nay, more! Or why else came you here, injured as you are? Someone knows your heart too well!"

"My heart," Khordan repeated, and laughed softly, though the pain was writ plainly on his face. "Even I know it not!" A pause. "And now what shall we do, we who now have each other's lives in hand?" Indirkan ran his tongue over dry lips and found he could not swallow. Here sit two traitors, though no other knows me for one! What, indeed, shall we do?

"I know not!" he replied, slouching in sudden, sympathetic exhaustion. "A plague upon us both, I know not!"




3. Nightfall



Evening ended suddenly, in a blaze of ruddy light that painted the desert rose where deep purple shadows lay not. But the instant the sun passed over the rim of the world, darkness fell, swift and abrupt as the headsman's axe. Indirkan, accustomed to the swift nightfall, was little troubled by it, wandering forlornly in his own thoughts. I should escape, he thought, I should try now to force my way past, for my enemy has not the strength to stay me I think. Honor demands that I try at least! And yet Indirkan sat slouched in the cave beside the injured man, finding it easier to let time drag him along its deadly path than resist it with action of his own. Still, he could not forebear to say, with a quick glance at the other, "My father will search for me. I doubt not that he has already begun."

Khordan shrugged minutely. As daylight had waned slowly away and their silent impasse endured, his movements had grown fewer and more restrained as pain and loss of blood took their toll. His breathing had grown more shallow and labored, and it seemed to take more of an effort for him to remain alert. Still he endured, with a stoic fortitude that astonished Indirkan. "Let them search! If they find you, I wish you well of your life and your fortunes." The Haradrim raised a brow at that, wondering if that were sarcasm or simply bitter exhaustion that had not strength enough for tact. He cannot last forever thus. 'Tis still warm, yet he shivers beneath his cloak: that wound needs more tending than he can give. Indirkan pursed his lips, considering the stranger once more. Anger still stirred at sight or thought of him, yet despite his bitter resentment, Indirkan found that oddly, he trusted the other, for there was a quality to Khordan that bespoke a fundamental honesty in spite of his faithlessness. That was perhaps what kept him here, in company he ought to scorn. And why, as he gazed balefully at the other, he asked in spite of his anger, "How did you know, Khordan?"

After a deliberate silence, Khordan replied, "By your feel, I suppose. One recognizes kinship from afar."

"Kinship! Bad blood, I say!" A pause. "What if I were to go now and find my father?"

"Do as you please, it little concerns me." Khordan's tone fought for resignation, but failed, and Indirkan smiled in the darkness. The other sounded rather disgusted for the most part, but there was something else there that he could not identify with surety. Weariness, yes, and a wishfulness…. As if he wills only the end of this trial and hopes that I might end it for him.

"Truly?" he challenged.

"Nay," the other replied after a moment. "Not truly. But does it matter? You will not leave. Or if you do, you will not tell."

"How do you know that? I could cry my tale in the streets and be accounted a hero for uncovering a traitor."

In the darkness, there was the sound of fabric rustling, and then a sharp scratch as a point of light flared. Khordan held a match and the reddish light cast dancing shadows upon their faces as the stranger leveled that penetrating stare at him once more. "I know," said the other, and this time there was no room for doubt, "because you value your honor too much to purchase it." Before the gravity of the other's stare, Indirkan cast down his eyes, swallowing hard.

"And how come you to say that so quickly of me? Of one who is a traitor little known to you?" When Khordan did not answer immediately, he pressed on, knowing not precisely what drove him, but unable to stop. "That wound needs to be treated. If you trust me so, then if I offer to help you, will you accept?" It was a challenge, though for a moment Indirkan was uncertain whom he challenged, himself or Khordan.

Aragorn's mouth tightened, caught suddenly upon the barb of his own belief. How far does my trust extend? Reason said he could not afford to surrender himself to the other's mercy; equally, he knew very well that there would come a point in the night beyond which he could no longer control this… 'encounter.' It would be simple to bow to inevitability, to accede simply because he had no choice. But something in him resisted that course, seeking to snatch a decision out of fate's greedy jaws. It was unreasonable, perhaps, as were many of his choices of late. Indeed, since his departure from Gondor, it seemed many of his actions had grown out of motives based in obscurity, explicable only by appeal to intuition. Now, though, even intuition was confused and he was left with little more than a visceral faith in this lad's honesty that refused to yield up any clues as to its origin. So in the end, I must decide not whether I trust Indirkan, but whether I trust my own judgment! Immediately, all the doubts reared up, attached to various names, titles, and personalities, all worn and discarded like threadbare clothing, and they tormented him with the promise of certainty if only he would choose one, become the mask once more. Thorongil would have an answer by now, but alas, I know too well how to keep a secret, for this construct of my own crafting will not yield to my inquiries. Aragorn wanted to laugh at the schisms within his own mind, but hissed sharply instead as pain stabbed at him, and closed his eyes. This is madness! The thousand and one different ways that puzzlement draped a man's face leered back at him in response, and he gritted his teeth, thoroughly disgusted with himself. I chose this fate because duty demanded, he reminded himself. I may loathe it, but it is my business to wear the disguise appropriate to the moment. And though I be weary to death of this task, still there remains pride to satisfy. Shall I fail for lack of enthusiasm? No!

But words did not help calm his spirit, or ease his fevered self-recrimination, and bits and fragments of the last three years in Harad and Rhûn drifted through his mind without the force to push him to one side or the other of acceptance. Enough! He drew a breath, and had to suppress a wince as he raised his eyes once more to Indirkan's. Look at him! What does my heart say? The match was burning swiftly, but ere it sputtered, he nodded, sharply, once.

Indirkan blinked, taken aback, for he had not, he realized, expected Khordan to accept. And now that he has, do I commit my first perjury, and attack him under the guise of truce? It was his turn now, to fumble for light, and when he had dropped a match into the lamp-plate he carried, he stared at Khordan a long moment. And then, taking a deep breath, he moved cautiously to the other's side. When he was well within arm's reach, his eyes darted to the dagger still sheathed at Khordan's belt. I could kill him now, Indirkan thought. It would not be difficult, not when he knows as well as I do that he has not the strength to last in a struggle. Once again, he tasted the anger and fear that attached to this enigmatic stranger, and felt his palms itch. Nevertheless, he moved very carefully, and paused ere he touched the hilt of that knife, but Khordan did not twitch, only watched him without expression as he drew the blade and touched it to his chest. How simple it is to take a man's life!

Aragorn did not know what power allowed him to remain absolutely still as Indirkan drew his own dagger very deliberately down the front of his shirt, parting the fabric but leaving no mark upon his body. The Haradrim hesitated another moment ere he set the knife down, again, carefully, and then began to lay out what supplies he kept in his travel pouch. There was an odd ritualism to this interaction: in Indirkan's precise, very deliberate movements, and in Aragorn's perfect stillness and silence, and neither was yet willing to say whither it led. Bandages, a vial, a strip of leather, and needle and thread appeared, and then Indirkan began to unwind the blood-stained wrappings.

Indirkan hissed as he finished stripping the bandages from the other's torso, exposing the injuries beneath. Terrible bruising spread over his left side, and a jagged slash arced from just above Khordan's navel to an abrupt point against his sternum. And Indirkan, probing as gently as he could, could see clearly where bone fragments had been sheered off by the force of the blow. Shaking his head in amazement, Indirkan glanced up at the other. "You were fortunate that your opponent's sword was blunt!" There was no easy or painless way to begin, and Indirkan knew a moment of doubt as to whether he had the skill to heal this wound. He has bled too much, and the fever is not a good sign. I can clean it and suture it, but little more, I fear. Picking up the vial, he proffered a grim smile as he handed Khordan the leather strip and waited 'til the other had it between his teeth to begin ….




4. Through the Long Dark Night



The land stretched barren for miles, save for a strip of brilliant green that hugged the river banks. Sun and heat were the constants in this dry land: An-Bayrt ur tanobrin, ani irithalti. Words–alien in sound and yet familiar nonetheless–given voice by strangers repeating the wisdom of a land long bereft of its seas: the sky and the sands, they cradle us. Stone houses bearing carved sigils upon the lintels, dizzying designs that yet recalled another city, fair and tall. Remembrance–genyai–so sweet it cuts to the bone and leaves a man aching for days! Genyai inkano they call such memories here, and smile, for there is a saying for every experience beneath An-Bayrt ur Ket Yan , beneath the Sun and the Red Eye. Alien speech and alien ways… even the sky is unfamiliar, and the stars bear new names. So very wearying, all the strangeness of the world, where men serve honorably a dishonorable lord and the sun's light is a cruel torment…!

Aragorn came suddenly out of that twilit state where memory and dreams run together, heedless of boundaries. The moon shone through the cave's mouth, its cold light weirdly juxtaposed with the fever that still burned in his veins. Pain still racked him with every breath, but not so sharply as before. Or perhaps the pain was only less by comparison, for it had taken all of Aragorn's strength to keep from crying out as the Haradrim treated his injuries. Mercifully, he had swooned in the middle of the process, and it seemed that Indirkan had done his best. I ought to be grateful to him , Aragorn thought but could not summon anything more than a wan relief. Mostly, he felt exhausted, and as he closed his eyes once more, feeling the stones cool against his throbbing temples, he longed for the forgetfulness of sleep. And yet even that was not enough. What I need is rest, not sleep–to return home again, to find some certain ground once more! Something moved, and a shadow fell across Aragorn's face. After a moment, the Ranger abandoned the idea of pretending to sleep, and he moved carefully to sit up, wincing slightly. Indirkan's voice, quiet and deadly serious, broke the silence. "I could have killed you, you know." Aragorn took a slightly deeper breath, but made no response, judging silence to be best. Indirkan turned after a moment from the moonlit landscape and walked slowly toward him. As he sank to his haunches before the Ranger, he drew once more Aragorn's dagger. The blade glinted, and for a time, both stared as the silvery light showed keen along its edge. Steel kissed Aragorn's throat just below his jaw line, and Indirkan raised burning eyes as he asked softly, "Why do you trust me so?"

For his part, Aragorn did not so much as twitch, gazing steadily at the lad, reading the other's forlorn despair all too easily. Akin indeed! he thought, searching in vain for words that might reassure the other, that could explain what was, in the end, inexplicable. Unsurprisingly, he could think of nothing. Nothing, at any rate, that he could have expressed in Haradric, in a manner that would have touched Indirkan. Such words as were needed for this difficult occasion required utter sincerity on the part of the speaker, and that was beyond his power to give at the moment. For Aragorn's faith had its roots in a tradition and heritage that were mute before the peril of the southern deserts, knowing nothing of the beauty the Haradrim found there. Likewise, the manner after which the Haradrim spoke was ignorant of all that a Ranger of the North held dear, and so in moments where speech was most needed, both sides were rendered speechless by the gulf that yawned between them. And of late, what faith I have is not enough to sustain even me, let alone another.

"I fear I have no answer for you," Aragorn said reluctantly, and immediately, the Haradrim interjected.

"If not you, then has no one!" Indirkan hissed in a despairing tone. While Khordan had lain unconscious, his thoughts had been hard indeed. I can never simply return home. Not now. I could never learn to hide my disgust, and ere long my own father would be forced to proclaim me for what I am! Almost, he fancied he could feel the noose round his neck. Worse, in his mind's eye, he saw the horrified faces of his father and Kirladi, his sister, as they condemned him along with the rest of Dargalt. That was a fate he could scarce bear to think upon, and he felt the wounded, frightened center of himself snarl hatefully in response. Indeed, that part of him still demanded Khordan's blood as payment for the bitter epiphany this afternoon. That same splinter of hate had even taken a perverse pleasure in the fact that Khordan had suffered under his ministrations, reveling in the knowledge that even had he wished to ease the other's pain, he had not had the means to do so. Indirkan was rather appalled with himself for such spite, but while the other had lain helplessly under his power, the temptation to use that dagger had been constant. I could still do it, that vengeful and frightened part of him whispered. He would not stop me either! A life for a life, is that not the way of things? A life for what little of worth I might have had to offer?

A moment he let temptation speak, feeling his muscles quiver as he hovered on the brink of murder, but then he sighed. Opening his eyes again, he withdrew the blade, gazing down at it with something like disgust. So much in Harad was determined on the point of a dagger, and yet Indirkan, aware as never before of all of his doubts, found no consolation there. It seemed that all he had learned in his life dangled by the thread of his own loyalty, and now that that fragile tie had been cut, everything was adrift in chaos. "'The first gift of Lord Annatar is knowledge,'" he murmured softly, shaking his head. "But of what worth, that knowledge? It leads only to sorrow!"

Aragorn, however, upon hearing that, stiffened, staring at Indirkan with a strange intensity. In the midst of his troubles, it seemed a thousand years ago that he had sat in the depths of the library vaults of Minas Tirith, preparing for this journey. But as he had begun to train his tongue not to trip over the breathy, over-aspirated syllables of Haradric, he had come across a brittle set of scrolls that must have dated to the Second Age, or only shortly thereafter. Saratin Annataru they were called, and aptly, for contained therein were the Precepts of Annatar. It was possibly the most extensive piece of Haradrim philosophy ever collected in the West, and Aragorn had been fascinated. Indirkan's quotation recalled those long hours of study, and the pleasure of learning a foreign tongue… and quite by accident reminded him that the hours he had devoted to the Saratin Annataru were hours that every Haradrim child had shared. For just as every well-educated man in the West knew the tale of Elendil and his sons, so every Haradrim could recite the Precepts. Strange indeed that something of Sauron's crafting should inspire a Ranger's passion as well as a Haradrim's, thought he, as he replied, "'A life lived in ignorance is not worth living.' Are we not taught thus from our earliest days? And yet we are dull students, for we fail in the test!"

"I do not understand," Indirkan replied flatly.

"Try harder then," Aragorn urged, letting a trace of impatience creep into his tone. "If there be any worth in the teachings of Annatar, it lies only in your willingness to use the gift given, even if usage wounds mortally!" Indirkan's eyes flicked to Aragorn's chest briefly, and the older man gave a slight, sardonic smile at that. "Even so!" he said softly in reply to the other's thoughts.

"And to what possible use shall I put knowledge of my own treacherous core? Shall I confess myself before the scaffold?"

"How doubt doth poison the well-spring of good intentions," sighed Aragorn ruefully, and had to smother a flare of frustration with Indirkan's woeful obstinancy. Remember who you are, that you came to this desolate place! he reminded himself firmly. What cause have I to condemn this lad when I wallow in my own pain just as readily?

"What would you have me do, then?" Indirkan demanded, skeptical.

"You continue to question me," replied the Ranger. "Turn your questions inward! Ask yourself: why did you not slit my throat when you could easily have done so? Why did you offer to help one to whom you owed nothing?"

Indirkan stared at him a moment, then averted his eyes, seeming ashamed. "You paint me better than I am," he said, flatly.

"Do I?"

"I am a traitor!"

"What means that word when we speak not of lords and loyalties, but of pity?"

"Pity!" Indirkan shook his head. "Think you that I did not relish the hurt you suffered at my hands? Who am I to sully the word by speaking it?"

"Who, indeed? You know shame at least, and that is more than many can say!" Aragorn sighed. He hesitated a moment, debating with himself, then asked quietly, " What will you do now? Take up that dagger and use it? Or stay your hand another day?"

Indirkan snorted softly, glancing up at him. "I shall not use the dagger. Not today, at least! But beyond tonight, I know not whither I must go, nor what I must do!"

And Aragorn, watching the other's anguished face, felt a vast sympathy for the lad. "I know well the malady from which you suffer, lad!" he murmured. "And I can offer you no reassurance: whithersoever you go, you shall be often alone, and where you place your trust and for what reasons perhaps not even you shall know. It is a lonely fate, and I would not have you take it up unless you are able to tell me, now, that to serve Sauron of Mordor would do you more violence than would a life of masks and exile." And what violence have I done myself, as the years wear by? For though Aragorn knew he had to choose the latter life, yet he feared to lose himself to the contours of his assumed personae.

"If you know it so well, then why do you continue? Why not end it?" Indirkan demanded, weighing the knife in the palm of his hand.

Why not end it? Because I cannot… Arwen's voice and laughter are too dear to lose… because it is not mete to quit my post ere my task is finished… because I owe it to others–Gilraen, Arwen, even Gandalf–to remain in this world…. Aragorn closed his eyes a moment, letting the jumble of reasons mingle chaotically. Because… in the end, I have too much to lose. We all do! If it were only a question of shedding all pretense, then perhaps death might be welcome, but it is not. Pretense alone did not bring me to this pass, for I did not so much tire of Thorongil as outgrow him. But in Gondor, every stone and tree is familiar, a part of what I know and love; here, the stones speak in tongues and there are no trees!

Muddled as his thoughts were by exhaustion, that last reason spoke with crystal-edged clarity, much to his relief. It was not, however, the response that Indirkan sought, or even a response Aragorn could give, and so he replied, "That, too, is a question I cannot answer for you. I think you know that." He raised a brow at Indirkan, whose slight grimace acknowledged that he did. "But I think you may find, if you choose to tread the same path that I have, that you are not so alone as you believe. There will be others who will see what you have seen, and come away from the encounter as shaken as you were."

"Perhaps. But how shall I find them?"

"You will learn to recognize them, I should say," Aragorn said serenely. Indirkan gave a sharp bark of skeptical laughter at that, then twisted to look over his shoulder at the moon sinking below the lip of the cave's ledge.

"Morning comes, and another day of heat," he sighed. He turned back to the Ranger and hesitated, considering him. "I suppose that I shall have to trust you yet again," said he, and there was the barest hint of ironic humor in his voice.

"That would be a beginning!" Aragorn replied, lying down once more, willing to succumb to his exhaustion. After a few moments more, he felt another body settle in beside him, lying back to back, and he smiled in the darkness. May it be a rebirth for us both!




5. Daybreak



The day was well advanced when Indirkan, lounging as comfortably as he could against one of the cave's boulders, noticed that Khordan had awakened. Though the other as yet had not so much as twitched, instinct told him that his chance companion had suddenly ceased to sleep, rousing in an instant as was habitual among warriors and the hunted. In spite of himself, the Haradrim felt tension coil tight in the pit of his stomach. Lying at the other's back as the dark hours drifted by and the false dawn came and went, Indirkan knew well that Khordan had not stirred even once. Worn out by pain and hard travels, the other had slept the sleep of utter exhaustion. Would that I could drown my fears in sleep's forgetfulness! Indirkan had thought enviously. It had been hard to lie there with his eyes shut, willing himself to sleep, feeling the warmth of the other's body against his in the darkness while his mind vomited up memory after troublesome memory, summoning incidents from his childhood that took on new and ominous meaning: his questions as he had studied the Precepts, his fear of the tall warriors who marched through the village, taking whom they would on the orders of the Overlord; his deeply uneasy acceptance of the principle that what was done in the name of the Red Eye was always legitimate.

And on the heels of such doubts came the fear: fear of discovery, but also fear of loss. Kirdali's face haunted him, and he felt the pressure of her phantom eyes tearing him apart. How could I think of leaving her? Accounted beautiful even by those who scorned her tainted bloodlines, Indirkan had always been fiercely protective of his younger sister, seeking to shield her from a marriage of convenience. For she was dear to him, a solace from the judgment of others, a haven for a frustrated brother. She is, he realized, someone I could serve gladly above all others. She was my comfort and my queen. Indirkan shook his head, turning his realizations over in his mind, disturbed by their implications.

Was I born a traitor? Or is all of it a part of a long shaping? Indirkan knew not the answer to that, and his tired reflections as the day had waxed had brought him no nearer to enlightenment. Indeed, felt himself severed from all that he had known before. At least you know shame! Khordan's voice cut through the other memories, and Indirkan's mouth tightened. Yes, I am now well-acquainted with shame, thanks to this past night! And now Khordan wakes again. What more shall I learn of him? For under the other's penetrating stare, Indirkan felt utterly transparent, stripped of any possible refuge. It was not a comfortable feeling, and yet he sought it out now. I must know! I must know everything, and though I understand not how or why, Khordan is the key to all that I am… possibly to all that I shall ever become. So, dreading further revelations, yet drawn to the mirror that Khordan's silver regard provided, Indirkan steeled himself and turned once more to face his unusual companion as Khordan stirred at last.

"Good day," he offered casually, watching the older man closely. "The sun is high, and all wise creatures hide themselves from their daily enemy."

"Good day to you as well," the other replied, grimacing as he sat up. Then, ignoring the pain, he rose carefully and made his way to the mouth of the cave, there to gaze out at the sun-soaked rocks. "I thought you would have left by now."

"And whither would I go?" Indirkan asked, unstoppering his water flask and taking a long swallow. "Home, to a father who will one day disown me on the executioner's scaffold? To a sister whose heart I would break? Here!" he added, and as Khordan turned, he tossed the flask to him. "Let it not be said that I care not for your health after all the pains I have taken… and inflicted!"

With a soft snort of laughter, Khordan raised the flask in a silent salute ere he drank. "Well-spoken, and I thank you for all such pains." Those grey eyes watched him ever, and Indirkan shifted restlessly. What now? His mind raced, seeking questions… answers… insults, anything to keep the silence from deepening, yet he could not bring himself to speak. "Hard are the hours that follow revelations," Khordan surprised him by continuing after awhile. "Happenstance is a fickle companion who robs a man of all he thought his own, even his name. 'Tis unreasonable to think you will rediscover your purpose all in a day, Indirkan."

"I doubt it not," the younger man sighed. "How does one continue?"

With a slight shrug, the other answered, "Even as you do now. You have refused the knife's solution, thus time will draw you onward–will continue you, as it were."

"Do not confuse me with philosophy!" the Haradrim replied sharply, shaking his head, "You know that is not my question!"

"I do, but tell me then what you would have me say," Khordan said softly, his words falling into a heated silence. Indirkan hung his head, and listened as the other went on after a moment, "There are some answers that come only from experience, or which have their origin in the choice rather than in speculation. Look not to me, but ask yourself what you shall do now. Have you decided?"

"Did you not say only moments ago that it is unreasonable to demand of me purpose hard upon such a night as we have passed?" Indirkan asked, avoiding an answer, but Khordan shook his head as he came and eased down before him.

"I said it would be unreasonable for you to rediscover it. This is not a matter of finding your end, but of choosing to walk the path set you, in spite of misgivings. That we cannot escape with convenient excuses," said he.

"Even if I have no faith in the road that I take?" the Haradrim demanded.

"Especially if you have no faith," Aragorn countered. As well I know! he thought, and wondered at the sardonic humor of the world, that he whose weariness had led him to doubt on the brink of despair, should advise one now suffering the same affliction. But one of us must say these things, though neither of us is able to believe them at the moment. Inwardly, he felt a twinge of hard-edged amusement as he acknowledged his own advice. Belief is beside the point. Did I not just say so?

Indirkan was silent for a long while, and Aragorn let his own thoughts wander over the rock-studded plains of Harad, to the chaparrals of Umbar and the deep-riven canyons that lay on the borders of Khand and Mordor. Lit ever by a brazen sun, there was no relief in these parched lands from the open sky, from exposure, and Aragorn had never before realized how wearing that could be on a man. And yet… there was something oddly alluring about Harad's vast plains, and as he gazed at Indirkan, he felt himself respond to it, though gropingly, as a blind man. Or a man blinded! The mystique of the desert which drew Indirkan out into that pitiless light called to him, and he heard it dimly, as an echo of what he felt for the forested vales of his home. One comes here to be alone, to touch something real without the mediation of others, Aragorn mused, staring out at the uniformly bright landscape. But for me, the desert can only uncover conflict, it cannot mend it. Of their own volition, his thoughts turned then homeward: to Gondor and Eriador; to Rivendell, and a chance to regain his balance. Harad is a strange place, he decided, and though I cannot regret having seen it, it is past time that I left it behind. Experimentally, he breathed in more deeply, feeling the pull of the stitches as a sharp sting. His chest still ached badly, and would for many days and weeks, but the pain was bearable, and after having slept long he felt more like himself again.

"You spoke last night of others who would be… 'overlooked'… by the Red Eye," Indirkan said at that moment, and raised clear brown eyes to search Aragorn's face. "Do you know this, or do you guess?"

"I know it," Aragorn replied, thinking of the many who had sheltered him. "In most towns, you will find a few who will share your doubts. But for one such as you, a city would be a better place to hide."

"Why?" Indirkan asked, frowning apprehensively. "Are not there more soldiers in a city?"

"But also more people. In such places, it is easy to disappear, and many are they who, because they live beneath the watchful eyes of the Dark Lord's soldiers, human and otherwise, have learned to loathe their Overlord."

"Yet they are unmolested?" It was less a question than a statement, but Indirkan found it difficult to believe and sought confirmation from the other.

"Unmolested and unnoticed, for they have learned the art of hiding in plain sight."

"As have you," Indirkan said, and looked hard at him once more, though there was more curiosity than animosity in that piercing regard now. "How long since any has been trusted with your true name?"

"Many years," Aragorn admitted, and then smiled crookedly. "Longer than I care to recall!"

"And your family?" Indirkan asked, broaching that subject most on his mind at the moment. Kirdali's face hovered in his vision as a ghost, and he felt a wrench at the thought of leaving her without so much as a farewell. "Know they aught of you now?"

"I cannot say. Perhaps," Aragorn shrugged, unwilling to say too much on that delicate subject.

"I would see Kirdali again," Indirkan muttered, glancing away again. "My sister," he added swiftly, sensing the question that hovered in the air. For his part, Aragorn said naught, gazing intently at the young man. His first instinct had been to advise against returning to Dargalt, but he stilled it as he read in the other's downcast eyes his dependence upon that bond with Kirdali. Aragorn had said far too many farewells over the years, yet he regretted most the times when he had not spoken those words and so lost forever the chance to truly say good-bye. More, he knew well the strength that came of familial bonds, for he had relied upon that strength many times to save himself from that darkness that was of his own crafting. The ties that bound him to those whom he loved were too integral to his continued existence to be doubted or disturbed. Thus short of his own death, Aragorn had never faced the possibility of the sudden and brutal truncation of all those relationships. Indirkan's was a different sort of loss from the kind to which he was accustomed, and he shivered inwardly.

"I do not envy you," he said finally, and in his soft-spoken words rang such utter sincerity that Indirkan blushed visibly, casting a rather puzzled look at him.

"What did you do, then, after… after you decided your path?" he asked, still unable to speak directly of betrayal. But this I would know, and not only because I would pierce that veil he keeps ever between himself and all others. What makes a man such as Khordan? Solitary he is, but one must begin somewhere, and with others… others who must be left behind. And so he watched the other closely, curious, and was surprised to see how the other's eyes softened in an instant, and a slight smile played about Khordan's mouth ere he ducked his head, rubbing a hand over two weeks' worth of beard as if to hide his reaction. "What is it?" Indirkan asked, suspecting that he amused the other in some way, though he knew not how.

"Naught," the other replied softly, shaking his head as the mask slipped back into place.

"Will you not tell me more of yourself?" Indirkan asked. "Caution is well and good, but have you not already decided to trust me? Or do you both trust and speak by halves?"

 

There was a brief silence. Then, "I should have learned by now not to allow others to play me thus!" Khordan sighed, and as the older man gazed at him, Indirkan perceived a certain admiration in the other's silver regard.

"You do that well. Disarmingly, I should say, to be quite accurate!" The Haradrim cocked his head, considering that remark in light of a glimmer of understanding that had begun to make itself known to him. "I think," he said slowly, feeling his confidence grow as he spoke, "that you allow nothing, Khordan. If another plays you, then it is because you would be played. Or do I miss the mark when I say that the game is in your blood?" he asked, by way of sly challenge.

"In my blood indeed!" Aragorn replied with sardonic humor, though his mind raced as he sought a plausible way to turn the other's questions aside without inviting more. 'The game'… in Harad that had but one meaning, and if Aragorn found it telling that 'the game' was really no more than the contest of accused and accuser, whereby 'justice' was meted out by creative ordeal, he had to concede that the comparison was apt. Such trials took on the flavor of a ghoulish spectacle, and even a murderer might find a moment of popular adulation if he endured well the challenge put to him, or was able to outwit his opponent for a time. Yes, too apt a comparison it is, but if the world is a song's crafting, as the Elves maintain, then why should not life be an ordeal, a challenge made and accepted in earnest? Then would Indirkan be right, for 'the game' has been in my line since its beginning! Indirkan's dark eyes were bright as a slight, knowing smile tugged at his lips, and Aragorn knew that his own silence confirmed the other's insight. "Then stand I accused by you, Indirkan?"

"Say not accused, but… questioned, yes. And you have not answered me yet: will you tell me something more of yourself, or have you repented of your trust?" Indirkan demanded once more, leaving no room for evasion. What truth can I give him that will satisfy his curiosity and leave me still Khordan, rather than Aragorn, to him?

"What would you know, then?"

"As I said: what did you do, once you knew you could not serve the Overlord," Indirkan said, and his eyes narrowed as Khordan gazed down once more, bright eyes veiled by dark lashes. The Haradrim struggled a moment to determine what strange emotion possessed the other ere he realized quite suddenly that it was… shyness! He had not expected that, nor the self-conscious bemusement that the other evinced.

"If you must know… I fell in love," came the awkward reply, and Indirkan gaped at him.

"You?" Disbelief left him tactless as well as graceless, but Khordan merely nodded. "How? Why?"

 

"Why should anyone love another?" the other countered. But then he was silent a moment, considering, ere he said, "Sometimes a shock can clear the mind: one is willing to see in a different light all that one 'knew' hitherto, and to act, where before one would never have dared." There came another pause while Khordan stared at him, and a slight, almost mischievous smile curving his lips. "Is it so hard to believe?"

"I…." Indirkan could not finish the thought, realizing that it might be unwise to admit that he suspected the other of a prank at his expense. "Yes," he finally managed. Then, "And does she… did she…?"

"Whatever the truth, I must believe she loves me," the other replied softly, and the two of them shared a look of humorless commiseration, ere Khordan continued, "Verily, I know not whether I ought to hope that she does. What, after all, could I bring her if not pain?" That last was voiced quietly, with an edge of wounded apprehension that stilled any further thought that this might be simply a goad, or an ill-timed joke. Indirkan bit his lip, feeling himself lost on a cloudy night, uncertain of what, if anything, to say. For through his own desperate hope that Kirdali might forgive him the choice he was about to make, he could grasp the torment that uncertainty inflicted upon the other man. How if Kirdali should condemn me? It is as he says, I must believe that she will not, that she will understand, but I fear to put her to the test and learn otherwise! But could I live with such doubts, never knowing the measure of her pain?

For his part, Aragorn wondered at himself, that he should confess to a Haradrim what he kept secret from many in the West, even those whom he yet accounted friends. Why this secret? Why confide this one, out of all of the others, and to a stranger rather than a friend? Perhaps because it was a harmless truth here, isolated from the persona of Khordan, and therefore safe to declare. Or perhaps I wish someone to know… someone whose judgment of necessity cannot touch me. Valar know I would sing it from the mountain tops in Rivendell if I could! He gazed at the bewildered Indirkan, and doubt voiced a third possiblity: Or perhaps I do so because he is no longer simply a stranger! The Haradrim appeared lost in his own thoughts for a time, seeming to ponder what significance this odd confession might have for his own plight. Alas, Aragorn knew not precisely what, if anything, he had wished to convey with his mention of Arwen, yet somehow it had seemed… appropriate. Perhaps because the women we love have such a hold over us both, though they may not realize it, he thought. Halbarad, Elrond and my 'brothers', Gandalf–for them I would die if my death were needed, but it is for Arwen that I live. I guess that it stands thus also between Indirkan and his sister. And if that were so…. If he goes never back to her, then he is lost. As I would be! Aragorn thought, and drew a deeper breath, ignoring the pain, taking that to heart as he resolved once more to leave Harad as soon as possible.

"What is her name?" Indirkan asked suddenly into the silence that had fallen, gazing intently at Khordan.

"Ûrherané," the other replied, and the younger man raised his brows at that.

"'Evenstar'?" he repeated. "Will you see her again?" Indirkan asked finally, after a long pause. He saw Khordan's eyes flicker at that, blazing suddenly with emotion that ranged from hope to dread, and then shifted suddenly to resolution.

"If fortune is kind, yes," said he. "And will you return to bid your Kirdali farewell?" Khordan asked, cocking his head as he swiped at a few errant strands of dark hair. Indirkan hesitated, but after a moment he answered firmly:

"Yes."

"Good," Aragorn replied softly, feeling an odd and vicarious satisfaction at that.

"Whither will you go, when you are able?" asked the younger man after another lengthy silence.

"West," the other replied laconically, and Indirkan snorted.

"Then shall you have more need of fortune than I!" he said wryly. "If those loyal to the Overlord do not find you there, then Gondor's soldiery may slit your throat for you!" Indirkan hesitated a beat. Then, "This is farewell, then, is it?"

"So it seems. But," Khordan paused, and his glance was sharp and keen as he gazed at the younger man. "I think I shall see you again."

"When? How?" Indirkan asked, surprised and doubtful, but not displeased.

"It may be long, and I know not how, but look for me whithersoever you wander." The sun was arching downwards now, sinking into the west, and the two men rose and went to the cave's mouth. Harad shimmered still under the sun, but the shadows of the rocks were lengthening quickly, and Indirkan tasted in the wind a hint of cool as evening drew on in earnest. He turned once more to Khordan, and after a moment extended the other's dagger, hilt first, and Khordan grasped the handle, enfolding his hand as well. For a moment they stood thus, and it seemed a fitting parting gesture for their swift-born and adversarial friendship. Finally, though, Khordan withdrew, sheathing the weapon and he watched as Indirkan wrapped the scarf round to protect his face ere he drew up his hood against the light. Then the Haradrim began to pick his way through the rocky terrain. But ere he disappeared from sight, he paused and called back formally, "May the sky look kindly upon you!"

"May you always find water," Aragorn responded, and Indirkan halted his progress a moment, gazing back intently. It was not quite the traditional farewell, but the boy seemed to understand his meaning, and the Ranger knew by the way the other's eyes crinkled at the corners that Indirkan smiled behind the veil. He waited in shadows of the cave until at long last he saw a small figure appear beyond the rocks and begin to walk south east across the dusty plain. Then he sighed softly, though there gleamed now a light in his eyes that bespoke rebirth at last. He still needed time to heal ere he dared the trek westward, but if his heart was not yet at peace, still, he had emerged from the shadow of despair. Speaking to the emptiness that attested now poignantly to the other's absence, he murmured, "I wish you good fortune, Indirkan of the House of Rhanion!" And then, more softly, and to himself, "Rhanion…." he repeated, and smiled slightly. Who would have imagined it? Long he stood and gazed out over Harad's desert lands, and for the first time in three years, he found them beautiful.



6. Epilogue: Homecoming



Ahn-dhurin e-Han gleamed like a quicksilver ribbon as it snaked through the green land. Or rather, 'Anduin the Great' as it is called here, Indirkan reminded himself. A strange place, Gondor, so very unlike Harad! And though it was summer, he felt chilled, and longed for the heat of his native land. Still, as he and his escort moved towards the White Tower, he felt himself gripped by a taut anticipation, for never before had he thought to see that symbol of Gondor's might with his own eyes. Long was the wait, but soon we shall know whether our fight was in vain. For if Harad must perish now at the hands of the West, or be no better than an enslaved land, then my life shall be justly forfeit indeed! And in fact, Indirkan feared less for his life than for the task and the cause he had served for so many hard years. His hair was grey now, and his face lined with the experience and sun of many years, yet his back was unbent and his brown eyes were as keen as they had been of old. He had spent his life in the service of a Harad that had not wanted the gift he would give–the gift of that same fatal enlightenment and choice that had led him down the road from vagabond to open rebellion. After nearly forty years bearing the brand of "traitor," to be called now "your honor" was both gratifying and unsettling, for it heralded the completion of a circle that had begun with a chance encounter on the plains of Dargalt. Yet, it was not quite closed, and Indirkan was gripped with a sense of prescient anticipation that tingled beneath his skin. For he was the first envoy to come out of the South to Elessar's court, and he who had once led the rebels of Harad looked now to Gondor for a final judgment. If this king is just, then it may be that what we have suffered in the south was worthwhile in truth and not only in seeming. Forty years since this began…! He shook his head slightly, remembering.

After that long and difficult night in the cave, and the parting in the afternoon, he had returned home in secret to Kirdali once more. His sister had wept at his choice, but in the end, she had not betrayed him. And so far as he knew, she lived still in their father's house, wife to no man, for none would have her. And I am glad of that, for I would not wish any upon her in that place! he thought with a shiver that was not entirely due to the wind. Thought of her had borne him through many a hardship, and though he had been unable to risk returning to Dargalt, he knew well the debt he owed her for her acceptance of his choice. And perhaps soon I shall be able to visit her once more. When I return from this journey, perhaps…. Voices cried out as the mariners went into a flurry of activity as they approached the dock. Stern were the faces of the men who awaited them, all clad in the black and silver of Gondor, and Indirkan noted that that tension was mirrored among the sailors aboard ship. Who would have thought, after all, he reflected, that the Corsairs of Umbar should heave to harbor in Gondor as guests and not as enemies?

"The tar– the Gondorim have sent an escort your honor," the commander of his own guard, Hetkahrat, said as he came to stand at his side. Indirkan chose to overlook the hastily covered slip, and simply nodded. "What are your orders?"

"Make no threatening move, commander, and speak not without my permission," he replied. The other grimaced at that, but nodded sharply. Given a choice, Indirkan would have preferred to pick men whom he trusted to go with him, but the Lords of Harad had decided otherwise. Thus the nervous and somewhat hostile commander Hetkahrat, but he was well-trained and could at least be relied upon for unquestioning obedience. The other three men assigned to him fell in behind him as they disembarked and the captain of the Gondorim stood forth to greet them. And from his garb–brown and green–it was apparent that he was one of the Rangers with whom Harad had fought so many battles. It would seem that the new king is not without a sense of irony, Indirkan thought, and not without approvial, as he studied the captain.

A tall man, he seemed young for his post, but that was not unexpected. Both Gondor and Harad had suffered the loss of a generation in this latest war, and Hetkahrat surely was no more than five years his counterpart's senior. Crossing his hands upon his breast, the Gondorim bowed, and then introduced himself, "I am called Anborn," said he. "Welcome, in the name of the King, to Gondor, and to Minas Tirith, my lord."

"May the sky smile upon you," Indirkan replied, and was surprised when the other betrayed no sign of confusion at the greeting. "I am called Indirkan, of the House of Rhanion."

"If you will follow me," Anborn invited with a wave of his hand, and Indirkan fell in at his side as the two escorts uneasily formed up upon them. None spoke as they made their way from Harlond through the gate of the Rammas Echor, for among the Haradrim, only Hetkahrat and Indirkan could speak the tongue of the West. That muteness, like the gate itself, in fact, stood as silent testimony to the gulf between peoples. The great walls' massive gates, though still standing, were hardly necessary, for men were still at work upon those walls, repairing the many breaches that had been opened during the siege of Minas Tirith. And the Pelennor bore still evidence of its hard use: overgrown ditches could still be traced, and the grass grew in a patchwork fashion, thicker in places, and here and there, bare earth showed in swaths. Yet cottages had been rebuilt, and the first crops were being carefully tended by families who looked up with wary interest at their passage. Long would it be ere the city was restored to its former splendor, but the healing had begun in earnest. And how long ere Harad is at peace? Indirkan wondered, thinking of the divisions rife within his homeland. Not all of Harad had agreed to this overture, and upon his return, he doubted not that civil war would spring up. Thus is it ever, he thought sadly as they began the climb through the streets of Minas Tirith. No sooner is one war ended than another begins!

But for the moment, that was not his concern, and as Anborn led him along the broad and winding thoroughfares of the Tower of the Guard, he gazed up with awe. Most Haradrim of rank could claim some descent from Núménor, but Indirkan's family had come more recently from Gondor than had many. And still, it is a millennium since one of my line has walked these streets. It was a homecoming of sorts, though there was nothing left of the Gondor that his ancestors had fled. Then had Osgiliath been the chief city of the realm, and he had passed amid its ruins on either side of Anduin. Passing through ruins… yes, that is our fate, I fear, if ever we are to find peace. For even as the Gondor of my forebears exists no longer, the Harad of my youth lies now in the dust. Truly, I am homeless now, as I never thought to be in all my wandering life!

The seventh and last level of the city spread before them as they emerged from the final gate, and the Citadel rose high above them. The guards here wore livery different from their brethren, and seemed as walking shadows in the bright plaza, for the sable of their gear was relieved only by the tree and stars embroidered upon their tunics. Gardens, the like of which Indirkan had never before seen, surrounded the tower with a profusion of color. Glancing about, he noted that even Hetkahrat could not forbear to stare with great interest and no little trepidation at this clear sign of abundant water. Indeed, the fountain that graced the courtyard was to a desert-bred people a sign of wealth beyond imagining. As they passed near the fountain, a diamond-bright glint caught Indirkan's eyes. Planted a little ways away, Indirkan noted a slender sapling that gleamed in the sun, and caught his breath as he realized that the tree was in fact a luminous white. Gondor's fabled white tree! He had thought the emblem mere stylization, but gazing upon that budding shoot, he realized the truth. And do they keep also stars, I wonder?

Two of the dark-liveried guards opened the doors for the party, and as they entered, they saluted after the fashion of Gondor. Through vast halls lit by high windows cut deep into the walls they followed their guide until they came at last to the Great Hall. Here, Anborn held up a hand, signaling a halt. "The ambassador and I will go forward," he explained, gazing at Hetkahrat, "but it is the custom for escorts to remain here. My men will wait with you." The Haradrim commander darted a swift glance at Indirkan, who signed subtly for him to obey. Reluctantly, the other bowed and, speaking softly in his own tongue, arrayed his men to one side, while Anborn's company went to the other. "This way," Anborn said in an undertone and they passed together through the forbidding doors.

There were halls in Rhath-Ihnfar, the chief city of Harad, that were covered from floor to ceiling in red and gold damask, and floors whose inlaid mosaics were so intricate it was a crime to tread upon them. Yet never had Indirkan felt intimidated by such gaudy display. But walking through the double row of carved jet images, he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, as if the many faces had leveled the weight of their collective stony stare upon him. The soft murmur of voices died as the Lords of Gondor watched him approach the dais, and he noted that this company, too, had many young faces in it. How many have come here for the first time, to fill the place of a father or uncle? he wondered, noting in especial the man who stood first in that line, closest to the steps. Dark haired and grey-eyed, he gazed at the Haradrim ambassador frankly, and there was in his appraisal a strange maturity, and a sadness that ran deeper than his years ought to permit. That would be Faramir , he realized, placing the other. He had heard his name often in his dealings on the borders between Gondor and Harad, and had even seen him once or twice, though from afar. For the smugglers and spies who frequented that contested region were equally wary of the old steward's son, who had been then the captain of Ithilien and, with his Rangers, the bane of their illegal existence.

"My king," Anborn broke the silence, bowing low ere he straightened and gestured to Indirkan. "Here is lord Indirkan of the House of Rhanion, envoy of Harad." Indirkan tore his eyes from Faramir and bowed in his turn.

"Welcome, my lord, to Gondor," said a voice that rang oddly familiar. As Indirkan focused for the first time upon Gondor's sovereign, Elessar rose in greeting and, to the surprise of all, came to stand upon the lowest step before Indirkan. And the Haradrim's eyes widened in shock as he gazed up into that face. Impossible! So spoke logic, but never had a son so resembled his father. The same eyes, the same face…. Nay, it cannot be! "Well-met once more," said the other, and confused murmurs sprang up among the spectators at that.

"Khordan?" Indirkan demanded bluntly, incredulous still, yet unable to explain away the evidence of his own senses. But he must be older than I, even, and yet…! Vague memory stirred at that, and he remembered that even among the Haradrim, in the high houses, there were those who remained vigorous for many years past the usual span of a man's years. But forty years…!

"So you called me then, and I could give you no other name," replied Elessar, and paused a moment, gazing intently at him. "It needed a new age for us both to meet again, and I hope that this time, we may trust each other better."

Amid the confusion of the hall, Indirkan stared at Khordan, who was also Elessar Telcontar of Gondor, and knew not what to think. But there was a light in the other's eyes, one instantly recognizable, though deeper and more profound than it had been in former times. And in spite of the many questions that reared their heads, he found himself falling once more under their spell. That stirred something in him, a memory of their cautious, painful overtures to each other, and the odd trust that had let him part in fledgling friendship on that long ago afternoon. I think I shall see you again, Khordan had said, and for forty long years, he had searched in vain. Only to meet here, where neither of us thought to stand! Then, Indirkan laughed softly under his breath, and said in his own tongue, "We have many sayings in the deep south, even for such occasions as this. 'A friend is one with whom you would share water in the desert, and blood when water is lacking.' I think we have done both, after a fashion!" He paused, and then said very deliberately, "And I would do so again!"

Khordan smiled at that, and replied softly, "As would I, cousin."

***


Later, as the day faded softly into evening, Indirkan stood in the gardens of the Seventh Circle and gazed down upon the city. After the surprises of the day, he felt a need for reflection and so, over Hetkahrat's protests, he had come alone to this place. But now that he was here, his thoughts were idle and unfocused. The air was humid and tinged with the scents of growing things, of blossoms and trees that Indirkan had never seen before nor imagined in his dreams. Everything seemed to crowd upon his senses, and he shook his head, amazed by the myriad distractions that sprang simply from his surroundings.

"Harad overwhelmed me with its light and emptiness when first I came there," said Khordan's voice at his shoulder, and Indirkan started. The king glanced at him as the ambassador turned, and he raised a brow. "I imagine that this place must seem to you equally strange."

"It does indeed," Indirkan replied, gazing back. The other had exchanged his formal robes for lighter clothing, simple enough in its cut, and he seemed now much more the man he remembered. "Many years I looked for you, and wondered whether you had met some unpleasant fate at the hands of Gondor… or Harad! And now I know well why I never found you!"

"I warned you it would be long ere we met again," said he. And then he paused, ere he continued, "In the hall this morning, I knew not at first whether you would be still pleased to see me again, or whether you would account me worse than a traitor, and call me a spy sent to deceive you."

"I confess, the thought had crossed my mind," Indirkan replied. "But you once said yourself that even I might not know the reasons for my trust. And as I did then, though painfully and with reluctance, I trust you now. The days that come will tell whether that trust is misplaced."

"Do you believe that it shall prove so in the end?" Elessar asked, and his tone, though earnest, was also genuinely curious.

"No, I think it shall not." For awhile, neither man spoke, absorbed in his own considerations, trying in the space granted by silence to feel the other out in thought.

"How should I call you?" Indirkan asked suddenly, voicing the question that had always plagued him.

"'Khordan' suits me well enough, if you prefer it to the name I bear now," replied the king. "But my birth name is Aragorn."

"Arahghorn," Indirkan gave it a full, Haradric pronunciation, rolling it about in his mouth, and the other smiled at that.

"How fares your sister, Kirdali?"

"Well, I hope," he replied, surprised and pleased that the other had remembered. "I may even see her again when I return. Forty years it has been since we parted, but I know she lives still." A pause, then, "And what of your lass, Aragorn? Did she wait for you?"

Aragorn laughed softly in the growing dark as lamps flared in the streets below. "Your herald left ere the news came, but yes, she did wait. Gondor has a queen, my friend!"

"Then I am glad to hear it! I hope she is not ill?" Indirkan asked cautiously, wondering at her absence earlier in the Great Hall.

"Nay, but there is much that needs to be done in the city, and Arwen is a capable steward. Would you meet her?"

"If that would not be uncouth of me." Indirkan yet knew little of custom in Gondor, and did not wish to offend unwittingly with such a request.

"It would not be," the other assured him. "For even were you not family, you would still be a friend."

"I had meant to ask you about your words in the hall this morning," the Haradrim said as the two of them crossed the lawn and walked back towards the tower. "You called me 'cousin' …?"

Beneath the stars, Aragorn turned to him once more, and even in the dim light, Indirkan saw him smile. "Of course. House Rhanion has a long history, and ere I left for Harad, I spent many long hours learning all that I could of that land. I know well the houses of the Unrepentant, and 'Rhanion' is not a word of Haradric crafting. Did you never wonder what it meant?"

"In truth, no. Our family's history says little of those who left Gondor, beyond that they did leave. And I am not a scholar in tongues."

"It comes from Sindarin, 'Ereinion,'" Aragorn replied. "That is, 'Scion of the Kings.'" As Indirkan gaped at him, he laughed softly, and said, "Welcome home, Indirkan Ereinion!" Shaking his head in wonder, Indirkan joined him in his laughter. He gazed up at the stars arrayed (to his eyes) strangely above them, thinking how very odd was fortune in this wide world, and together they walked slowly back to the Citadel.