Dynasty 
By Dwimordene 
dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com
(Chapter 1-11)


Summary:  A tale of the opening of the Fourth Age, of struggling Harad and the 
lands once under Sauron's dominion, of Gondor's rise, and the price of victory.


Chapter One 
Bloodlines



Spring was fair this month, which was an unexpected reprieve from April rain 
showers, and many were the children at play in the streets or on the lawns. Even 
those who had business to attend to cast wistful looks at them as they hurried 
along, and hoped to accomplish their tasks quickly enough to enjoy something of 
the day. But in the Tower of Ecthelion, the gravity of ill-rumor cast a pall on 
the bright morning, and Líriel pursed her lips as she took a deep breath and 
made herself sit very still like the lady she was. Or rather, like the lady she 
would be in a few years’ time, for she was only just twelve. Just twelve, but I 
have sat in on these councils for a year now, she reminded herself primly, and 
with a certain pride for that fact. And also a certain anxiety, for there were 
moments when she doubted her parents’ wisdom; certainly the councilors had not 
at first approved of her quiet presence among them, and many were the hard, 
skeptical glances that had been cast in her direction. But whether or not I am 
fit to be a queen one day, I am my father’s daughter, and my mother is the match 
of any of these here! Líriel thought, feeling her spine stiffen at that as she 
listened to the adults talk. And because she was her father’s daughter it was 
important that she not embarrass either him or her mother by any too obvious 
display of impatience or discomfort. After all, I am not a baby like Halareth 
anymore! Which did not mean that she did not envy her sister her carefree ways 
at times like these, for the news was not good that had convened this particular 
meeting.

"… insist that more than messages pass north and south. Records can be altered, 
and the private affairs of each of the Eight are not a matter of public 
knowledge. We of the desert take a long view, and the great as well as the less 
hoard against a day of need. In spite of the current woes and financial 
short-fall, any one of the Eight might have more than enough stored away to 
equip a not inconsiderable force. If even two are in alliance against us, then 
the prospects are grim indeed." That was old Indirkan, for years the 
representative of Harad in Gondor*. In fact, he had been appointed to the post 
four years before Líriel had been born, which would make it quite a long time 
ago to a twelve year-old, but that this particular twelve year-old had elven 
blood in her veins and had grown up to a different understanding of that word, 
‘long.’ The Haradrim had the darker complexion of his people and deep-set dark 
eyes that stared hawk-like at friend and foe alike, and for all that his hair 
was streaked now with white, he was unbowed and radiated intensity even as his 
native sun radiated heat. Líriel liked him, though she was occasionally afraid 
of his temper. Of course, that is nothing compared to my father’s temper! At the 
moment, however, it was not anger but considerable worry that drove Indirkan as 
he gazed at each councilor in turn, ending with the king.

"My lord Imrahil says that he, too, has been warned by traders coming north that 
some houses buy more than their straits would seem to permit, and that none know 
the source of their seeming-sudden wealth," Gwithrin of Dol Amroth spoke up, 
supporting Indirkan. "And the pattern of purchases in the Midlands–water, food, 
medicines–has become suspicious over the past five months. Prior to that point, 
the demand for wool, cotton and dyes was higher than the demand for staples."

"To me also comes word of trouble," the king replied. "Raiders have become 
increasingly numerous, but they come not only for water or horses. According to 
some of commanders based in Harad, they seem almost to test the defenses of 
fortresses, and entire caravans have been reported missing. That is one excuse 
for the traffic in heralds moving north and south between Near and Far Harad, 
for some of the raiders have been identified as belonging to certain houses, and 
it behooves the Eight, not to mention the houses minor, to attempt diplomacy."

"But we know not the contents of those messages," Indirkan protested. "Your 
majesty, you know as well as I do that heralds cannot always be trusted!"

"I do, and I think the excuse specious, but I see little we can do to halt such 
communications. For the moment, this is an internal matter, and Gondor may not 
dictate how Harad deals with its renegades and suspected rebels outside of the 
treaties we have established. Nevertheless, in the next ten days, Faramir’s men 
shall be once again south of Poros, though clear of the borders, and he himself 
shall be bound to Rhath-Ihnfar to try to force the matter into the open 
according to the means and methods available to us as allies. For once brought 
before an open council, the matter may not be suppressed and Gondor's concerns 
become harder to ignore with the steward present. It is over-late, gentlemen, to 
hope that we may avoid war entirely, and likely that would be the case even had 
Gondor a direct hand in Haradrim internal affairs," Aragorn said, grey eyes 
flicking over each many present, and touching even upon Líriel for a moment. "If 
we take the long view of Harad," the king said, nodding slightly towards 
Indirkan, "then we must admit that we helped to set this stage sixteen years 
ago. The first civil war did naught but prepare us for the second which fast 
approaches."

"What, then, of Prince Faramir, should this war erupt while he is in Harad?" 
Gwithrin asked.

"Faramir is invested as a herald, and given the immunity that such individuals 
and their escorts hold in my land, they should be safe enough," Indirkan 
answered for Aragorn. "Rhath-Ihnfar is far enough north that they should not be 
in the path of fighting. But whether or not Far Harad rises in rebellion, any 
such diplomatic undertaking is not without risk to your most noble herald," 
Indirkan added, raising a brow as he turned his gaze on the king. "He must play 
the game well to win respect in political circles, but the better the player, 
the more likely that poison, rather than a dagger, shall see him to his end one 
fine day!"

"Nha-din hurukyokh mhat’ivar, ne?"

"A na! Do, ani undoni!" Indirkan shook his head, apparently amused by Aragorn’s 
response and Líriel tried not to frown, perplexed. She understood the words 
readily enough, for she had begun learning the speech of Harad early, but she 
found little to amuse her in the common saying, for she loved Faramir and would 
not see any harm come to him. Gwithrin and Húrin were chuckling as well, but 
Dírthandar had the long-suffering air of one who knew he had missed the point, 
and Líriel fought the urge to smirk. As a rule, she disliked those who irritated 
her father and mother, and Dírthandar was one of few who consistently managed to 
do so. He was a younger man who had swiftly served his term in the army, who 
spoke elegant Sindarin, and had a perfect grasp of etiquette. And he is also an 
arrogant, over-bearing, thick-headed fool! she thought, and wished there were 
some way to be rid of him. Unfortunately, even a king could not flout tradition 
with impunity, even one as powerful as Aragorn. Dírthandar had the good fortune 
(or as many muttered behind his back, his father had had the bad fortune) to be 
the heir of the late, lamented Lord Mirhal, and had inherited his father’s 
position on the council. Such was the respect that Mirhal’s family was accorded 
that despite the knowledge that his eldest son was useless, Gondor’s council had 
insisted on honoring Dírthandar’s right to be seated among them. Aragorn had 
rather reluctantly agreed, for the law stood firmly on the side of the council, 
but had swiftly begun to invent ways of limiting Dírthandar’s ability to 
navigate perfectly good plans into a mire. Why he was here today, in such 
company as this, Líriel had yet to determine, but she would ask her father about 
it later. For the moment, she enjoyed watching him squirm a little, for if any 
had to share her discomfort, she would prefer that he be the one to suffer.

"In any case," Aragorn said, "Faramir's purpose is less to save Harad or Gondor 
from this war than to watch the Eight and salvage what he can from the ruin. We 
need a better balance between our lands. Would you not agree, Lord Indirkan?"

"Aye, that we do!" the ambassador sighed.

"What says Rohan to word that war is imminent?" Húrin asked then, after a 
moment's thoughtful silence.

"We shall soon discover that, for Arwen speaks to the messengers even now and we 
should have a reply within the week. But the Lady Éowyn has already been advised 
by her lord and husband, and she foresees no difficulty in gaining the support 
of the Rohirrim should it be needed in the near future," Aragorn replied, 
passing a letter to Húrin, who took it and perused its contents quickly ere he 
handed it off to Indirkan. The Haradrim did not look at it, only passed it to 
Gwithrin, for he had learned late to read Westron and needed more time than the 
council could afford to decipher a formal missive. "My lords, there is one final 
point that merits consideration: one of our company commanders in Harad has 
voiced suspicions that this matter, which we have watched in earnest now for two 
years and more since the last time armed intervention was required, may extend 
beyond Harad’s borders."

"What reasons does he give for such a claim, if I may ask, your majesty?" 
Gwithrin frowned.

"As you said, some houses appear to have means that we cannot account for, and 
he suggests that perhaps their wealth has roots outside of Harad. A man after 
your heart, Lord Indirkan, he does not trust the heralds!" Aragorn arched a dark 
brow at the Haradrim, and Indirkan smiled.

"A wise man, obviously," the ambassador replied mildly, and Húrin shook his 
head, amused. But the Haradrim sighed and let fall his mirth swiftly as he 
leaned forward, placing his hands flat upon the long table as he continued, 
"Unhappily, he may be right. When first I came to this land, I thought Harad 
ripe for civil war, and alas! my fears were not unwarranted. The Eight have 
since consolidated the north, but politics in Harad are not as they are in 
Gondor. There are always a few who dissent, who seek to upset the balance, and 
they cause no end of trouble. And the divide between north and south is so old a 
matter that most Haradrim cannot imagine a time when it did not exist in some 
form. In truth," Indirkan added after a short pause, "I cannot say with 
certainty that it has not always existed. Under the Overlord Sauron, such 
differences were ignored by many lest we earn the wrath of Barad-dûr, but even 
Mordor could not unite us fully."

"But with whom would these renegades ally themselves?" Dírthandar asked, and 
Líriel joined the rest of the council in staring at the man. The woeful 
ignorance that prompted that question was quite simply painful even to her, and 
she feared to learn her father’s reaction to it. For Aragorn, though of 
necessity a patient man, was not known to suffer fools gladly, particularly 
fools who compounded their natural state with lazy indifference to matters of 
import. The king gazed flatly at Dírthandar and what thoughts passed through his 
mind, not even Líriel could say. At length, though, he responded:

"Give it some thought, councilor, and I doubt not that the answer shall be 
forthcoming." Líriel flinched at that, recognizing that quite neutral, almost 
cold tone as the one reserved for scolding children who ought to know better 
than to play with matches in the library vaults. Not that that was solely my 
fault, she thought. Elrohir was the one who gave them to me, after all, and 
there was a point to it. I forget what it was, but there was some purpose other 
than pure play…. "Is there aught else that you would speak of at this time?" the 
king asked, sweeping his silver gaze over the small gathering. When no one 
spoke, he nodded briskly, satisfied, and said, "Then I shall not keep you from 
your business, for we all have much to do in the next ten days." As Húrin and 
Gwithrin strode swiftly out, speaking earnestly in low voices, Dírthandar 
trailed after them, seeming rather discomfited. Indirkan, however, tarried a 
moment longer, and Aragorn clapped him on the shoulder. "What matter, my 
friend?"

"One that may touch us closely ere the year is out," Indirkan sighed softly. "If 
your man is correct and the renegades deal now with Khand, then you may shortly 
lose my services."

"What? Why?"

"Family, I fear," Indirkan said with a grimace. "Once I told you that my sister, 
Kirdali, had no husband, and that is true enough for none would wed with an 
outcast once it became known that I had rebelled." Here, Indirkan paused, and a 
look of pain crossed his face, and for the first time, he seemed to Líriel to be 
truly old. The king frowned slightly, but after a second his expression hardened 
and he closed his eyes a moment, while the hand on Indirkan’s shoulder tightened 
comfortingly.

"Her husband repudiated her."

"Yes. And… he…." Indirkan swallowed hard and made himself look his friend full 
in the face. "He disowned the son that they had had. I did not know. No one 
would tell me, for with the sudden reversal of my fortunes, they feared 
reprisal. Even Kirdali was reluctant to say aught, for shame and for fear of my 
reaction. I learned of all of it only later, almost by accident. I shall not 
take your time with useless detail, but suffice it to say that my nephew took 
his misfortune hard… worse than I did, even. He left Harad when he was eighteen 
and swore allegiance to Khand–in itself, an act that would have seen him cast 
out of any household, but Rhanion’s reputation has long been in the gutters, and 
so few accounted it any marvel. Now, though, word has come north through I know 
not what agents that he has risen in the service of Khand. Should it come to 
war, his dishonor would tarnish my name once more, and I doubt not that I would 
be forced to stand down. I wished to warn you early, rather than wait until you 
could ill afford the surprise."

"But if he is no longer a member of your family--"

"Blood is blood, Aragorn! You know that! And in Harad it runs thick and shame 
must be paid for by all who share in it. Well that none seem to know that we 
share a cousin, however remote, else this might spill over even onto you and 
your house, and then what? Were I you, I would begin now to seek a replacement 
and try through what art you have to indicate your preference in matters 
regarding my successor. For the sake of Gondor and Harad both, for though it 
pains me to say it, I would not see the choice devolve solely onto the Eight in 
such times as these. That such news comes to me at all, at this very moment when 
Harad and Gondor dare not risk a misunderstanding due to some novice's idiotic…! 
" Indirkan paused, apparently realizing that his tone had grown almost vicious, 
and he cleared his throat, glancing at Líriel uncomfortably. "Your pardon! I 
mean only to say that the timing of this message could not be worse, and so it 
could not be more suspicious. The very warning may justify your commander's 
concerns about Khand, else it could hardly be used to threaten me."

"Ever the Haradrim hoard against a day of need," Aragorn sighed, and Indirkan 
grimaced. "How long have you known of this?"

"Too long, and yet not long enough to spare us both this dilemma. When last I 
was in Rhath-Ihnfar four months ago, I first heard of this. You know how the 
game is played: Kuvate drach ng ihtai.*" Indirkan shrugged, his frustrated 
helplessness painfully obvious.

"Ah." By which, Líriel understood her father to mean that he recognized 
Indirkan's straits all too well. "Well, however suspicious both the timing and 
the… disseminated nature of this 'message,' we can but weather it for the 
moment, although when you join Faramir, be certain to tell him to have Mablung 
give the matter some attention."

"I shall, though I doubt he shall succeed where I have failed. Someone more 
powerful than I wishes me to know this, and has the means to protect himself." 
He fell silent, and for a time neither man spoke, each struggling to come to 
terms with this unpleasant revelation. Líriel bit her lip, feeling a quiver of 
fear and hurt run through her at the prospect of losing Indirkan over a scandal 
he had had no part in. I shall miss him if he goes! And he has already suffered 
so much…! It was not fair, and she hated Kirdali’s former husband with a passion 
born that very instant for the pain and trouble he caused now. At length, 
Aragorn spoke again, and if he were resigned, there was also a note of decision 
to his tone. "I shall do as you suggest, though I pray such measures shall prove 
unnecessary. Is there aught I can do for you, though, Indirkan? You have but to 
name it."

"There is one thing that I would ask should this atrocity come to pass," the 
Haradrim admitted, gripping Aragorn’s hand in a gesture of almost desperate 
supplication that was painful to behold. "As you know, my sister has come north, 
and should arrive tomorrow, if all has gone smoothly. Ostensibly, she comes only 
to visit me, but I would rather she not be made to return to Harad. She was in 
danger for years while I was away, and indeed, I marvel that naught was done to 
her. But this may prove too much! If I must return, I would know she is safe for 
once. And if I am allowed to continue in spite of it all, I would not have her 
used as a hostage against me."

"She is welcome to stay, of course," Aragorn replied, and gave a slight, 
sympathetic smile. "Should there be aught else…."

"I shall tell you. Thank you, Khordan," Indirkan said, squeezing the king’s hand 
hard, and then he stepped away. Bowing, the old man turned to Líriel and smiled. 
"Good afternoon, young lady!" And then he turned and strode proudly away, 
leaving father and daughter alone in the council chambers. Líriel rose from her 
place at the very end of the table and raised troubled eyes to her father’s 
face. With a soft sigh, Aragorn crossed the distance between them and went to 
one knee before her, laying his hands on her shoulders as he returned her gaze.

"Must he leave, Ada*?" she asked quietly.

"It may come to that, my sweet," Aragorn replied evenly, cocking his head 
slightly as he proffered a bare smile. "But let us not worry overmuch about it, 
for we know not how this may unfold. Nothing may come of this."

"But you do not believe that, do you?"

"One must be prepared for the worst, but that does not mean there is no hope."

"And that is not an answer to my question!" Líriel said, letting a touch of 
irritation creep into her voice, for she knew her father’s ways. He would never 
lie to her, that she knew, but he would not tell her everything, either, unless 
she pressed him hard. And even then, there are times when he simply says he 
shall not tell me. But I think I know the answer to this question anyway, and he 
knows it! She narrowed her eyes at him nevertheless, just for effect, and 
Aragorn sighed softly, shaking his head.

"No, I believe not a word of it. But say nothing to Halareth of this, for she is 
too young still for such secrets."

"I never tell," Líriel said, lifting her chin proudly, and her father smiled.

"No, you never do!" He touched her cheek lightly, considering her. "I will do 
all I can to keep Indirkan in Gondor, come what may, but do you understand why I 
might not succeed?"

"Well… he is not of Gondor, and since he is an ambassador, you may not compel 
him to remain here since he swore to serve Harad. And what he said about blood… 
if he stayed, and the Eight disapproved, that could hurt Gondor and Arnor, could 
it not?"

"Badly, I fear," Aragorn rose and perched on the table, inviting his daughter to 
join him. Líriel scrambled gladly up to sit cross-legged beside him on the table 
top. "If we lose the Eight, we lose Harad, effectively, for we must begin anew 
with those who shall replace them. Worse, we have men within its bounds who 
would suffer for our offense."

"Then will you call them home soon?"

"There you lay your finger on the heart of it: I cannot simply recall them, 
sweet, for the terms of our agreement are quite clear. For as long as they serve 
in Harad, they are under Haradrim command, and save only that they may not be 
used against us or compelled to act against our allies, they are bound to remain 
until their term of service is over or their superiors release them. Or until 
Gondor itself is threatened."

"But our enemies lie in Harad or east of it, and so it would be threatened 
first," Líriel sighed. "It seems a poor agreement to me!"

"You may blame your father for the terms," Aragorn confessed, and though he 
seemed unhappy, Líriel detected no real regret in his voice for the decisions he 
had made. "But at the time they were set, there was no other way to satisfy the 
demands of both Harad and Gondor. We needed our own eyes inside Harad to watch 
our interests and to keep our honor in the eyes of the Haradrim. There are other 
reasons as well, but at the moment, they matter less than this one: cruel though 
it is, I need those men to remain in Harad, for to call them home would break 
the terms of our alliance. Likewise, if the Eight decide that they need Indirkan 
to return home in order to keep the trust of their people, I may not interfere 
for my authority does not extend so far into internal matters."

"But he would be in danger!"

"I know, love, and I would rather he remain safely here. But those who would 
rule must do so in order to serve the many who have never sought peril in any 
form and who cannot protect themselves. Sometimes that means one must submit to 
injustice in order not to practice it oneself, for a rebel serves no one. 
Indirkan knows this, and that is why he advises me to seek a replacement for him 
now."

"But what if he asked to stay here?"

"He will not, Líriel," Aragorn shook his head. "And even were he to ask, I fear 
I would have to refuse him if the Eight objected."

"You would let him go? Just like that?" Líriel demanded.

"In the end, yes. But never ‘just like that’ as you say," Aragorn frowned at 
her, and Líriel blushed, realizing how stupid that remark had been. For as he 
stared down at her, she saw the pain in his eyes that bespoke a regret he could 
never justify, but which equally he could never deny without denying something 
essential. Of course he would not just send Indirkan back without hurt… they are 
friends, after all. Before she could apologize, though, she felt her father’s 
arm about her shoulders, and she leaned willingly against him. For all that she 
tried to be a proper grown-up lady, her father’s embrace still meant safety and 
comfort, and at the moment she needed both. "Forgive me, Líriel. You but echo my 
own grief, and I should not blame you for that!" For a time they sat in silence, 
and Líriel felt her heart beat faster as a new worry settled upon her. Granted 
she had only come to listen to her father’s councilors for a year now, she was 
still a king’s daughter, and so she knew things that many grown men down below 
in the city did not know. Things go ill in Harad. Again! And if Khand is in 
this--and father and Indirkan clearly think it is--well… Khand has never had 
much to do with us, save to curse our name.

"You will have to leave again, will you not?" she asked, and strove for a brave 
tone that would not betray the fact that her stomach felt hollow and queasy at 
the very idea.

"If things continue on as they are, I may have no choice," Aragorn replied 
softly. "I do not want to, though."

"Think you that Lord Faramir will be able to help our cause?"

"Were it so simple a matter as that, I would hardly worry but that he would 
persuade them in the end. But as I said, love, though it does no harm to hope 
for the best, Faramir goes not to Harad based on hope. He goes to try to 
mitigate the ill-effects of war, and to determine how best to position Gondor 
when it is over."

"Well… mayhap he shall accomplish more than anyone expects. He is persuasive 
after all," Líriel said, trying to be hopeful as her father had advised earlier. 
And truly, any hope, no matter how small, was better than knowing that Aragorn 
would disappear into the South again, there to fight a war from which he might 
not return. She had not yet been born when the last civil war had been fought in 
Harad, but she remembered the last time he had gone into the east to deal with 
the Easterlings who had taken to raiding Ithilien. For weeks, she had gazed out 
of her window, hoping that the rising sun would show her father coming home, and 
when at last he had, she had embarrassed herself by crying in relief. At least 
Halareth did not see! My tears would have upset her, for she was too young to 
understand that I was happy. I hope Faramir will make all this unnecessary.

"He is, and also well-respected in Harad," her father conceded, glancing down at 
her with a half-smile.

"I thought he was their enemy, though. Indirkan said he would be in danger…." 
Líriel said, frowning up at Aragorn.

"Time enough for you to learn Haradric politics," Aragorn replied. "Suffice it 
to say that the game is played differently there, and for higher stakes. But the 
Haradrim are not unreasonable, and they appreciate a fine warrior. Faramir 
fought well and honorably against them for many years. They also approve of 
cleverness, and he has that aplenty as well."

"Is that why they let their own people scheme against them? Because they like 
cleverness?" Líriel asked.

"That is doubtless a part of it, though I should think that more basic ideas and 
needs drove them to create the traditions and laws under which they now live."

"And the laws and traditions require clever people to manage them, and so it all 
turns round." That earned her an approving chuckle and her father tousled her 
hair as he rose once more.

"You are quite right in that. So! We shall try to be as clever as they without 
compromising ourselves," he replied, striding to the window to look outside. 
"‘Tis a fair day, Líriel. You should enjoy it!" Which was his way of saying that 
that was more than enough seriousness for the moment, and Líriel quite agreed. 
Still….

"What about you?" she asked as she slithered off the table in a most unlady-like 
fashion, and she blushed when Aragorn raised a hand to hide his smile as she had 
to quickly tug her skirts back into position. "Will you come and walk with me 
for awhile?"

"I–" He had no chance to respond further for at that moment the door to the 
chamber opened and in strode the Queen of Gondor. Arwen glided gracefully over 
to join them both at the window, reaching down to lay a hand on her daughter’s 
shoulder and Líriel watched as her parents’ eyes met ere she quickly looked 
away, fighting a smile. She knew that look; indeed, anyone who knew either of 
her parents had good cause to know that look. Really, it is not even a look, but 
when they are together, everything about them seems to change, as if they know 
something no one else does and everything will be alright. She could give the 
feeling no other words, even to herself, for Líriel did not fully understand 
what bound her mother to her father, and her father to her mother. But she knew 
that it was something very special–something that was only theirs, and so Líriel 
never intruded whenever she sensed that bond come into play. Today, their silent 
communion lasted but a moment, and then Arwen squeezed her shoulder and said:

"The messengers are away, and I met Indirkan in the hall. We must speak on that 
matter later, love. What said Húrin to Gwithrin’s messages?"

"Húrin believes him, and between Dol Amroth’s concerns and those that reach us 
through our own sources in Harad, the picture is grim."

"Dírthandar does not think so," Líriel interjected, unable to resist, and Arwen 
turned a very neutral expression on her husband, who shrugged minutely, as if to 
say Did you expect otherwise?

"Well, at least now that he knows, he need not attend the formal session," Arwen 
said, and smiled contentedly as understanding dawned on Líriel.

"I have a large stack of correspondence for him to read through concerning 
supplies," Aragorn replied, and if his voice was innocent enough, his eyes 
betrayed him and his wife and daughter both smiled. Líriel actually sniggered 
and leaned against him, pleased to learn that Dírthandar would have no part in 
the next council. Aragorn laid a hand atop her head, stroking her hair ere he 
settled that hand at the nape of her neck. "Líriel and I were discussing a walk. 
Would you care to join us, my lady?"

"Of course," Arwen replied, and Líriel grinned. It was a rare thing, that the 
three of them had time alone, so Líriel supposed that her younger sister must be 
napping or else occupied with one of the nurses. Well and good then! Grasping 
her parents’ hands, Líriel led the way out, and Aragorn and Arwen quickly 
settled to either side of her. While their daughter was not looking, however, 
they exchanged a significant glance over her head. Well and good that they took 
the time and the day to enjoy their daughter’s company and briefly escape the 
demands of politics. Later, though, they would borrow hours to make up for this 
excursion, and the night would likely be a working one. Especially now that I 
know we may lose Indirkan! Aragorn thought. We would have eventually, for he has 
not the span of years that others of Númenórean descent have, and he has no 
heir. But though Aragorn and Arwen had already begun quietly to feel out other 
Haradrim for the post, neither had expected to lose Indirkan so quickly. For I 
doubt not that Khand is involved somehow. Faramir’s scouts report too many 
guards on its eastern border, and the few observers we have who venture south of 
the line of forts in Harad see too much traffic between Far Harad and Khand. 
Ithilien is ready for war, and Legolas’ Elves are in place on the borders of 
Mordor, and with the Rangers. Éomer will send aid–he always has, and Rohan, too, 
benefits from trade with Harad. If we are given the time….

That was a large ‘if’ and both he and Arwen knew it. I am so weary of war! But 
even before the Fellowship was formed, he had known that if ever he came into 
his own, he would face many years of it: decades, in fact, for knowing all that 
he did of Harad, Khand, and Gondor, words alone would not be enough to keep 
Gondor intact, nor Harad at peace, nor Khand at a safe distance. Líriel’s 
vibrant presence between himself and Arwen might be a balm to his war-weary 
heart, but she was also one of many reasons to return to the battlefields. 
Having fought to rise as high as he had, he had no intention of leaving her with 
a kingdom always on the brink of war, but it would take war to achieve that goal 
unless all of Arda grew suddenly reasonable. Alas that none of us shall see such 
a day!

"Estel," Arwen’s voice drew him out of his bleak thoughts, and he heard the mild 
reproof in it. His wife arched a brow at him, glancing significantly at Líriel, 
reminding him of their purpose in coming here.

"Sorry, love… Líriel, where would you go today?" he asked, putting aside his 
worries.

"Up there!" Líriel pointed up towards a green-clad slope that rose high above 
the tower, and Aragorn grunted.

"On the Aramen? A long climb, that. Are you certain?"

"I bet I could climb faster than you!" Líriel challenged, glancing from one to 
the other of her parents, all trace of the dignified young lady gone, and Arwen 
laughed.

"Do you indeed? Aragorn?"

"Bold words from a bold lass," Aragorn replied, considering a moment. "Very 
well," he said at length, "but if you lose your bet, you will make me a promise, 
love."

"What promise?" Líriel asked warily.

"That you shall take care of Halareth for me in the days to come. And I do not 
mean that you shall teach her all your devious ways, either!" he hastened to 
add, seeing the gleam in his eldest daughter’s eyes.

"And if I win?" Líriel demanded. "You should owe me something, Ada!"

"What would you have?"

"Well," Líriel paused, seeming to deliberate, though both Arwen and Aragorn 
recognized the tone and posture. Clearly, she had been planning for some time 
how to broach this request. "Elrohir and Elladan come always here. I would see 
Imladris for once! So… if I win, I think I ought to be allowed to go."

"Is this your brothers’ doing?" Aragorn asked in a conspicuous undertone, 
glancing at Arwen.

"Well, they did invite her," Arwen admitted. "But she was only seven at the 
time, as you will recall."

"Mm." Aragorn considered his daughter once more, who stood very straight and 
clearly did her best to look innocently hopeful. Memories of a large book of 
matches and a game of hide-and-seek gone awry the last two times the twins had 
been in Minas Tirith gave him cause to doubt the wisdom of leaving her in their 
care, but on the other hand…. On the other hand, they are my brothers, and I 
know that she could be no safer in Minas Tirith than under their care. "All 
right. If you win, then I shall make the request of your uncles."

"I get a head start, then!" And Líriel was off, to the vast amusement of her 
parents.

"This is your influence, love, this penchant for mischief," Arwen said after a 
moment as the two of them began following after their daughter at a more 
leisurely pace.

"That is not fair, Arwen," her husband objected.

"Is it not? I have heard many a tale of your childhood, Aragorn," she replied, 
and the suppressed laughter in her tone was evident as she followed her 
daughter’s progress with her eyes.

"Our brothers exaggerate wildly," Aragorn replied in his own defense, which was 
true, and all knew it: for Elladan and Elrohir were now well known to the court 
of Gondor, which had swiftly learned to fear their joint sense of humor.

"Your mother was not one to exaggerate; nor is my father!" Arwen countered 
innocently.

"If you refer to the candle incident, that was hardly due to any willful 
wrong-doing," Aragorn sighed dramatically, his tone one of slightly aggrieved 
forbearance as he nodded to the guards who stood before a small gate that led 
out of the seventh circle. Beyond it lay the beginnings of a rough path that 
went up for a while between high walls onto the mountain. The gate-wardens 
saluted, and one hurried off to report that the king and queen and their 
daughter would be unavailable for the next few hours. Aragorn, meanwhile, held 
the gate for his wife.

"And what of the bow strings? I cannot see how that could have been an 
accident," Arwen demanded, looking askance at him as she passed through the gate 
and waited for him to join her.

"No one ever found those strings, after all, and I maintain that Elrohir must 
have lost them."

"Including the one that was strung? My brother has many talents, but even he has 
not such art, to lose a string off of a strung bow!"

"As I recall, that string was broken, which was why he needed another!"

"You but beg the question now, love."

"As do you, Lady Undómiel! I doubt me that Elladan and Elrohir alone carried the 
burden of disrupting Imadris’ peaceful doings all the long centuries ere I 
arrived. Mischief is in your blood as well, and has had far longer to become a 
fine art in you, as many here know as well. Éowyn will remind you of her 
brother’s straits when you conspired against him in the matter of Lothíriel," 
Aragorn replied, cocking a brow at his wife, eyes glittering with amusement.

"That was not mischief, that was a marriage match in question."

"And whose idea was it to have Éomer’s horse startled into the river so 
Lothíriel would have cause to help the poor man out?" Aragorn demanded, slipping 
an arm about her waist to pull her fast against him as they walked.

"You agreed to the idea."

"After it was already over, and only because you were so very… persuasive… that 
night."

"Then you should study to have a sterner will, love," Arwen replied simply.

"Perhaps I need to practice more often, then, the better to learn to resist 
bribery!" Aragorn suggested, and Arwen laughed.

"Perhaps… but not tonight, I fear!"

"No, not tonight."

"But for the moment, let us set such matters aside. Do you truly wish to send 
Líriel north to stay with our brothers?" Arwen demanded.

"‘Tis well that your father is no longer lord of Imladris, or I fear I might 
never be welcome there again after such a visit!"

"And I thought he could never be more aggrieved with you than after he learned 
of our betrothal," Arwen agreed.

"Well then, come, my lady Undomíel! For Líriel is out of sight ahead!" Aragorn 
sprang away, and Arwen, with a shake of her head, grabbed her skirts in one hand 
and followed, graceful and sure as the Elf that she was. The Aramen might take a 
good hour to climb, but Aragorn was quick, and Líriel, for all her shorter legs, 
had elven blood in her veins to draw upon. It would be an interesting race, 
Arwen thought, and wondered who she wanted to win.

*****

* Indirkan is from "Where the Stars are Strange." If you want background on the 
early part of his story, feel free to read. It's not necessary that you do so, 
however.

*Ada–Sindarin, "daddy."

Haradric:

"Nha-din hurukyokh mhat’ivar, ne?": Nothing is without risk, no?

"A na! Do, ani undoni!": True! So they tell it!

"Kuvate drach ng ihtai.": 'Words out of the mouth', i.e., rumors on the streets, 
word of mouth.



~~~~




Chapter Two 
Towards the Brink




Indirkan stood upon the docks of the Harlond and tried not to fidget. Such 
restlessness was unbecoming in one of his years and experience, yet the urge to 
squirm like an unblooded youth was nearly unbearable. Nearly! he reminded 
himself, turning over in his mind the things that he would need to do ere he set 
out to meet up with Faramir’s company as it moved south to Poros and beyond. 
Already he had completed his usual routine, but given the gravity of the 
situation, there was no point in leaving any loose ends for others to tie up in 
his absence. For who knows but that this journey may be my last. This could be 
my last day in Minas Tirith. As of yet, few knew of his plight, even among the 
escort he maintained. Only stubborn, dog-loyal Hetkahrat knew the truth, but the 
head of his guard detail was a morose and taciturn fellow not given to chatter, 
even in the best of times. Which these certainly are not! Indirkan thought. 
Certainly none of the dock-workers knew aught of him or of his family as they 
scurried about, tying the ropes, calling instructions to each other to ease the 
craft into harbor. But he could feel eyes on him, and turning his head slightly, 
he caught sight of Liríel watching him solemnly, her hands resting almost 
possessively on her sister’s shoulders. The heir of Gondor raised her chin and 
squared her shoulders in a rather determined manner ere her eyes cut once more 
to the boat. Halareth only cast a somewhat puzzled, suspicious glance back at 
her older sister, as if wondering at the other’s mood, and Indirkan hid a smile. 
Good girl, he thought. She has said nothing to Halareth.

Indirkan’s gaze drifted from Liríel to the queen who stood at her children’s 
side, and Arwen offered the slightest of smiles ere she glided forward, moving 
with a noiseless grace that Indirkan could but envy. It was an elvish trait, he 
knew, and no mortal being could hope to match her smooth gait, but still, he 
remembered a number of occasions when he would have been glad of such 
unconscious stealth. "I have looked forward to this meeting for many years, 
Indirkan," Arwen said in a low voice. "Your sister must be an extraordinary 
woman."

"She is. Kirdali was… is… everything to me," the Haradrim replied with a smile.

"So Aragorn told me once," Arwen said, and then turned her attention to the 
party making its way down the gangplank. The escort seemed standard enough, but 
something about the way that they stood–hovered, rather–caught her attention. 
The men all had Rhanion’s sigils on their clothing, indicating household 
retainers, and behind them trailed a pair of women: the first Haradrim women 
Arwen had yet seen. Their robes were little different from that of the men, save 
that they bore no obvious weapon and were more concealing in their drape. They 
walked slowly, seeming to hold back from the others, whether out of deference or 
a certain aloof poise, even an Elf could not be quite certain yet. But whereas 
Arwen’s gaze encompassed the party entire, Indirkan saw but one figure--she who 
walked in the midst of the others and who looked unerringly to him. Kirdali of 
House Rhanion lifted a pair of doe-brown eyes to his and smiled at him. Indirkan 
felt himself smiling in response, and as the others parted to let her pass, he 
moved forward and swept her up in a fierce embrace.

"Welcome at last!" he murmured into her ear, feeling relief sweep through him 
like the winds.

"’Ndirak," she breathed, and her arms about him tightened. For a time they stood 
wordlessly, holding each other, and unspoken between them hung the knowledge 
that this meeting was also a farewell of sorts. Kirdali was no fool, to have 
lived out her life in Harad in a disgraced house, and with a traitor for both 
son and brother; she knew well enough the way the wind blew in the desert. But 
this was hardly the time to speak of such things, and as Indirkan stepped back, 
he caught her hand in his and turned to Arwen with a smile that showed nothing 
of his inner turmoil.

"Your majesty, here is my sister, Kirdali," he said, speaking in his own tongue 
for his sister’s benefit since what little Westron Kirdali had was insufficient 
to the need of the day.

"You are most welcome to our home, Lady Kirdali," Arwen replied in kind, and 
Indirkan felt his sister’s fingers tighten round his, as if with relieved 
gratitude for the sound of her native language.

Kirdali curtseyed after the manner of the Haradrim, laying one hand upon her 
breast as she bowed her head and lowered herself smoothly to touch the ground 
with one knee ere she rose again. "Queen of Gondor," she murmured without 
raising her eyes to the other woman’s face. "I owe you many thanks for allowing 
me to come to see my brother. And I am honored by your presence!"

"The sister of my cousin is one deserving of honor. But allow me to present my 
daughters: Liríel, the elder, and the heir of Gondor and Arnor," Arwen said, and 
Liríel came forward to make her obeisance. "And this is Halareth, my younger 
daughter."

"May you never know thirst," Liríel said in formal greeting, and Kirdali 
blinked, casting a somewhat surprised glance at her brother. For one so young, 
and a girl besides, would never have spoken so forwardly to a guest, nor been 
called heir to a noble house.

"May you grow in wisdom, young one," she replied, and Liríel nodded with 
commendable poise.

The formal introductions now over, the group turned now to the horses stationed 
nearby. Mounting them, they began to make their way across the vast fields of 
the Pelennor, and Indirkan remembered his own first journey upon that grassy 
plain. There were trenches in the ground then, and gaps in the walls, he 
thought. Now there were few traces of the battle that had nearly brought Minas 
Tirith to its knees: orchards grew once more, and pastures were open; men and 
women worked the land and feared not that the winter would bring starvation or 
rations. But from that day to this, one thing remains the same, Indirkan thought 
grimly. When first I came here, Harad stood ready for civil war. Alas for my 
country and my people! What irony, that we who grudge to waste even a drop of 
blood in the desert should spill so much of it so willingly and so often!

"My husband would have come to greet you as well," Arwen was saying, Indirkan 
shook himself out of his brief and dark reverie. "But alas, he could not, for he 
has had other tasks to attend to of late. He shall join us later, however."

"I am told by my brother, your majesty, that the court of Gondor is a place of 
many wonders, for many are the people who come to dwell in the city or who visit 
it. It does not surprise me, therefore, to learn that you greet guests according 
to their own customs," Kirdali replied. Arwen smiled slightly, but one who knew 
her would recognize her approval of the other’s perceptiveness and 
straight-forward reply. It had not been lost on Indirkan, either, that those who 
had waited with him on the docks were, with the exception of the escort, female, 
though in truth he had wondered at Arwen’s presence, for surely the Queen of 
Gondor had many duties to perform.

"Say rather according to a mixture of custom," Arwen said in response. "Among my 
people even a queen may go forth to greet her guests. I should be sorry not to 
make you welcome, Lady Kirdali."

"I fear I know little of Elves, your majesty," Kirdali replied. "Are there many 
in Minas Tirith?"

"The Elves of Ithilien come often to visit and to trade, and my brothers 
occasionally come as well," Arwen responded.

"But they do not stay?"

"No, they do not."

And at that, Kirdali turned her eyes to the queen, considering this fair enigma 
that rode at her side. A maiden’s grace and youth she had, and yet she was 
possessed of a gravity that bespoke experience far greater than even her own. 
Kirdali had seen more than sixty winters come and go: her hair was grey, and her 
face lined with much sorrow; the decades weighed heavy on her, and yet beside 
Arwen, she felt as a newborn day. Her brother’s rather clumsy attempts to 
describe Gondor’s queen on his visits home became suddenly understandable, and 
she darted a look at him out of the corners of her eyes ere she looked back to 
Arwen. Exquisite as silk or cut glass; beautiful as tears, as men say, Kirdali 
thought. And yet…and yet, for all her beauty and wisdom, the other woman was not 
beyond the reach of mortal grief. Kirdali read it in her face which, though, 
unmarked by passing years, still told of sorrow beyond the power of words or 
even tears to express. And still she is unbowed by it! "Then you and I, my 
queen, are alike: alone amid a people not our own," the Haradrim said softly, 
yet without so much as a quaver in her voice. It was a fairly daring thing to 
say to one who wore a crown, and she heard her brother draw a sharp breath at 
her side. Even a few of the guards looked up in surprise, and Halareth and 
Liríel tried very hard not to be too obvious as to the fact that they listened 
now avidly, awaiting their mother’s response.

Arwen met her eyes, then, and Kirdali felt them pierce her to the core with 
their silver brilliance. But whereas the men of Eriador and Gondor might marvel 
that so bright a regard could hide so very much, Kirdali felt no surprise, for 
she came of a land where the sun that illumined the plains also blinded he who 
would look upon the deserts. Light was no simple matter, to be trusted 
absolutely for its glory, for the day was dangerous. There were in Harad those 
who whispered that Gondor’s elvish queen was fey– a witch who could ensorcel a 
man and steal his soul with but a look, for were not Elves luminous creatures, 
changeable and deadly in their radiance? She had not come hither to test such 
tales, yet Kirdali, feeling the pressure of that gaze, knew then that they were 
true: if she wished it, Arwen could have any man she desired bent to her will, 
and it would need no great effort on her part. A word, a touch… not even a 
promise nor the hope of one, but the desire to hear her voice and be pinioned by 
those eyes, to be dazzled and blinded, would draw a man after her, if she willed 
to have such servants. But she would not, Kirdali realized. And so the rumor is 
at once true and false. So she concluded, and lowered her eyes, unable to 
withstand the intensity of the other’s gaze. I feel for her mate, to be ever 
under such eyes. No wonder to me that all the North and West follow Elessar if 
he can match such a woman!

"Verily, we are alike, my lady," Arwen said just then, and with those words, 
much of the tension seemed to dispel throughout the group. Kirdali risked 
another look, but the queen smiled gently this time, and there was a touch of 
sadness in her face. "Very much alike indeed!"

***

Faramir, Steward of Gondor, stood at the edge of the camp and followed the Harad 
Road as far south as merely mortal eyes would permit. Poros’ slow waters slid 
lazily down their ancient channel, barely audible though the river bordered 
their campsite. Just across that river lies Ithilien, he thought. Twenty years 
ago, this would be disputed land. Today, I am still a day’s ride from the border 
of Harad, yet though the maps have changed, I believe that the knot in my 
stomach has remained the same! It would never do to admit to nerves, of course, 
particularly before his men, and Faramir had had many years to master the art of 
concealing his fears. But nevertheless, he could not fool himself and had no 
desire to do so: he owed his life many times over to his intuition, and so 
however unpleasant the sensation of doom hanging by a thread above him, he took 
care to examine it, that he might learn something from it. Alas, until I meet 
with the Haradrim, or set foot in Rhath-Ihnfar, I have little to shape my 
intuition, save what I know already. The Prince of Ithilien sighed softly, 
glancing down at the ground. Still green with grass this close to the river, it 
would soon grow dry and dusty, and already, they had left the trees behind. If 
they left on the morrow, then in another three days, he and his escort would 
reach Mharosh, the first large city along the Harad Road, and one of few that 
had managed to survive the centuries of warfare and dispute intact. Two days 
after that, he should be in Rhath-Ihnfar, the chief city of Harad. Of Hradar, I 
should say, to call it as the hradari call it, Faramir corrected himself, 
thoughtfully rubbing his jaw. Every time he journeyed south, he went through the 
same period of adjustment, until it no longer felt strange to think in another 
language. He might not speak quite as well or fluently as his liege-lord, but he 
was competent, and each visit improved his speech.

I do but wish my reasons for visiting were less dark! For in truth, there was 
much about Harad and Haradrim custom that fascinated him. But as was all too 
often the case, his scholar’s curiosity must be set aside, for he could not risk 
distraction. War lurked like an unsettled ghost from Minas Tirith to Ghoradi, 
from Dale to Edoras and even beyond: it touched Bree, and Annuminas and the 
Angle were well aware of the repercussions should Gondor go to war again. Once I 
turned to the army to escape my father; a taste of battle was enough to disabuse 
me of the notion that soldiering is glorious, and yet even had I the choice, I 
doubt I could give it up, he thought moodily. For while I am able to fight, I 
owe Gondor my service in all things. And having struggled to offer it for years 
when my father wanted nothing from me, I shall not complain now of anything 
Aragorn asks of me. His lips twitched in a slight, somewhat sad, smile as, in 
his head, he heard his brother’s voice, fondly wry and evincing a slight 
resignation just as it had so often in life: Your heart is ever willing, 
Faramir, but take care not to trip over your own long thoughts! Boromir, with 
his quick conviction and direct sentiments, would have laughed (though not 
unkindly) at the roundabout manner in which Faramir accepted his place as both 
warrior and prince. Valar, but I miss the sound of his voice! Had he lived, I 
wonder what he would make of Gondor today. And what would he make of me? Of 
Éowyn? Of his nephews and niece?

For Faramir’s eldest son, Tarathil, was just now fourteen and eagerly learning 
the craft of both warrior and councilor. And he looks so much like my brother at 
that age that it is uncanny! Save only for his eyes: more blue than grey they 
are. As for the other two, Léof, the younger boy, had less interest in 
sword-craft but showed a positive gift for languages that promised to surpass 
even Faramir’s, which would stand him in good stead later on. For the moment, 
the twelve-year old was away in Rohan under his uncle’s tutelage, and would not 
be home for another six or eight months. I would I could send Tarathil in his 
place sometimes. This war, once it breaks out, shall likely drag on just long 
enough for him to be a part of it. And though Faramir knew that as Prince of 
Ithilien, he could not hold his oldest child safely at home, as a father he 
could still wish that the boy was occupied elsewhere, further from the front. At 
least he would never need to hold such concerns about Varwyn, who was too young, 
even, to inspire paternal fears over suitors or any other such matters. Eight 
years old and precocious, his daughter cared little as of yet for the burden of 
governance, preferring to raid her father’s collection of poetry instead. Either 
that or she slips away to the stables to see the horses. Éowyn had instilled an 
abiding love of the beasts in all of their children, and in that, more than in 
looks, her heritage shone clear. Of course, I do hope that Varwyn shall never 
take it into her head to follow her mother’s example in matters of war. If I am 
fortunate, then by the time she is old enough to think of doing so, we shall be 
at peace once more.

Boromir would have raised a skeptical brow at such worries, but then again, he 
had not known Éowyn either. I wish that he had! I think he would have grown to 
like her… or else they would have been at each other’s throats, ‘tis difficult 
to say. Memories of his brother’s love for him--a love that only one other in 
all of Gondor had known of, much to the brothers’ terrified chagrin--brought 
fresh grief, and he wondered once more what would have happened had Denethor’s 
plan to wed Boromir to Éowyn been carried through.* Would he have learned to 
love her, I wonder? She might have been the only woman who was a match for him. 
Certainly she would have been a puzzle for him--a rival in sword-craft, but a 
woman nonetheless. Mayhap she would have won his heart, and turned him from me, 
I know not. There was much in that unwritten book that Faramir would have given 
much to know, but all such speculation eventually came up against the hard fact 
of Boromir’s untimely death. All that Faramir knew with certainty was that when 
first he had kissed Éowyn and meant it as more than simple affection or 
consolation, it was Boromir’s mouth and touch that he had thought of. When first 
I kissed her as one who would be her husband, I remembered my brother! How could 
I ever explain that to her, or to anyone? It was the one secret he kept from his 
wife, and not simply because he had no desire to hurt or confuse her: that kiss 
was something private, something that was only his and Boromir’s, and he would 
never rob his brother’s memory by revealing it to another.

"You have the sea-look to your eyes tonight, my lord," a voice at his elbow 
startled him, and Faramir turned quickly, even as he identified the speaker. In 
the fading light, the other’s fair hair glinted red-gold, as if crowned with 
flame, and green eyes gazed back, both bemused and amused, as a slight smile 
curved his lips.

"Legolas!" Faramir sighed softly and shook his head.

"Good evening to you," the elven prince replied, making him an elaborate bow 
that earned a bark of laughter.

"And to you, my friend. What brings you?"

"Naught but the look of you," the Elf said, with unusually pointed candor.

"You said I have a sea-look tonight…."

"So we say among ourselves, though it sounds perhaps awkward and unlovely in 
this tongue," Legolas shrugged slightly. "Mayhap I should have said that you 
seem preoccupied. Dare I guess the matter?" And when Faramir only cocked a brow 
at him, clearly inviting him to try his best, the Elf continued, "Harad… 
Éowyn... a fear, perhaps, of failure?"

"I may yet live to see an Elf wrong," Faramir replied, and this time it was 
Legolas’ turn to laugh softly. "In truth, all of these things weigh heavy on my 
mind, but it is my brother who is most in my thoughts tonight. Sixteen years it 
has been, yet his memory remains undimmed."

"Then you are fortunate, for Men forget easily, and many are they who wish to 
remember but one feature of a loved one’s face with clarity," Legolas said 
gently. "But I think he would not wish you to grieve still when you think of 
him."

"He would not, but we were not always of one accord in all matters," Faramir 
replied, smiling slightly as he waved away the issue. "Let him sleep peacefully, 
undisturbed by our whispers. I had intended to seek you out in any case. You 
need not come with us, Legolas."

"You have requested our assistance, and more, Aragorn has asked for the aid of 
the Elves of South Ithilien. Wherefore should we refuse it?"

"That is not what I meant, as well you know. Your people are spread along the 
borders of Mordor along with my own, and your company shall camp with mine. I 
had thought you would remain here with them, for you shall be needed should 
aught happen," Faramir replied. "I should think you would hesitate to leave your 
people leaderless."

"Dorothil commands in Ithilien, and has seen a thousand years more of Arda, in 
war and peace, than have I. And my company here is far smaller than yours, and 
marches under the aegis of the king’s orders to you. My people shall obey the 
commands of your captain as if they were my own. As for myself, I serve where I 
see a need."

"And you see a need to risk yourself in Rhath-Ihnfar?"

"You have asked for an Elf’s aid, the better to observe the Haradrim and detect 
any foul play among them; and Aragorn believes that your mission has no small 
importance. Many there are among my people who are older than I, yet few who 
have spent as much time in the company of mortals. I would trust this task to no 
other, even if friendship did not compel me to place myself at your disposal," 
the Elf said with serene confidence. Faramir only grunted at this, knowing that 
further argument was futile. It had taken him some time to realize Legolas’ 
intentions, for when he had broached the matter of taking an Elf into Harad 
among his small escort, the prince had merely nodded and said, "I shall give the 
matter some thought." Not until this morning had Faramir learned of the other’s 
choice, and only by accident, for he had overheard Legolas’ second in command, 
one Celethrin, discussing his lord’s imminent absence with another Elf.

I should still argue with him, for it would be an ill thing to lose him should 
aught happen in Rhath-Ihnfar. But I shall not, for in truth, I could ask for no 
more certain companion. And I trust that Beregond and Mablung between them shall 
keep him out of mischief! The captain of Faramir’s personal guard and the Ranger 
had come to know Legolas well--as well as any man could know an Elf who had 
never met one prior to the War of the Ring, that is--and the three of them 
together should prove a formidable obstacle for any lurking assassins or 
conspirators. They would also, Faramir mused, be oppressively concerned with his 
own well-being, which might strike him as ridiculous but that in this case, the 
concern was warranted. There had, after all, been seven assassinations by poison 
or "accident" in the last bout of internecine strife, and the count had been far 
higher during Harad’s first civil war as entire families were eliminated. First: 
as if I assume already that there shall be a second! But there was no denying 
that the wind was in the west, as the Haradrim were wont to say in such times, 
and though Faramir was not unversed in the "art" that was high politics in 
Harad, never before had so much hung upon his own skill. During the civil war 
that had broken out only a year and a half after the downfall of Sauron, Aragorn 
had been both king and ambassador simply because no one else in Gondor knew the 
game well enough to play it. And even so, he could not prevent the schism, nor 
has he been able to heal it since. Not for want of trying, but in the end, this 
is a matter the Haradrim must solve, one way or the other. "Alas that they have 
chosen the other!" he muttered.

"Indeed," Legolas replied, seeming to have read his thoughts. "Or so it seems, 
for appearances sometimes deceive."

"Sometimes, but I doubt that this shall prove so happy a matter. I have good 
reason to believe that Khand is involved, after all, and that Far Harad prepares 
for war," Faramir said, clapping the Elf on the shoulder as the two of them 
wandered back from the camp’s perimeter and passed amid the rows of tents and 
horses.

"Ah yes. The irrepressible Bergil keeps us all well-informed," Legolas smiled, 
for he had grown fond of the boy in the short time that they had known each 
other. Half of his life, and more than that. How strange to think thus of so 
young a being! But however young, the lad had a discerning eye and a curiosity 
to rival a Dwarf’s, and he was fiercely loyal to his king--qualities that were 
desperately needed at the moment, and the boy had the courage to put all of them 
to good use. "What thinks Éowyn of these matters?" Legolas asked, since thought 
of Bergil drew him on to the subject of family.

"Nothing good, of that you may be certain! And the king knows her opinion on the 
loyalties of certain of the Eight," the steward replied and offered a wry smile. 
"She had ever an eye for treachery, after all!"

"Whom does she suspect?" Legolas asked.

"Bhor’tarat and Ya’dyahnhir, though the latter is careful to remain neutral… or 
as neutral as one may be in Harad. She mistrusts some of the minor houses, as 
well, but treachery among the lesser is predictable when the great conspire 
against each other."

"Ya’dyahnhir…." the Elf trailed off, shaking his head ere he continued, "Too 
reasonable they are, and a reasonable dissident is one who shakes the faith of 
all."

"Aye. And if Lord Dharu is truly a traitor, then who can measure the harm he has 
done?"

"Doubtless, we shall soon discover the truth," Legolas said, and then apparently 
decided that their conversation was grim enough, for he laid a hand upon 
Faramir’s back and said, "But come! Tomorrow is another day in this fair land, 
as we wait for Lord Indirkan to join us. Once he is come, we shall each of us 
have plenty of time to reiterate our worries over such matters as may arise in 
Harad. Now is a time to listen to the green land, and to take what comfort you 
can from good company, Faramir!"

"You are right," the steward replied, chuckling softly as he made himself set 
aside his concerns. "Although I might argue the term ‘good’ company! Be warned, 
son of Thranduil, that Beregond and Mablung shall be your keepers on this 
journey. They know your ways, so mind yourself! I should hate for our only 
casualty to be self-inflicted."

"Fear not! We cannot risk seeming divisions within our own ranks," Legolas said 
reassuringly. "Therefore Beregond and Mablung shall suffer no hurt not 
attributable to the Haradrim."

"I should have asked for a second Elf simply to mind you, Legolas," Faramir 
replied, exasperated, but he laughed nonetheless. "Very well, no more talk of 
Harad for the night. Let us retire and speak of other things. How fares Gimli?"

"Well and happily, and Aglarond prospers. Indeed, they have opened a path into 
new chambers that put all others to shame with their beauty!"

"So Éowyn told me, for she heard it of her brother…."

Chatting amiably, the pair passed through the camp, heading for Faramir’s tent, 
and the men who saw them felt some of their anxiety lift at the sight of them, 
light-hearted in spite of it all.

***

Indirkan sighed softly, standing in the gardens where he had stood sixteen years 
ago on his very first night in Minas Tirith. Though he had had nearly two 
decades to accustom himself to such things, the sight of so much lush greenery 
still struck him as well nigh miraculous. And now Harad beckons… perhaps with 
finality, I know not! So he had come to this place tonight to remember, and in 
some obscure sense, to pass this treasure of a place on to his sister who must 
learn now to live beneath a cooler sun. Bharag ni Rhanion’tok: my nephew, the 
only one in whom the blood of my house runs true: my heir… and my downfall! It 
was a bitter legacy, and Indirkan cursed fate. After all the long years of trial 
and hardship, it seemed a cruel joke that he should in one breath discover that 
House Rhanion would not die with him, but would continue in the blood of a 
traitor. Have I labored so hard for this? For one of my own house to bring Harad 
to a second civil war? Oh, we talk around it as much as possible, for that is 
the way of things in Harad and Aragorn knows it well, but if war comes not now, 
it shall come later. ‘Tis inevitable, given the isolation of the south. We have 
tried to remedy that, to forge ties and yet we cannot forget the pain we have 
caused each other. A land divided by a divided family--poetic justice indeed!

At least Kirdali would be safe here. Indeed, she seemed to accept her uprooting 
from her native soil with far more equanimity than he would have expected. But 
then again, she had accepted worse all of her life and survived with her honor 
intact, whatever others might say of her. At least in Gondor, she had the good 
will of the royal family, and if she knew little Westron, the girls could teach 
her. Indeed, Arwen had quietly suggested that Liríel and Halareth would be ideal 
companions for a time, since both children were learning Haradric and could at 
least make a fair exchange for the practice they would get with Kirdali. 
"Certainly, it will do them no harm to learn from your sister how to stand tall 
in adversity. And perhaps your sister would enjoy their company," the queen had 
said. And Kirdali had been quite agreeable when Indirkan had broached the idea 
with her after Arwen and Aragorn had left them alone after dinner. For his part, 
Indirkan would have remained with her longer, but he left on the morrow at dawn 
to meet Faramir south of Poros, which journey would take him three days’ steady 
travel by ship and leave them all bare time to come to Rhath-Ihnfar within the 
time allotted them. But Aragorn understood his reasons, and was willing to trust 
that Indirkan could make the journey at speed.

"A beautiful night, is it not?" The Haradrim nearly jumped in his surprise, but 
given his visitor, he ought not to have expected to hear Arwen’s approach.

"Quite, your majesty."

"Come now," another voice spoke, and this time, Indirkan did look back to see 
Aragorn standing behind his wife, arms clasped loosely about her waist. "Among 
friends and away from other listening ears, we need not stand on formality."

"Then may I say that if you expect an old man to survive ‘til dawn, you ought to 
know better than to creep behind him thus, Aragorn!" the ambassador said 
pointedly but without malice, and Gondor’s king and queen shared a laugh.

"Your pardon, Indirkan!" Aragorn said stepping away from Arwen to make him a 
bow, and even in the light of the half-moon Indirkan could see the mirth in the 
other’s eyes. "But you seemed quite lost in your thoughts, and you rarely come 
here with a light heart."

"Alas, I know it well! More’s the pity, for such a place as this ought not to be 
sullied with sorrow," the Haradrim replied, touching a sleeping bloom gently.

"Beauty without sorrow is beyond our grasp, my friend," Arwen said softly, 
smiling with the sad wisdom of her people. "Trust an Elf in such matters, and 
learn to appreciate even the grief that makes beauty more poignant!"

"Elves are strange creatures to me," Indirkan replied. "I fear I shall never 
easily accept all their philosophy." There fell a silence, for those words had 
led them to the edge of a discussion of things that none of them would have 
chosen to discuss, but that they could hardly afford to ignore them. Finally:

"Liríel and Halareth sleep now, but look for them tomorrow morn," Aragorn said, 
broaching his imminent (and quite possibly permanent) departure gently but 
without concealment, "And have a care, for there was a brief spell when I think 
they were unguarded today. You may miss something in the morning!" the king 
warned by way of conclusion.

"I shall be careful!" Indirkan chuckled, then sighed. "They are almost as my 
own, and if I had daughters I could ask for no better. Alas that I have but a 
worthless nephew who would undermine all for which we have fought for so long!" 
He turned away, ashamed both for the outburst and for the honor of his house. 
The honor of House Rhanion! Who would have guessed that any would see the day 
when I could say that without sarcasm? "I should know better than to complain 
that the world is unjust," he murmured, unable to hide the pain in his voice. 
"And yet… it is not fair!"

"No, it is not, and in my turn, I, too, have cursed fortune, knowing well that 
she cares not," Aragorn replied softly, laying a hand on Indirkan’s shoulder. 
"Doubtless I shall have cause to do so again in the days to come. But do not 
surrender hope yet. This is a war made by men, and it can be ended by them as 
well. Your straits are less bad than they were when Sauron reigned still."

"True enough, yet my life comes to its twilight, my friend," Indirkan shook his 
head. "I would end it in peace, and in the knowledge that Harad heals!"

There was a brief silence, and the old man wondered whether it was mild shock 
for his bluntness or merely the fact that there was little to say to such a 
complaint. At length though, Arwen took his hand in hers and spoke again.

"Harad shall heal, of that have no fear! It may be, however, that it is not your 
fate to see it but to bequeath it to your sons. And say not that you have none, 
for in truth you have many, though they share your blood by choice. And though I 
cannot grant you longer life, I would still have you continue on with hope of 
peace." Something cold and round fell into his palm from her hand, and Indirkan 
blinked, raising the trinket in the moonlight. A ring it was, pale gold and set 
with small red gems.

"What is this, my lady?" Indirkan turned a puzzled look upon her, his gaze 
traveling between Aragorn and Arwen both in incomprehension.

"The Three are no longer, and the One is passed away, as are the Seven and the 
Nine. But other rings were wrought in Eregion--wrought with no more magic than 
the love of a craftsman for his work, and the desire to bring joy to a friend. 
This is one of the lesser rings of Celebrimbor. ‘Lesser,’ I say, but only 
compared with the height of his craft which has brought us so much pain in the 
end. When the world was younger, he loved my grand-mother, Galadriel, though she 
gave her love to Celeborn of Doriath.** Yet he made this for her, for the heart 
that was in her, and it has come to me from my mother. I give it now to you, 
Indirkan, for good will is never wasted, and resides in all the work of an Elf’s 
hand. Good night, my friend. We shall see you on the morrow." And with that, the 
King and Queen of Gondor strode away, arm in arm, and left Indirkan to his 
marveling.

A ring… an elven ring. Once more, Indirkan held it up to the moon light, and the 
pale light touched upon the stones that glinted as if with a sleeping fire. Too 
small it, is, then, for me to wear, and yet…. He tried it nonetheless, and 
found, to his wonder, that the ring seemed made for his hand. A short breath of 
laughter escaped him, and he shook his head, gazing after Aragorn and Arwen in 
awe. "Until tomorrow then. Good night!"

*******

* If you’ve read it before, you know I’m referring to events in "From the Other 
River Bank." If you haven’t read it, you’re not obligated to, but I think you 
get the idea of the crux of that story. Yes, I know, I refer to my own stuff 
shamelessly, but hey, it’s all part of a large story web for me. I’m just not 
skilled enough to put it all in one giant book-like format. =)

** Reference to the tale of Galadriel and Celeborn in Unfinished Tales. There is 
a part describing the forging of the Elessar that hints at an unfulfilled 
relationship between Galadriel and Celebrimbor. 



~~~


Chapter Three
Behind the Throne

 

Halareth frowned slightly in concentration, trying to untie the knot in her 
thread. She was not quite certain how she had managed to tangle it so 
thoroughly, and the six year-old's patience swiftly ebbed as her efforts seemed 
only to create more knots. Now I do need Líriel, except that I do not want to 
ask for her help. Not that her sister would begrudge it, but she would get that 
look and settle down calmly to fix the problem with that slight smile that 
Halareth knew too well. Adults might have called that smile smug or 
condescending; Halareth followed her nurses' wisdom and said that Líriel 
sometimes gave herself airs, as if she were a proper grown-up. And though 
Halareth was quite young, she knew full well that Líriel was still a child 
herself. Sometimes her sister needed a fight to remember it, and usually, 
Halareth was willing to give it to her. But I am supposed to be very proper 
myself, and so is Líri, so I better not say anything! The little girl darted a 
quick look at her sister, seated in a chair and reading quietly, seeming quite 
absorbed. And then, even more furtively, she risked a glance at the reason for 
their good behavior: for seated in the window embrasure was the sad and silent 
lady Kirdali, Indirkan's sister.

Halareth did not really understand why everyone was so worried about 'Ndirak 
leaving, for he had come and gone many times before. But however straight the 
faces of those who had gone to see him off, there had been an aura of tension 
and fear that was palpable. Even Nana and Ada are unhappy. They do not show it, 
but I can tell anyway, Halareth thought, and that warned her that something Very 
Bad indeed had happened. Or would happen, she could not be certain which it was. 
And as if to prove her fears correct, Indirkan himself had behaved… oddly. When 
he had knelt before his 'daughters of the heart,' as he had put it, he had gazed 
long at them, as if trying to engrave their images in his mind. And he had said, 
"Farewell to you both! I shall think often of you, and I hope that you shall 
think of me sometimes." Both girls had assured him that they would, and there 
was the slightest quaver in Líriel's voice that had made Halareth suspicious of 
her. Líriel knows something too, but she will not tell me. And now I cannot even 
make her tell me! But in any case, the Haradrim ambassador had asked a favor of 
them just before he left: "If you would, look after my sister for me. She knows 
little of the tongue of the West, and I fear her days may be lonely."

And so here they were, doing their best to fulfill their promise to Indirkan, 
but thus far, Kirdali seemed more shy and quiet than they. Or maybe she misses 
her brother too much to speak with us. Though she would never admit it, Halareth 
thought it would be an awful thing to be parted from Líriel for very long. She 
could not imagine spending years and years without her, and she wondered how 
Kirdali had managed all that long time alone. Certainly her maids were not very 
helpful in distracting her: one stood just out of arm's reach behind and to one 
side of her mistress, and the other sat quietly and sewed. Neither had spoken a 
word since their arrival six days ago, or if they had, Halareth had not heard 
it. Even when Kirdali asked them for something, they obeyed silently, and 
Halareth wondered if this were some peculiar Haradrim custom. Pursing her lips, 
Gondor's younger princess stared down at her own attempted needlework (Arwen had 
begun teaching her only a few months ago, and she was not very good at keeping 
an even line yet) and boredom warred with curiosity. Truly, it was hardly a fair 
battle, for anyone with a modicum of elvish blood could hardly resist the allure 
of the new and untried. And so, setting aside her futile efforts, Halareth 
climbed to her feet and wandered over to where lady Kirdali sat in the afternoon 
sunlight.

Indirkan's sister had some pages set before her on a thin wooden board; an 
inkpot sat within easy reach, and she held a peculiar sort of stylus in her left 
hand. As Halareth approached, Kirdali glanced up from her writing and offered a 
slight if kindly enough smile, which the little girl returned, trying to seem as 
friendly as possible. But Kirdali said naught, and so Halareth let her eyes 
wander down to the pages on their board, and she frowned, puzzled. Halareth had 
been raised in the company of books, brought up to a tradition of literacy that 
stretched back to the founding of Númenor on her father's side and to time out 
of mortal mind on her mother's. Words surrounded her at all times: Líriel read 
to her, as did her parents when they had the chance, and she had listened to 
lords and ladies come to speak with as much eloquence as they could muster 
before her mother. Given this wealth of words and writing, Halareth had already 
begun to recognize certain written words, and she knew that her sister's tutors 
would begin to teach her to read very soon, since she had the aptitude and the 
interest. In the mean time, Líriel tried to teach her a little, though both 
girls tended to lose patience with each other after but a short while. Still, 
Halareth was proud of herself for her progress. But as she stood there at 
Kirdali's side, she could read nothing of the words on these pages, though some 
of the characters almost seemed familiar to her. "What do you write, milady?" 
she asked, hoping that that would not seem too forward a question. Behind her, 
her sister paused in the act of turning a page, and she could feel Líriel's 
attention shift from the book to herself.

Kirdali blinked, seeming surprised, and she asked, "How know you that I write 
anything at all?"

"I beg your pardon, my lady?" Halareth's brow furrowed at the strange question, 
and she looked again at the ornate, bold script, wondering if this were some 
sort of bizarre Haradrim jest. But no, there were words there, arranged into 
patterns and spirals rather than lines, but she was certain they what she saw 
was writing, and so she answered, "Those are letters, are they not? I cannot 
read well… not yet, but I do know the letters. Most of them, that is, though I 
cannot tell what some of these are. You must write something very beautiful, 
though, to spend so much time making them."

This elicited a soft laugh, and the Haradrim set aside her stylus-- a brush, 
Halareth realized-- and two warm fingers raised her chin so that she gazed up 
into Kirdali's deep brown eyes. "Perceptive child," she murmured. "Some there 
are in my land who would not see the letters."

"Why, then, do you write them thus?"

"For their beauty," Kirdali replied, and paused a moment, glancing about, ere 
she asked, "They say in my land that Elves are a torrent of words, most of them 
magical and dangerous. Yet I see no lettercraft here, and I wonder at that."

"'Lettercraft?'" Halareth asked.

"We call it kevan'atailit. I fear I know too little of Westron to give it any 
other name," Kirdali replied.

"'Beautifulling-letters'," Líriel abandoned her reading to join the 
conversation. "Calligraphy, I think."

"Perhaps so," Kirdali said. "It is an art much practiced among the learned of my 
land, and for many reasons."

"Why do you do it?" Halareth asked.

"For the pleasure it brings to long hours," Kirdali said, with a sad smile. 
"Many years I have had to master the art."

"Could I learn it?"

"Hal, you cannot even read yet!" Líriel said, raising a skeptical eyebrow, and 
Halareth shot her sister a glare.

"Yes I can! Not wel, but I learn quickly. You said so yourself, Líri!" Halareth 
retorted. Then, deciding to ignore her sister, she turned her attention back to 
lady Kirdali, who had a hand over her mouth, but the creases round her bright 
eyes said that she smiled behind that hand. "Could I learn it? Even though I do 
not read very well? Yet, I mean."

"You have an eye for patterns, child, if you could discern the lettering without 
knowing enough to read it. You may have the gift, but it is not an art that is 
lightly taught! Once begun, the student may not ask to end her instruction: only 
the teacher may decide whether she is suited to continue," Kirdali cautioned. 
"But if you are suited to it, then doubtless you could master the art, if you 
are willing and patient… and open to revelations. Are you?"

"I can be," Halareth said stoutly, and deliberately refused to acknowledge 
Líriel's doubtful look. "Yes, I am!"

"Very good then. Remember that you said that, child. And if you would learn, 
then come and sit and we shall see what the brush says of you!"

And as Halareth scrambled up into her lap to obey, eager to try her hand, 
Kirdali smiled to herself despite the tension that hummed softly within her. In 
truth, she was uncertain whether she was equal to the task of teaching, knowing 
the turmoil that lay just beneath the surface of her soul. For six days, since 
Indirkan had left, the two girls had been frequent companions, though it was 
clear that they were not entirely certain what to make of her. The children's 
nurses or tutors would appear at regular intervals to look in on them (and also 
to look in on her, she suspected), but other than these interruptions, she was 
very much alone with them. Alone with them, and with her memories of another 
place, and another dark-haired child who once had been all her comfort. Bharag 
had been so sweet a child…. And yet he became a monster! Kirdali thought 
bitterly. Her son had grown weary of his lot, resentful, impatient--very like 
Indirkan had been as a young man. But whereas her brother had never let his 
shame and anger shake his love for his family, Bharag had grown to hate the name 
of Rhanion. Often he had cursed his uncle, whose infamy had seen him disowned. 
That was inexcusable in Kirdali's eyes, for though Rhanion had had to disown 
Indirkan as well, in order to survive, in the privacy of their own house, father 
and sister had never ceased to mourn for him, even if they found his choice 
incomprehensible. For when one has nothing, or next to it, one may not simply 
toss aside what one does have. Bharag never learned that, and I fear now the 
consequences of that… that… wantonness!

Doubtless, there were far more important matters afoot than her traitor of a 
son, since the Eight seemed likely to harbor rebels within its ranks as well. 
Yet Kirdali had been ever the victim of politics, and her mind and heart fixed 
upon what touched her most closely: her son's betrayal, and her brother's peril. 
Particularly when Halareth turned an enchanting smile--an elfin smile, 
perhaps?--up at her, she felt a thrill of shame that was shot through with 
dread. For if rumor is true--and I doubt not that it is--then Bharag shall be 
among those who draw Gondor and Hradar to war again. My own child may make the 
children of my hosts orphans! How could I face them or any in this city without 
shame should the news come one day that King Elessar comes not again? Of course, 
it hardly seemed possible, here, in the heart of Gondor, to imagine that Harad 
would prevail in this struggle, even if Khand were involved. And yet the 
impossible occasionally happens, as I know well, Kirdali thought, even as she 
began helping Halareth trace out her first letters. For at the height of 
Sauron's ascendancy, it had seemed impossible that the faltering West could 
prevail against Mordor for even an hour, let alone find victory in the end. And 
for a young girl, watching her brother slip away into the night, full of doubts 
and a strange determination born of she knew not what precisely, it had seemed 
impossible that she should see him again.

Yet Sauron is vanquished, and Indirkan lives still. And once again, things shift 
and we know not whither we go now, if not to the abyss! However remote the 
possibility, Hradar and Khand together might overthrow Gondor if they truly are 
in league. And whether or not my faithless son has any part in the coming war, I 
doubt not that he would be pleased with the carnage should Gondor fall! Bharag 
ni Rhanion'tori, who had hair dark as Halareth's and a smile long desecrated by 
his own hatred and bitter resentment…. "Like this?" Halareth asked, her voice 
shattering Kirdali's thoughts in an instant. The Haradrim blinked and made 
herself leave off fearful speculation to examine the girl's efforts. The first 
written word was always the name of the hopeful apprentice, and though somewhat 
awkwardly formed, it was a worthy first attempt given Halareth's youth.

"Good. Now, think of another word, one that touches you," Kirdali instructed, 
and Halareth cocked her head thoughtfully. After a moment, she gave a nod, 
glancing up at the old woman. "Begin again, and as you write, think of all that 
this word means to you and let that guide your hand." Frowning with 
concentration, Halareth bent over the board again, and Kirdali drew a deep 
breath, letting her eyes close. I should not teach her, not as I am! For to 
truly teach kevan'atailit required a finely honed inner balance, that passion 
would not blind the instructor to the nuances of another's expression. How shall 
I judge the state of her soul as she lets it appear if I fear to reveal my own? 
Such doubts frightened her, and the more she fought it, the more her own work 
reflected that darkness within in its more angular script, in the way the 
composition mirrored her sense of suffocating self-enclosure. Why must I be ever 
alone…?

"Milady?" Halareth's voice intruded once more, and Kirdali quickly composed 
herself.

"Mmm… let me see." She gazed down over the top of the girl's head, and felt a 
rather bittersweet pang to see what Halareth had written. "Torh," she murmured 
softly, and Líriel looked up once again from her book.

"Let me see, Hal?" The older girl came to stand at her sister's side and the 
three of them gazed down at the paper. Something like a smile tugged at Líriel's 
mouth, and she laid a hand on Halareth's shoulder, as if in silent approval.

"A powerful word, child, and an interesting hand. You are more deep-rooted than 
I thought." And mayhap this is why I will teach you in spite of myself. For 
perhaps you see more clearly than I in this place, in this time. Torh… Family 
indeed!

 

***

Arwen stood at the door, listening to the low murmur of voices within, and she 
smiled to herself for the unassuming tones. After a morning spent in council 
with her husband, the assembled lords of Gondor and two ambassadors, the sound 
of such easy conversation was welcome indeed, and she was loathe to interrupt 
it. Nevertheless, she had not come simply to look in on her daughters (though 
that, too, was a welcome relief from minding worried diplomats), and so she 
nodded to the guards and quietly opened the door. Inside the sun-lit room, the 
Haradrim women seemed dark-standing shadows, starkly evident, and it was one of 
the maids who first noticed her. Hastily, the woman dropped to one knee, hands 
clenched tight against her chest, and there she remained. The others, alerted by 
her sudden movement, turned towards her, and her daughters grinned brightly. 
"Nana!" Halareth climbed out of Kirdali's lap, and she went quickly to throw her 
arms about her mother. Arwen smiled and laid a hand atop her head as she 
surveyed the scene. Kirdali had risen, and she curtseyed now, rising very 
slowly. "Your majesty," Indirkan's sister said respectfully.

"My lady Kirdali," Arwen responded, and glanced to either side of the Haradrim 
noblewoman, where the maids remained in their stances of profound, almost 
groveling, obeisance. Pursing her lips slightly, the queen shook her head and 
said, "Please instruct your women to rise." Her tone was mild enough, but it was 
clear that she would brook no arguments, and Kirdali raised a brow at that.

"As you wish. Lhinya, Irin," she said, and after a moment's hesitation, the two 
maids climbed uncertainly to their feet. "Should I leave, your majesty, so that 
you may speak with your daughters?"

"No, for I came to speak to you as well. If you would, however, I would speak to 
you in private. Halareth, Líriel, perhaps you would show the maids out… if you 
would, my lady?"

"Yes, Naneth," Líriel said, obediently, but her eyes glittered with curiosity. 
Halareth glanced from her sister to her mother, and then nodded.

"Yes, Nana! Come on!" the younger girl beckoned in hradathur to the maids, and 
Kirdali blinked, but once again, she acceded to the request--or rather, the 
politely phrased command--and the two girls led the Haradrim women out into the 
halls. The guards closed the door behind them, leaving the Queen of Gondor alone 
with Kirdali of Harad.

"I apologize for my absence in the past three days," Arwen said, gliding 
forward, and Kirdali shook her head.

"You have many responsibilities, your majesty. I should not wish to think that 
you interrupted them for my sake!"

"Duty comes ever first, but I have some duty to you as, well, my lady, for you 
are the sister of a friend whom I promised to make welcome. I hope at least that 
my daughters have given you no trouble?" Arwen asked.

"None, your majesty. They are quite charming, truly. I had forgotten what it is 
like to have young children about." The other woman spoke softly and well, with 
no break in her intonation, but Arwen had an Elf's sharp ears and she yet 
perceived the anguish beneath that calm exterior.

"As had I!" the queen replied, and smiled at the other's momentary confusion. 
Then enlightenment dawned, and Kirdali cocked her grey head curiously.

"Will you permit me a question, your majesty? One that may seem quite 
impertinent?"

"Of course. And if it is to be impertinent, you may call me Arwen, for queens do 
not tolerate the impertinent, according to the custom of Gondor." This time, 
Kirdali did laugh at her dry humor.

"Nor in Harad, though we have no queen. Very well, then: how old are you, 
Arwen?"

"Nearly three millennia have I seen, and am accounted among the younger children 
of the Eldar," the queen replied with a smile for the other's amazement. "Our 
people dwindle in numbers, for many have departed over the sea, fleeing the 
evils of Middle-earth and the waning of our power. It has been long indeed since 
my father's house has had children beneath its roofs. Elvish children, at 
least," she added.

"Three millennia… and you do not forget? Nor change?"

"Things of importance I do not forget, but nothing in Middle-earth may remain 
unchanged. That is the way of this world, and I do not seek to challenge the 
will of Ilúvatar in such matters."

"But you could, if you desired to?"

"I could set myself in rebellion, but it would accomplish nothing," Arwen 
replied.

"I see. Forgive me, my lady, for as I said, we know little of Elves in my land, 
and if there is a Maker, then we know naught of him, either." Kirdali sighed. 
"It must be a comfort to know such things."

"To me it is. To others…." Arwen shrugged. "But surely you know something, for 
you are an artist, I see." The queen gestured to the calligraphy.

"Your daughter's work, some of that. I hope you are not displeased that I should 
undertake to teach her.…"

"Not at all." Arwen said, picking up one sheet and examining it. "Twill teach 
her some discipline, and that is always good. And no Elf can fail to love the 
will to create, for that runs through us all quite strongly. But I fear that I 
came not simply to discuss my daughters, and though I would not cause you pain, 
there are questions I must ask you." Arwen turned somber grey eyes on Kirdali's 
brown ones, and the Haradrim woman flinched slightly.

"You would speak of my son, I guess you to mean," Kirdali replied, sinking down 
onto the embrasure once more, and Arwen came to sit beside her.

"I fear that I must, for you know him best, and we find it curious, my husband 
and I, that one man's malfeasance should come to light so suddenly and at so… 
opportune… a moment. When did you first learn that others knew of your son's 
betrayal?"

"All in Dargalt knew of it, of course. How could they not?" Kirdali asked 
resignedly. "But Dargalt was an isolated town, and so the news had little 
significance to any others. Doubtless word leaked out with the traders who 
passed through, but who would have reason to remember such things? We were a 
disgraced house, confined to one small place, and save to warn caravaners away 
from us, I find it hard to believe that we were discussed overmuch with 
outsiders."

"I see. How then do you account for the resurgence of interest in your family, 
and by those in Rhath-Ihnfar, no less?"
"I cannot account for it. Unless one of the Eight seeks to deprive you of a 
voice and ear sympathetic to Gondor's concerns in Harad. Some there are who 
might wish to keep Gondor out of our wars."

"Or else to entangle her more closely, for if Khand is involved, then we are 
bound to help our allies."

"That is true, yet…." Kirdali frowned, considering her words. At length, she 
made herself look into Arwen's face, gazing at her as directly as she dared. 
"Are you certain that you know your allies? For even as divisions run throughout 
the Eight--and indeed, throughout the land--within one person, there may be much 
ambivalence towards Gondor. Even one well-disposed towards you and yours may 
wish to keep Gondor at a distance."

"That we know, and think not that it is only among the Haradrim that such 
contrariness exists. Aragorn suspects some of the Eight of playing a double 
game, but thus far, we have no evidence and no means of obtaining it easily. The 
Steward of Gondor goes south with your brother to discover what he may, and he 
looks to the future, when this war is over, in the hopes of finding a better 
balance between our people and yours."

"Balance… yes. The king would know of that, I guess," Kirdali gave a slight 
smile. "For that we seek ever, having no other choice: we cannot satisfy all, 
but we may achieve a balance that lets most survive."

"And what balance do you think the Haradrim would achieve with Khand?"

"I am sure I know not, your majesty," Kirdali demurred.

"What balance might your son hope to achieve?"

"If he seeks aught else but vengeance, then I shall be surprised!" And Arwen 
blinked at the bitterness in the other's voice. "Bharag of Rhanion House is 
driven by a hatred of all that is Haradrim. Long ago, he learned to despise his 
people, and would not be content to endure in silence, as is our way. But rather 
than go among the outlaws and raiders, he chose to betray us all, and he may yet 
bring ruin on his house!"

"You believe, then, that the Eight may use his name only to be rid of Indirkan?"

"I cannot say. I… I suppose that there might be some other reason. The wheel of 
treachery turns in many directions, or so we say in Harad. If the Eight do not 
use him against Indirkan, then someone else may seek to use him against the 
Eight, I know not. But it is always safe in Harad to begin with the two opposite 
hypotheses." Kirdali replied and gave a minute shrug.

"What know you of Lord Dharu, of Ya'dyahnhir?"

"Naught, your majesty. I am not a politician."

"And I am not a Haradrim, but for the moment, I seek to learn to think as one. 
My husband has the advantage of his travels, but he, too, is at a loss in this 
matter. There is too much that we do not know."

"Was it your husband's idea for you to come?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I…." Kirdali blushed slightly, and looked away, embarrassed by the slip. 
"Forgive me, your majesty, I intended no slight to you. But it is not deemed 
suitable that a woman should meddle in politics. Not in Harad, at least. I 
thought…."

"You thought my husband the agent behind my visit, and that he believed you 
would speak more freely with me than with him," Arwen supplied, and gave a 
slight smile at the other's discomfiture. "You are right in one thing: he does 
think you would speak more freely with me, for he knows well the position of 
Haradrim wives and sisters. But I am not Haradrim, nor even of the Dúnedain, and 
my grandmother sat upon the White Council ere ever the line of Anárion failed."

"Forgive me," Kirdali murmured, and bowed her head.

"There is nothing to forgive. You have much wisdom, Kirdali, but little 
experience of the sun, or so I perceive," Arwen said in reply, bending her sharp 
gaze upon the other. "If ever you wish to walk out of the shadows, please call 
upon me. And I hope that I shall be able to call upon you at times as well, for 
as I have said, I am not Haradrim. Nor is Aragorn, though he has spent much time 
among your people. We would welcome your insight."

With that, the Queen of Gondor rose, and to Kirdali's surprise, she made her a 
slight bow ere she turned and walked noiselessly away. Walk out of the shadows…. 
It was not a thought that came naturally to a Haradrim, who was accustomed to 
find shelter in the shade from the deadly sunlight. I do not think I am made for 
such journeys. I am too old, perhaps, for such a change. But you, lady of 
Gondor… what do you see, that you would even make the offer, if you are so wise? 
And though she felt that she understood the other woman a little better for 
their conversation, Kirdali knew now the extent of her own ignorance: three 
thousand years' worth of mystery wrapped in a maiden's bewitching loveliness. 
Arwen…. Inspired of a sudden, Kirdali reached for her brush. Let us see what I 
truly would say of you!

***

"How went it with Kirdali?" Aragorn asked later that evening, as he and Arwen 
lay quietly together, ruminating on the events of the day.

"Are you familiar with the saying, 'The wheel of treachery turns in many 
directions'?" Arwen asked.

"Entirely too familiar," her husband sighed softly, drawing her a bit closer and 
burying his face in the crook of her neck as if he wished to forget he had ever 
heard it.

"Kirdali sees no logic in this situation either, and what she says of her son 
does not help us much, I fear. We might do better to question the household 
escorts on the matter of Bharag."

"I fear that we would learn little. Household escorts are notoriously discreet," 
Aragorn replied. "And many of them are very young for their posts. They may not 
be old enough to remember Bharag."

"Hmm. I sometimes forget how young you are, all of you!"

"And I am certain that I always forget how old you are, my dear!" Aragorn 
retorted, nipping gently at her neck, and Arwen laughed softly, turning in his 
arms to face him.

"As if you act your age, love!" she responded, kissing his brow. But then she 
sighed softly. "Well, mayhap tomorrow shall bring new insight."

"Perhaps. I admire the Haradrim for their tenacity, but at times, I could wish 
they delighted less in their own contrariness!"

"I begin to wonder whether they have not set too many birds to wing this time," 
Arwen mused, and Aragorn grunted softly.

"They may have. 'Tis too early to know, if one can speak thus of something that 
has built in earnest for two years! I could wish I had been a better negotiator 
sixteen years ago."

"Spend no regrets on the past, love. There was naught more you could have done. 
Harad's divisions were worse then than they are now, and those who went to war 
out of hatred for the West were scarcely willing to entertain the notion of 
closer ties with Gondor. We can but hope that that sentiment will not be as 
prevalent in the north this time."

"So my head tells me, but try to convince my heart of that!"

"Oh, I wager I could convince it," Arwen replied, snuggling invitingly closer, 
and her husband's soft laughter she felt as a vibration beneath her palm.

"The last time you said that, you wanted my approval of your match-making 
methods!"

"And you did agree that it was an inspired soaking, did you not? Has not Éomer 
been happily married five years now?"

"What have you done now that requires bribery?" Aragorn demanded, running an 
appreciative hand over the curve of her breast.

"Naught of late. But I may need your pardon later, and I would rather have it to 
hand," Arwen replied suggestively as Aragorn caught her in his arms and drew her 
hard against him.

"You have it. For whatever it is or may be, I care not!" he murmured between 
kisses. Arwen made no answer, unless it were in her fervent response to his 
caresses, and Aragorn asked no further questions. For a time, they spoke not, 
only loved each other wordlessly. But when they had done, and lay once more 
quietly in each other's arms, sated and weary enough now to sleep despite the 
wheel of treachery that spun dizzily in each of their minds, Arwen sighed 
softly. War comes once more to Harad… how many more nights shall we have 
together? she wondered, as sleep crept over her. And though she held the memory 
of her husband's touch close, that too-familiar doubt cast its uneasy pall over 
her dreams. That all of Gondor would soon share her fears was no consolation at 
all, and in the days to come, she would look back on this night and wonder if 
she had not perhaps sensed something that even elvish foresight could not quite 
bring to light.

At the moment, however, she was content to lie warm in her husband's embrace and 
let herself fall prey to mortal sleep. Count not the days, Arwen, for what is a 
day in sixteen years? War shall come when the time is ripe!

And as Arwen dreamt restlessly, in the far south, the game was opened….


~~~~



Chapter Four
On Hostile Ground





 "Tarakh ng’ Ehrini. Ahn-Rhat din irigharya!" The guard who had so spoken bowed 
ere he continued on his way to a water break.

"Halota sa," the hooded, robe-shrouded figure replied, returning the salute ere 
it turned back to the contemplation of the moon-lit landscape. To all 
appearances, an ordinary exchange as the denizens of Khera fortress went about 
the nightly watch. But the figure that stood in the moon-light was no Haradrim: 
in the darkness, it was difficult to discern the difference, but for all that he 
wore the garb of a desert-born soldier, there were seven stars embroidered over 
a white tree on his black robes--all done in Haradrim style, but still instantly 
recognizable. Five years I have been here, Bergil thought, and smiled a bit. 
After five years, he no longer stumbled over his words, nor found it strange to 
speak Westron or Sindarin one moment, and then Haradric--hradathur--the next. 
And although the small contingent of Gondorrim soldiers stationed in the 
Midlands of Harad might seem no more than a token, it had already earned a 
reputation. Their numbers were few--the Haradrim were wary of too many 
foreigners in their land--but King Elessar knew that he dared not leave the 
defense of Harad strictly in the hands of the Haradrim. Not that they were 
incapable of protecting their own, but they would not respect an ally who 
refused to have a share in the danger. Thus Bergil’s company was one of several 
stationed all along the middle of Harad, strung out in an east-west line against 
the growing number of discontented raiders that swept north out of the deep 
desert. They patrolled the trade lines and helped to enforce the watering rights 
of the area, and when called to do so, they fought alongside their Haradrim 
counterparts. That would have been enough, according to the strict demands of 
duty, but Bergil and the other commanders had been warned repeatedly by both 
Faramir and Aragorn, among others, to adapt. And so they had. Bergil’s men might 
speak Sindarin or Westron amongst themselves, but their daily business was 
conducted in hradathur; their clothes, even as Bergil’s, were of the same cut 
and style as their Haradrim comrades; and the laws by which they lived now were 
Haradrim. Not that they forsook all traces of their differences: the Gondorrim 
kept their own customs, where such custom did not offend, or modified them to 
suit their needs in this dry land.

And slowly, they had gained acceptance: for the blood they had shed and water 
they had shared (and protected), the wary, desert-bred Haradrim accorded them 
respect. Grudging at first, but with time, it was given more freely, and 
cautious friendships had begun to spring up between men of the two realms. That 
pleased Bergil, who had spent most of the last five years finding ways to 
convince the Haradrim to trust him and his men. Lord Faramir, when he had 
recommended him for this duty, had impressed upon him the importance of the 
task; and as his father before him, who served still as captain of the White 
Guard, he refused to fail his lord. Worse, the king would learn of my failure, 
and that I could not bear! Bergil thought, letting his eyes sweep over the 
canyon-riddled plain. It might seem silly to many, but Bergil felt his 
obligation to his king to be very personal. Sixteen years had passed, but he 
remembered the siege of Minas Tirith, and Aragorn’s words to a frightened ten 
year-old child: "It will serve. The worst is now over. Stay and be comforted!"* 
The weary smile that had lit the king’s eyes remained graven in Bergil’s memory, 
and Aragorn had looked at him in such a way that Bergil had not felt ashamed of 
his tears. He looked at me as if I had a place in that room, where I felt so 
very small! That very hour, Bergil had known that he would go whithersoever this 
Ranger of the North led.

And if he leads us to Harad, then thither go I. And glad am I of the chance to 
stand here tonight. Aragorn Elessar of Gondor was a far-seeing man, and those 
who served him well and with ambition could rise easily through the ranks, which 
for long had been more or less closed to those born beneath a certain station. 
Bergil had only to look to his own father, a common guard in Minas Tirith and 
now for long Faramir's captain and counselor, to see the possibilities. Gondor 
was changing, and King Elessar had much to do with that: over the protests of 
those comfortably settled behind Minas Tirith's white walls, he had begun to 
change the nature of the soldiery of Gondor. Young men and junior officers spent 
now more time in Harad and Eriador than within the bounds of their ancient 
homeland, and Harad was called now the testing grounds of valor.

But even lords long established in the diplomatic arena had found themselves 
assigned for brief spells to dwell in foreign lands, the better to understand 
those with whom they worked. There were some who muttered against the corruption 
of mingling with others, but Bergil heartily approved of all such measures, and 
not simply because he himself benefited from them. Gondor needed men who knew 
their allies as more than paper entities: it needed soldiers, heralds, and 
diplomats who understood that a Dwarf’s gruff tone aside, one did not refuse an 
offer to haggle; or that in Ithilien, one abided as much as possible by an 
elvish sense of time and did not seek to rush business; and that in Harad, one 
walked in the dark, and drank blood when water lacked. Swordsmanship was no 
longer enough: Aragorn and Gondor needed men who could see their own homeland as 
if through Haradric eyes.

And I intend to be one of those men, for Harad remains divided, and beyond it… 
beyond those boundaries, there is Khand and Far Harad, and perhaps other places 
besides those that we know little of! Bergil thought, moving along the catwalk 
as he gazed out over the desert, shrugging slightly to move some air through the 
layers of fabric that draped him. It was hot tonight, even by Haradric 
standards, for the winds boiled up from the south-east, carrying with them the 
heat of a land unbroken by living water for leagues upon leagues. Sweat beaded 
on his forehead and was quickly absorbed by the taut cloth band that Bergil, 
like all men here, had tied there to keep his hair out of his face and help 
protect him from the stinging grit that such winds brought. He would have pulled 
the fine-knit top veil that hung loose within his hood over his eyes, but at 
night, he could not afford to surrender so much of his vision. Even had there 
been no cause to suspect an attack, it was a matter of prudence and principle. 
Accustomed to Ithilien’s forests and the shifting patterns of light and dark 
that came of the canopy, Bergil had never realized until his arrival just how 
dazzling a full moon on sand could be. Nor how treacherous, for as any Haradrim 
soldier would readily tell, only on moonless nights was one’s peril greater. The 
pale light that reflected off the sand tended to blind a man, distorting 
shadows, making small things seem greater than they were… and concealing the 
approach of raiders. Yet at the same time, the moon’s light was not so bright 
that one could gain relief through the screen of a veil. As Bergil patrolled the 
heights of the small, cross-roads fortress, he heard men bless the moon, and 
knew the blessing for a curse. But one took care not to curse lightly in 
Harad--at least one takes care not to say the words, but indeed, I would curse 
the moon were it not beautiful! Bergil thought, smiling slightly.

"Zédohshtoia, rho’khor Bergil." A hooded and robed shadow detached itself from 
the deeper shade that lay beneath a sentry tower, and Gondor’s commander 
recognized the voice. "How do you find the night?"

"Hot, Nharadh, as is ever the case before a storm," he replied. "And you? How 
fare you this evening, my friend?"

"Uneasily, and not only because of the wind," the other replied, inviting Bergil 
with a wave of a gauntleted hand to come and join him. And as he drew near, the 
Haradrim commander pushed his hood back, and undid the band, running his fingers 
through braided hair. Once, such a gesture would have meant little to a young 
man, new to his command and his posting, but now Bergil recognized it for what 
it was: a gesture of respect and friendship, to risk exposure by baring his head 
in the open air. Bergil returned the courtesy, and the other smiled, reaching 
out to tug at one of only two thin braids that hung close on either side of his 
face. Gondor’s soldiers had no compunction about cutting their hair when it grew 
troublesome, or simply tying it back if they preferred it long. But no Haradrim 
soldier would dream of shearing off those fine braids, which marked his station 
in life more surely than his garb or even his sword. It had taken almost five 
years for Bergil and his men to realize just how deeply entrenched that attitude 
was, and his current hairstyle was a concession to complaints that had at last 
begun to make their way to his ears. Nharadh had yet to comment, for the idea 
had struck Bergil earlier that week, while he had been patrolling the 
wastelands, seeking the truth of reports of unknown horsemen watching over the 
land round Khera fortress. Now, Gondor’s young commander cocked a brow at his 
counterpart, awaiting an opinion. "Unusual," Nharadh allowed at length. "A raw 
youth you would seem with those, but that I know you too well. The rest is still 
short, I see."

"One does not abandon a habit all in a day," Bergil replied serenely, sensing 
that the other approved in spite of his conservative words.

"True. Nor should one blindly adopt another’s ways in full until they have been 
tested," Nharadh replied. Only a few years older than his Gondorrim ally, the 
Haradrim commander had adjusted readily enough to the presence of foreign 
soldiers in his fortress, and he and Bergil had grown quickly to respect each 
other, though they remained comfortably Haradrim and Gondorrim, respectively. 
Friendship had come more slowly, but a few months ago, Nharadh had casually 
addressed him as "zéa," which marked the first time anyone had ever abandoned 
the formal forms when speaking to him. Since then, their careful dance had grown 
swifter, and short of some outstanding incident, it seemed they were destined to 
be fast friends. Now Nharadh gazed intently at him in the moon light, fingering 
the braid he held and cocking his head slightly in thoughtful consideration. 
Finally: "I can at least find you suitable beads. Black is the basis, but you 
have earned the red, and perhaps even gold. We shall see. Silver might be more 
fitting, considering…." the other gestured minutely to the embroidery on his 
robes, which was done in the black, white, and silver of Gondor. "Yes," Nharadh 
decided. "Silver, if you earn them! We may yet begin a new tradition for your 
company!"

"My thanks, and I shall try to do so. But you said ‘uneasily’ just now," Bergil 
responded, returning to business.

"Yes," Nharadh’s voice sank, and Bergil came to lean shoulder to shoulder 
against the parapets with him so that their words would remain between them. "In 
your absence, we have had a few traders come north, and they bring unsettling 
tidings. Kharish, which lies some ten days’ ride south of here, refuses water to 
outsiders." At which news, Bergil sucked in a breath in worried astonishment.

"But… one does not refuse water to a guest. Especially not to a caravan!"

"Do you tell me?" Nharadh shook his head, and the red and black beads that 
weighted the ends of his braids clicked softly. "Kharish claims an epidemic, and 
turned them away ere they could enter. But though I suppose that that is 
possible, tis not the season for such things. And short of illness or a 
contaminated well, I can think of but one reason for such extraordinary 
measures."

"War." The word hung heavy there, and for a time both men were silent. It was 
hardly an appealing prospect, even for the war-hardened people of Harad who had 
endured already one civil war and a number of significant skirmishes since 
Sauron had been cast down. Indeed, Harad was slow to recover from that defeat, 
though of late it had begun to show signs of real growth. Gondor, too, still 
suffered, but the land was more forgiving, and its traditions went deep, 
encompassing both war and peace. Granted, peace had been elusive since the end 
of the Second Age, but though Númenór’s blood had thinned, still, memories were 
long in the South Kingdom. By contrast, Bergil had quickly come to realize that 
the Haradrim had no solid grasp of the notion of a time without war. Rather, 
they understood periods of peace to be periods between conflicts, and so stood 
ever at the ready against foes that would baffle a tarakh: for even when the 
various houses of Harad did not make war amongst themselves, the land itself was 
an enemy, the sun even more so, and the unknown was greeted with grim mistrust. 
Doubtless, Sauron had found it useful to cultivate such attitudes, and after 
five years of unrelenting effort to understand and adapt to the ways of his 
hosts, Bergil could begin to appreciate the wisdom in such ways, even though he 
grieved for their necessity.

"What troubles me," Nharadh said slowly, breaking the silence that had fallen, 
"is that southern Harad has ever been poorer than the north. And although we in 
the north have naturally always borne the brunt of Gondor’s assaults, we were 
ever better supplied to meet them. The south is a dead land, and men flocked to 
Sauron’s banner simply to escape it. I cannot imagine how, when we struggle here 
in the north, they could manage to find the goods needed to support an army. If 
indeed it is war that bloods the wind of late," the Haradrim added, though to 
Bergil’s ears the concession was made for form’s sake only.

"My lord Faramir said that he saw much smuggling across the borders in the 
regions south of Poros, when he was still Ithilien’s captain," Bergil replied, 
raising a hand, palm-upwards, "I doubt not that that continues, but within Harad 
now, since it is no longer illegal to trade goods between our two lands. Rations 
are still measured carefully, and there are always those willing to take risks 
for an extra skin of water or food."

"You are doubtless correct," the other grimaced, seeming ashamed for such 
doings, but Nharadh was too honest a man to ignore the unpleasant truth. "To say 
nothing of horses, birds, ore, or even weapons. Perhaps especially weapons. I 
wish you had found some trace of those horsemen that we and others have 
glimpsed!"

"Bless the wind, it swept our own tracks away as soon as we made them. We could 
have passed within a mile and a minute of the riders and still our search would 
have been in vain. Even Ghed agreed," Bergil sighed, naming one of their most 
skilled Haradrim scouts, and Nharadh shook his head in frustration. "At least 
the same may be said for them, and perhaps we were fortunate in the end: had 
they been many, we would not have had the might to withstand them."

"If they are many and determined, Khera could not stand against them," Nharadh 
said tautly, and the truth lay bitter on his tongue. Like all such fortresses 
strung across the unmarked dividing line of Harad, Khera was a small affair, 
built in a time when skirmishes were smaller, less devastating in scope, and 
thus needed lesser defense works. Later, Harad had been held together by the 
will of Sauron, and external threats had quelled internal dissent. As it would 
not do to give the impression that the northern Haradrim mistrusted their 
southern brethren, the forts had been deliberately kept too small to be truly 
effective against a revolt. Patently inadequate against the growing threat of 
civil war, the ancient forts were made to serve now because Harad was still 
strapped for the essentials and had naught to spare for architectural projects. 
Thus, despite the intimations of trouble brewing in the south, Khera had not 
been enlarged, save to add a rough wall of iron pikes before the gates at 
Nharadh’s own expense as commander. Bergil had added his own salary to the 
project, and he and his men had labored and sweated alongside the Haradrim to 
raise that line. But in terms of official aid, all that they had were another 
double clutch of warriors sent earlier that very year. The newcomers and some of 
the Gondorrim had been housed in hastily-erected barracks along the west wall, 
which was truly the only space available. The horses had the east wall, the keep 
occupied the better part of the northern quarter, and the southern wall held 
armories and storehouses, as well as the exercise yard. Provisions were a bit 
tight at the moment, but other than that and crowding, the worst consequences 
had yet to be felt.

For despite our valor, if our suspicions over the past two years come to 
fruition, then we are doomed! Bergil thought grimly, hating to admit that. He 
had seen battle when he was ten, and as a rule, he valued valor over walls, 
however thick. But as it had been sixteen years ago on the fields of Pelennor, 
valor was but the beginning and could not always overcome numbers. And though 
the hints were as yet small, both he and Nharadh were almost certain that these 
mysterious horsemen were but the manifestation of fomenting rebellion in the 
south. Mithrandir shall not save us this time, and there is no fleet to bring 
relief. We are alone in this. That independence was both a prize and a problem 
at the moment, and Bergil debated sending yet another message north with a 
request for further assistance. "Whither think you that our smugglers are bound 
in the end?"

"Where else? To Ghoradi city in the south. To the renegade houses that hover 
about Ghoradi House like flies over carrion!"

"But what if they go further?"

"You think again of the heralds." Nharadh said flatly, and Bergil nodded 
wordlessly. For there had been a number of heralds passing through Khera 
fortress of late, bound for Far Harad's cities--Ghoradi, Kharish, and 
Bhor'tarat. Whereas Western custom accounted a herald honorable, in Harad they 
were reckoned among the high of the land and with good reason. In a land riddled 
with complicated, sometimes even contradictory, alliances, it needed one of high 
rank to convince the other parties to deal seriously with any proposal. Heralds 
therefore undertook many missions that would have been accorded to simple 
messengers in Gondor, and generally traveled with an entourage. And 
conveniently, such entourages were technically immune to customs searches and 
inspections unless a commander had some immediate and grave cause for suspicion. 
Even then, it might take armed force to "convince" a herald to submit, and woe 
to the search commander should his fears prove groundless. Thus most of the 
time, heralds passed unscathed through outposts such as Nharadh’s, which made 
them ideal smugglers. The penalties, if one were to be caught, were 
correspondingly higher, but the risk was so small that the unscrupulous among 
them scarcely troubled to learn the penalties. To Bergil’s mind, this criminal 
idiosyncrasy rather undermined the rationale for choosing heralds from the noble 
classes, but he was careful not to complain too openly.

"There must be something we can do to stop one…." Bergil insisted, trailing off 
suggestively as he cocked a brow at the other.

"And if you are wrong, my friend, you may lose an eye, or perhaps something more 
significant!"

"And if we are right, and weapons and information head south with the heralds, 
we may lose our heads," Bergil countered. "We need not search all of them, only 
those that seem to us suspicious. Like those of House Ya’dyahnhir," he cajoled 
persuasively, naming one of the Council of Eight, known as the houses major. 
Although as yet its head, Lord Dharu, had done nothing to warrant overmuch 
suspicion, his isolated position on the council and quiet but firm support of 
the concerns voiced by several outlawed houses were unsettling. Politics in 
Harad had a long tradition of serving with the left hand, an expression that 
Bergil had quickly learned to dislike, given that of late, there were many who 
said one thing and quietly did another. What baffled him still, even after five 
years, was that there were in fact rules that governed that game--byzantine, 
labyrinthine rules, but the fact remained that there was a certain honor 
attached to one clever enough to manipulate the system to his advantage. Honor 
among thieves! It must be one of those finer points of etiquette that I shall 
never fully appreciate. Like "the game." In Bergil’s opinion, Ya’dyahnhir was 
simply the most powerful practitioner of this peculiar aspect of Haradric 
philosophy, and he knew not whether Nharadh’s reluctance to search the heralds 
came in part from the other’s up-bringing to tolerate this ideology, if not 
respect it. They say wealth covers faults, and Ya’dyahnhir has wealth enough to 
buy secrecy… maybe even forgiveness, if he plays "the game" well, assuming that 
we are not mistaken, that is. Perhaps Lord Dharu does but speak his conscience, 
and his refusal to involve himself in certain matters pertaining to the 
suppression of renegades and raiders is but the natural consequence of honestly 
held conviction.

And perhaps Elves fly! Bergil sighed softly, acknowledging the voice of 
cynicism.

"We have sent our suspicions homeward, and the latest runner carries the news of 
Kharish," Nharadh said resignedly. "Our lords and betters know our concerns. 
Unless we see something, there is little more we can do here but watch and wait. 
Khera is too small to stand to against the wrath of one of the Eight if even the 
remaining Eight dare not confront each other. Walk into this sandtrap blind-eyed 
and we shall be buried!"

"And so we are, in the end, as trout in a net!" Bergil muttered disgustedly, 
wishing futilely that the first line of self-defense lay not within Harad’s own 
borders.

"‘Trout'…?" Nharadh asked, clearly seizing on a chance to move away from this 
uncomfortable topic. Yet there was also a genuine curiosity in his voice, and 
Bergil gave a slight smile for his friend’s ignorance of all things nautical, 
even as he made himself accept the change of subject. After all, we have had 
this argument before, and we shall not resolve it tonight!

"A kind of fish," Bergil replied. Nharadh had told him early on that he had 
grown up in a town where the only drinkable water came from a single well, and 
until he had taken up arms, he had never seen an open body of water. And what he 
has seen scarcely counts as a pond in my eyes, and a sorry one at that, Bergil 
thought. The idea of a run of trout, of creatures who lived wholly submerged in 
water, while not completely foreign, was nevertheless one that came hard to the 
Haradrim. Would that I could take him north with me to see Anduin. Or Dol 
Amroth! Nharadh was obviously too young to have served in the Great War, and he 
had yet to cross into Umbar even, whence the Corsairs had come. He would love 
the river, I think. And he should see Minas Tirith, and visit Ithilien. There 
were so many marvels in the world, and Bergil wanted to see them all ere they 
faded away.

"A fish. Ah," Nharadh replied in such a way that it was clear that that helped 
him little. "Are they large?"

"Not as large as some. Fishermen bring in larger kinds from the sea, but trout 
you can find in Anduin and in other large rivers. I used to try to catch them in 
the shallows with my friends. ‘Twas a game, to see who could catch the most 
using naught but a shirt and bare hands. You had to be quick."

"Mm hmm. Slippery, I guess them to be."

"Very. Mayhap one day I shall show you, if ever you come to Gondor."

"I am needed here."

"Yes, but if there should come a day when you are needed elsewhere, in the North 
or West, then I could show you much. Forests such as you have never dreamt, my 
friend, and cold such as you have never known."

"I doubt it not, and I admit to curiosity, but I doubt I shall have that chance. 
Not for a long while, at least. For the nonce, I shall rely upon your tales, 
Bergil of Gondor."

"I should at least wait until we are no longer on watch to tell them, though," 
Bergil responded, somewhat embarrassed by how far his mind had wandered in that 
brief space. "I fear that five years is a long while to be so far away from 
home. And though I regret nothing, I begin to yearn for sight of open water once 
more, and trees to cast shadows when the day grows hot."

"I fear no shadow shall cool this night, not if the winds persist!" Nharadh 
growled softly, turning his face away as a gust swept dust into their eyes.

"Such winds surely herald a storm," Bergil said, trying to rid his mouth of sand 
without spitting and thereby wasting precious moisture.

"You speak truly. See! The clouds begin to cover the moon. I doubt not that we 
have little time now ere the lightning arrives!" the Haradrim said, pointing 
skyward, and Bergil glanced up to see that, indeed, towering masses of clouds 
had arisen seemingly out of no where.

"Ha! Phiri irikarekh!" Others, too, had noticed the clouds, and men called down 
from the heights, warning others to take cover and prepare for a storm.

"I have not seen rain for a long while," Bergil said, rather wistfully.

"Alas, my friend, I fear you must wait still longer ere you see water falling 
from the heavens. The air is too dry, can you not feel that?" Nharadh asked. 
"Nay, this is a wind storm, and a time for lightning. Come, best we make for the 
guard house over the gates, for there the others shall go who have duty 
tonight!" The Haradrim drew up his hood and tugged Bergil’s sleeve to hurry him 
along. Running half-crouched in the wind that had begun to blow steadily, they 
scurried to the squat tower--far shorter than those to either side at the 
corners of the square--that sat over the portcullis. They were not the only ones 
to seek shelter there, for five men were already within when the two captains 
arrived, and more men came in on their heels. Though rain was extremely rare, 
men feared the weather here as they feared little else, for winds such as these 
drove sand before them with such fury that the storm could strip a carcass to 
bones and devour the splinters. Haradrim architecture reflected Haradrim respect 
for such storms: towns and cities were uniformly built askew of the winds, so 
that the main gates never faced the direct path of a storm. Khera faced the wind 
on a forty-five degree slant, presenting a corner to the storm to lessen its 
exposure and allow the sand and wind to flow around the fort. Like water round a 
ship’s keel, Bergil had thought when the logic of it all had first been 
explained to him. The analogy still amused him in such a dry land, yet it was 
true enough and the Haradrim were in deadly earnest. Every opening in the fort 
was built to withstand sprays of sand, and windows were deep, and angled to keep 
the dust out. Thus it was safe enough to leave the arrow loops and spy holes 
uncovered, the better to watch the progress of the storm. Here and there, tiny 
forks of lightning showed against the black sky as the clouds rolled across the 
plains with tremendous speed.

"How long shall this storm last, do you think?" Bergil asked.

"It shall be over swiftly, as ever, but unless I miss my mark, this one is a 
grand-father of a storm!" Nharadh replied. "Can you not feel it, Bergil?" And as 
the men fell silent, tense, awaiting the storm, Bergil nodded, wondering whether 
it was only the taut anticipation that made the air seem to snap. Outside, the 
winds howled now, and when the young Gondorrim brushed a hand against the hilt 
of his sword by accident, a spark leapt from the metal pommel to his fingers, 
and he hissed, giving a soft curse. Through the arrow loops, he could see the 
plain: dark beneath a darkened sky, impenetrably obscure with dust and cloud, 
and he could smell the sweat of the others as they waited in the darkness, 
half-breathless, without so much as a candle….

And then the sky seemed riven as a brilliant thunderbolt smote the earth nearby, 
throwing an eerie bluish light through the narrow slits, illuminating the 
wide-eyed faces of Haradrim and Gondorrim soldiers. Thunder rolled shortly 
thereafter, and a sort of nervous, low-voiced chatter broke out among the 
guards, a mixture of hradathur and Westron, mostly, though Bergil heard a few 
Sindarin whispers as well. Sindarin, with its lilting inflections and pure love 
of sound, so ideally suited to fitting words to feeling to phenomenon…. I could 
wish Legolas were here to see this! he thought suddenly. The elven prince and 
lord of Southern Ithilien had often been a guest at Prince Faramir’s court, and 
it struck him that the Elf would not have found the storm troubling but 
fascinating… exhilarating. Another bolt touched the ground, lit the heavens, 
shook the tower, and half-blinded them all, and yet no one moved to close the 
shutters. Despite the dangers of their lofty perch, they were on duty in 
uncertain times, and it was not unknown for raiders to try to attack after a 
storm. Bergil doubted anyone would be foolhardy enough to risk it this time, 
however. Forked tongues of lightning flashed and died, and men counted the 
seconds between peals of thunder. A sense of tense anticipation pervaded the 
group as the storm front grew swiftly nearer--

Lightning roared over them just then, and the entire fort shook as a 
particularly loud crack of thunder sounded. Men cried out, alarmed and 
unbalanced, and Nharadh had to steady himself against the wall as two others 
were thrown against him.

"Captain!" One of Bergil’s men, who stood nearest to the sheltered west side 
door, beckoned urgently, pointing.

"Valar…!" Bergil breathed, staring. The south-west tower was aglow in a 
bluish-white light. "What… is that?" he murmured, and was not alone in his 
wonder. But Nharadh sucked in a breath and uttered a curse, drawing his friend’s 
attention to him. "Nharadh?"

"Out! Alert the others: get them out of the barracks and into the yard!" Nharadh 
snapped, tearing his eyes from the eerily glowing tower. Rounding on them all, 
he shook off their collective immobility. "Get out! All of you! Now! Drach 
ng’oroi!" He fairly shoved men out of the door, back into the dust-laden storm 
winds, and grabbed Bergil’s arm last of all. "Out!" he ordered, yanking the 
other man after him. "We have no time!"

"Why?" Bergil demanded. "What does that mean?"

"Lightning!" Nharadh snapped, half-shoving men towards the stairs. "Go!" And 
credit to them, they went. Indeed, already the yard below was aswarm as the 
first of the guards arrived and began to roust men from the barracks clustered 
below the tower, shouting orders over the scream of the storm winds. Bergil 
fumbled to redo the clasp of his veil, coughing and still somewhat puzzled by 
his friend’s alarm. Nharadh, desert-born and bred, had his veil fastened already 
and stood now staring up at the heights…. At the highest point of Khera fort, 
Bergil realized just then, and swore at himself for his own thick-headed 
confusion. And the better part of the barracks are just beneath it!

Thunder boomed, and in that instant, the sky seemed torn apart by the brilliant, 
multiple forks of lightning that came hurtling down like lances. And even as a 
lance strikes a shield and splinters it, a large shaft smote the tower: stone 
cracked as heat bled into it, then exploded, and half the structure seemed to 
tear itself asunder. Bergil and Nharadh hastily looked away, flinging up an arm 
for protection against the blinding glare. Rock groaned and split, mortar 
dissolved, and what little wood there was in that tower burst into flames. And 
as the two commanders uncovered their eyes, a hail of debris rained down onto 
the yard below.

Warned by Nharadh, most of the men were already outside of the barracks, braving 
the winds. That proved fortunate, for the majority survived. But some were still 
too close, and Bergil could only watch in horror as the falling rubble struck 
hard, burying the barracks and crushing men beneath a weight of rock and metal. 
A moment the entire company stood rooted in place, but then reflex took over. 
Men scrambled to the aid of fallen comrades, and Bergil grabbed Nharadh and 
began hurtling down the stairs with reckless haste as trained instinct prodded 
him to action despite the numbed sense of shock that sang through his soul. 
Descending into the gloom of the open court, Bergil was grateful for the veil 
that kept most of the dust out, and he went quickly to the nearest pair of 
laborers, whom he recognized as Arendil, one of his own men, and Ghed, the 
Haradrim scout with whom he had ridden. Both were digging through brick and 
timber, trying to move enough of it to free two men who lay trapped beneath. But 
though one of the figures cried out in pain, the other lay still. Is he 
unconscious or worse than that? Bergil wondered as he and Nharadh began trying 
to shift a metal beam that had fallen across the sprawled figures.

"If they bleed…." the Haradrim commander muttered, shaking his head as he 
positioned himself across from Bergil. If they bleed… if this bar’s weight is 
what holds blood in... then moving it could kill them instantly! The Gondorrim 
heard that unspoken conclusion clearly, for it had crossed his mind as well. But 
better to go quickly than slowly and painfully, and better to die in a friend’s 
arms than to slowly have the life crushed out of one by a pile of stone. That 
much Bergil was certain of, and he braced himself, glancing over at his friend 
and thence to Arendil and Ghed.

"Ready? Go!" Bergil and Nharadh put their backs into the task and between them 
managed to hoist the beam enough for Arendil to haul one of the injured men 
free. Ghed, though, had more trouble with the other.

"Something else holds him pinned!" the man shouted up at them. "Arendil! See? 
There!" The Gondorrim soldier glanced up from the other and then came quickly to 
Ghed’s aid, digging through the rubble to reach a larger piece of masonry that 
seemed to trap the unconscious victim. Bergil, meanwhile, concentrated on 
carefully moving to one side so that he and Nharadh could set the beam down 
safely.

"We have him… I think we have him!" Ghed called, glancing up at his commander 
and Bergil as he and Arendil began to pull their comrade from the pile of 
debris….

At that moment, a number of things happened, and afterwards, Bergil would spend 
many an hour trying to piece together how precisely he had survived. Lightning 
exploded overhead once more. So close was that strike that Bergil felt his hair 
stand on end, as an odd tingling ran through his body. At the same time, an 
explosion shook the wall behind them, and Bergil was thrown forward into Nharadh 
by the force of that blast. His friend grunted and went down, curling up and 
covering his head as still more stone rained down. Bergil cried out in pain--and 
he was not alone, for many other voices rose in agony or fear--as rock fragments 
pelted him, embedding themselves into his back it seemed. Something struck the 
back of his head, and for an instant, the world went dark ere it spun dizzily 
back into focus again. Beneath him, Nharadh gasped, trying to pull air into his 
body after having had the breath knocked out of him by Bergil. Another lightning 
strike? was Bergil’s first, incredulous thought, as he dragged himself off of 
his friend, crawling painfully ere he managed to straighten up to his knees. 
Shaking his head sharply to clear it, he glanced back at the guard house to 
assess the damage and froze. Where the gates had stood, there was now a gaping 
breach in the wall… and horsemen were streaming through it. Mining sticks, he 
realized dazedly after a long moment’s thought. Of course… just like at Minas 
Tirith and Helm’s Deep! Curse it all, we are wide open!

"Nharadh! Get up!" He clambered over to his companion, ignoring the pain as he 
gripped Nharadh’s shoulders. The other pushed himself up on his elbows, then 
slowly got to all fours. "Up, man! They are already through the breach!"

"Cursed tarks!" the Haradrim snarled, and it was a sign of his disorientation 
that he did not even think to censor that remark. Dragging himself to his feet 
with Bergil’s help, the Haradrim drew his sword, and the two of them turned to 
face their foes just in time. Behind them, Arendil managed to crawl to his feet, 
and came to stand at his commander’s side as the first raiders reached them. But 
however dazed, however shocked, those of Khera fort were first and foremost 
warriors, and instinct was ruthless. With a fierce cry, Nharadh swept his sword 
in a graceful, rising arc that cut the throat of the nearest horse and clanged 
against his opponent’s sword with such force that it unseated him. Bergil ducked 
under a sweeping blow, bringing his blade up flat as if it were a shield, and he 
felt a rider’s weapon strike hard and skitter along the length of his sword 
before deflecting harmlessly. In the mean time, Arendil took advantage of his 
captain’s engagement to put a dagger through the horseman’s eye as he looked 
about for a weapon.

"Arendil!" Bergil snapped, halting his search. "Get as many of the pikemen as 
you can find! Get the men behind them if you can! Nharadh! Let us try to pull 
the others back to the west wall!" Nharadh’s only response was a wordless snarl 
and a nod as he decapitated a downed rider, and then he followed Bergil’s lead. 
Retreat was not so difficult as one might imagine, for in truth, there was no 
other option. And though shaken, the defenders of Khera were not so foolish as 
to rush to open ground, where the riders would have the advantage. Men fell 
back, seeking safety amid the ruin they had cursed only moments ago, and Bergil 
caught a glimpse of a wedge of black and white robes: his own men, most of them 
bearing spears or twisted bits of poles and debris--anything that had more reach 
than a sword and a sharp end. They were forming a shield wall before a mound of 
rubble, and others scrambled to reach them, running, sliding, fighting, falling 
as the raiders pushed onward into the edges of the rubble-strewn zone despite 
the risk to the horses. And if they care not for the horses, then they mean to 
stay! They mean to take this fort and hold it! Bergil thought grimly as he came 
to stand by Arendil, sparing a moment to clap the man on the back, wordless 
praise in spite of the likely futility of the effort. The other offered a brief, 
grim smile ere he turned back to the cavalry that hovered now just twenty yards 
away and gripped tightly the spear that he had grabbed from an opponent.

In that brief lull, Bergil squinted into the fire-lit darkness, keen eyes 
finding patterns in the red light cast by the burning tower on the shields and 
clothing of their assailants. "Nharadh… these are not horse thieves or water 
raiders!"

"I see it!" Nharadh replied grimly, hefting a shield from a fallen soldier. The 
two men glanced at each other in the flickering light. Harad’s colors were red 
and gold, and according to custom, a man would wear the sigils of his house as 
well. Some there were on the other side who were clearly Haradrim--indeed, many 
of the figures who now streamed in on foot were of Harad. But the riders… red on 
black, a serpent marked their gear, and Bergil had no doubt that beneath the 
all-concealing veils, their features were darker even than Nharadh’s or his own 
tanned face. "We guessed too well, but too late!"

With a cry, the Variags of Khand raised their weapons, and the infantry line 
streamed forward, unstoppable as the surf against the shore….

*********

On Haradric: I am making this up as I go along. None of my Haradric is any part 
of Tolkien's world, because I don't think he created that language, though there 
was one hint that I thought might be interesting to pursue (see below). The 
conversations in Haradric are as follows:

"Tarakh ng’ Ehrini. Ahn-Rhat din irigharya!": King's man! May the moon not blind 
us!

"Halota sa": May it be so!

"Zédohshtoia, rho’khor Bergil": May you be well, commander Bergil.

"Ha! Phiri irikarekh!": The storm is upon us!

"Drach ng’oroi!": Get out of the tower!

Further geek note: "tarakh" is my own corruption of "tarkil," i.e., Númenórean, 
Westerner. The orcs wore it down to "tark" and I have the Haradrim use that as a 
derogatory form. Otherwise, they use the full, if altered, form "tarakh" to 
refer generally (and neutrally) to foreigners.

*RotK, p. 155



~~~~



Chapter Five
Into the Storm





"Ruohk hala nhimai!"

The ancient war cry of Harad rose above the winds in a braying mass of strained 
voices, and Bergil shivered as the words swept over and around him. Indeed, he 
suffered a wrenching moment of near total disorientation as he realized that he 
and the other defenders screamed it too, hurling that cry back into the faces of 
his enemies, who were as much Haradrim as his comrades. Valar, this is madness! 
Madness… and worse than that, as coherent thought seemed to drain away before 
the deadly chaos that flowed towards them.

"Ruohk hala nhimai! The horses-- take the horses!" Was that my voice? Bergil 
could not be certain, but if it was not his, then it must have been Nharadh's, 
for the entire tight-huddled mass of Khera's defenders surged forward almost as 
one, making for the Variag line that sat still and isolated…and watching. Just 
watching as the blood began to flow in earnest…. Buffeted by the winds, jostled 
and shouldered by friend as well as foe, Bergil nevertheless felt rage in the 
pit of his stomach at the sight of those horsemen, sitting calmly to oversee the 
butchery of Khera's defenders. Pain flared sharply all along his back and 
shoulders as he deflected strokes, and his arms, jarred with each movement, soon 
went numb… but he did not care. The rage built in strength, consuming him, and 
he pressed onwards almost recklessly, pulling his followers along with him on 
the strength of sheer emotion. Trained instinct guided him through the 
intricately messy dance of battle, and he knew that later his mind would 
remember what he did, but for the moment, there was nothing. Men fell before 
him, fell around him: he saw Arendil scream and stagger beside him. Then there 
was simply a void where he had been, and Bergil knew not whether the man even 
lived… or whether he had ever lived. Flashes of Nharadh as he struggled forward, 
calling encouragement--or curses, it was impossible to say which--reached him, 
and were as swiftly forgotten, so that each movement the other made seemed 
startlingly unforeseen. A Variag horsemen went down with a knife in his throat 
and a familiar, wiry figure clawed its way into the saddle. Ghed was up, and 
then away to deal with another rider. But though Bergil retained an awareness of 
a friendly presence ahorseback, the rider's name swiftly drained from his mind. 
For there was no past, only an unending present that overwrote each moment as it 
groped for the future, obliterating memory.

And then it was his turn. The nearest horse before him reared, obedient to its 
master's command, and Bergil threw himself to one side of the steel-shod hooves 
that lashed out, and he winced as he saw another go down beneath them. Then he 
ducked under the rider's downwards-arcing cut, groping at his belt swiftly. His 
own blade swept up to block the second blow as he moved around, following the 
horse's motion so as not to come within the path of those hooves again. The 
Variag cursed even as his blow swept Bergil's sword aside, and for a heartbeat, 
the two men face each other with naught between them. The rider kicked at him, 
catching the Gondorrim's shoulder painfully, but Bergil threw himself against 
the horse's flank and thrust upward with his left hand. In your honor, my lord 
Legolas! He knew not whence that thought came, but the Elf might well have been 
pleased to learn that craft of his people saved Bergil's life that day. The 
milk-white blade pierced the layers of cloth and metal and went in up to the 
hilt just to one side of the Variag's spine, and Bergil felt another's hand 
clutch at his own weakly. With a snarl, he wrenched his hand from the Variag's 
grip, leaving the blade lodged in the other. He grabbed a fistful of robes and 
armor, and, using the dead man for purchase, he pulled himself into the saddle, 
dislodging the body in the process. Wasting no time, he spurred his mount across 
the short gap to the next rider and the war-horse, well-trained, used its weight 
to knock the other animal to the ground. In an instant, a mass of Gondorrim and 
Haradrim uniforms swarmed over the Variag, and as the horse staggered to its 
feet again, it came up with a new rider. Ghed shouted something gleefully 
obscene and for a moment, Bergil was clear of enemies. Thought flared to life 
again in that brief respite, and with it came pain as well.

For looking back over the field, the destruction was incredible, especially 
given the inequality of the forces that faced each other. There was nothing so 
orderly as a formation, really, unless it were the knots of defenders who fought 
their way forward into range of the horsemen… or else simply fought to buy time, 
to draw off their enemies from those who attacked the horsemen. To make our 
enemies pay as dearly as possible for all of our lives! There was honor in that, 
at least, even if it tore at Bergil's heart, knowing that most of Khera's men 
would not escape. There were four or five now mounted, including himself, and he 
saw Nharadh pull himself into a saddle just then. But that was all, and as the 
ends of the Variag line coalesced into two wedges, he knew there would be no 
more. All who had not found a mount were doomed to remain on foot. If they ran, 
they would never survive the journey north, unless by some miracle their 
attackers did not pursue. Even the few mounted Kherans might not survive, but 
they had to try. Ghed kneed his horse closer to Bergil's, and Nharadh and 
another man joined them as they spurred towards the gates, collecting the 
remaining two horsemen as they fled while the ranks of their own infantry closed 
behind them to try to hold off pursuit. But that still left the Variags before 
them, and Bergil braced himself.

Shrieks came as the horses whinnied and screamed at each other, and Bergil 
caught a glancing blow to the ribs that yet was strong enough to crack bone. But 
the Kheran horsemen were not interested in a prolonged fight, only in breaking 
past their enemies so that they might have a hope of reaching the canyon's 
shelter. From there, they could move north, bringing their message to 
Rhath-Ihnfar and Gondor. And so they did not stop, though one man was knocked 
from his mount by the collision, and another's horse slaughtered. Still, four of 
them came through the ruined gates alive. Bergil cast a quick glance over his 
shoulder, but so much dust was in the air that he could see nothing. Even the 
next rider was a vague, shadowy blur as they rounded the corner of the fort and 
were met by the full force of the storm. Bergil bowed his head, hastily pulling 
the top veil across his face, and he kept an arm up to try to protect his eyes. 
One might live for awhile riding away from such winds, but to ride into them was 
an act of madness… or desperation. But the canyon was not far, and the horses 
must surely remember the way down into it.

His own mount was faltering, however, and Bergil winced in sympathy as the wind 
scoured them both, abrading exposed flesh, tearing at cloth and leather and even 
metal. But to halt was to die, so Bergil kicked the horse in the sides, wishing 
he had spurs, and when that produced but little movement, he brought the flat of 
his blade down hard on its rump. The animal leapt forward again, and after but a 
short time, he felt its gait shift abruptly. He was a good enough rider to shift 
his own weight to aft as they began the steep descent, and after a while, the 
winds became less painful as they dropped below the level of the sand and dust. 
Wiping tearing, grit-smeared eyes, Bergil waited several moments for the sting 
to ease ere he opened them. And then he blinked, just to be certain that he had, 
so thick was the darkness. Did he not feel the ripple of muscle as the horse's 
hooves touched the ground, he would have doubted the earth lay beneath him, and 
it was worse than futile to seek his companions in the darkness. For between the 
howl of the storm and the canyon's unrelieved shadows, he could neither see nor 
hear well enough to know whether any went before or behind him. Effectively 
blind and deaf, Bergil fought a sense of panic at the thought of riding this 
trail with a weary and probably injured horse. He himself knew the path well 
enough, but he knew not where they were along it, and some of the turns were 
narrow and dangerous. But there was no question of turning back, and after a 
moment, he came to a decision. Reining in the horse, he dismounted (to the 
wall-side, rather than risk stepping off the horse and into the void) and moved 
as close to the rock wall as he could.

And so he leaned there against the stones, stroking his suffering mount's nose, 
and shaking fit to collapse. Cracked ribs ached, sent little spasms of pain up 
his side with every ragged breath, and Bergil clenched his teeth to keep them 
from chattering. What is wrong with me? he wondered. It was not as if he had 
never fought a hard battle before, for he had won his spurs at eighteen against 
a horde of desperate, mindlessly shrieking orcs. Since then, he had spent much 
time hunting raiders, and while most would flee, there were always a few bands 
who were willing to fight, being mainly composed of desperate men. Nevertheless, 
he could not seem to stop trembling, and Bergil slowly slid to the ground, 
sitting heavily as he wrapped his arms about himself against a possible chill. 
His back and shoulders throbbed painfully, and he wondered whether he was only 
badly bruised or if he were bleeding as well. Under all the layers of cloth and 
mail, it was hard to tell. Likely that meant he was well enough, or he would 
have felt it by now, and though he could not otherwise explain his current 
woeful state, he did not think that he was in shock.

Unless it were the shock of finding himself caught in a full-fledged war, civil 
and otherwise. And for all that I know now, I am alone, cut off in what must now 
be considered enemy territory. Who knows whether the othe three made it to the 
canyon? Who knows whether the Variags fumble along in pursuit even now? They 
would have to be mad to attempt any such thing, but Bergil was not convinced 
that the Variags were quite sane in any case. If they had failed to gain entry, 
they would swiftly have been lost to the storm! Mine-sticks are not always 
reliable, especially in a draft, or so I am told. Why would they choose tonight? 
And have other forts been attacked? Such questions could not be answered from 
his present position, and conscience sank its fangs into his soul. I could be 
the only one left of us to bring the message north. I should not just sit here, 
surely! But however loud the voice of half-panicked self-recrimination, Bergil's 
common sense knew that his own judgment was suspect. In his state, he was more a 
danger to himself than even the Variags were, and if he tried to move in this 
darkness, he would likely be lost. And then where would we be? Flashes of memory 
of the battle at Khera tormented him, and he grit his teeth as he watched 
Arendil fall all over again. Someone must get word to the north, or all their 
deaths shall mean naught! It was his best defense against the prickings of his 
conscience, and he clung to it while above him the storm raged, and the hours of 
the night waned slowly away.

 

***

"What see you, Legolas?"

The Elf shifted slightly but did not turn at the sound of his companion's voice, 
for he had heard the lord steward's approach long beforehand. And although 
Beregond said naught to announce himself, Legolas knew that he trailed in his 
lord's wake, holding back a few paces out of courtesy. Mablung lurked nearby as 
well, though at a more reasonable ten yards, for the Ranger's quarry was not the 
steward but Legolas himself. The Captain of Ithilien's Rangers had been quite 
blunt about his purposes, and utterly unapologetic as well. "My lord Faramir has 
ordered me to keep watch on you, lord prince. And though I doubt not that you 
could elude me if you wished to do so, I must ask that you not try to escape me 
or my men. Since you have offered your aid to the steward, Beregond and I have 
manipulated the guard roster to include you as well. But when you are not on 
duty, you become my charge. Mine, or that of whomever I assign the task. Do not 
complicate matters for us, lord prince!" Legolas could remember a handful of 
instances when another had dared to take such a tone with the Prince of 
Mirkwood, and save only for one exchange with Aragorn, a mortal had never dared 
to speak to him thus. Well, except for Gimli, but that hardly counts! Gimli was 
a law unto himself, after all, as was Aragorn, when the prince thought about it. 
And it seems that Mablung may be another such singular individual. Legolas had 
considered the other long enough to make the Ranger shift uncomfortably, but in 
the end he had relented and given his word. Satisfied, Mablung had bowed and 
left, and since then, he had not mentioned their conversation. But he needed no 
reminder other than his presence, or the presence of other brown-clad shadows 
who hovered ever within sight.

Now, Faramir came to stand at his side and gaze out over the ramparts of Mharosh 
at the southern sky. The moon rode low in the sky, brilliant in its full-faced 
splendor, but in the south, the horizon was utterly dark where the stars shone 
not. And there is something there…. "Legolas?" Faramir prompted, cocking his 
head at him.

"There is a storm brewing in the south. I can see the lightning," Legolas 
replied softly. "A cloud dims the edges of some of the stars, if you look just 
there." The Elf pointed, and the steward's eyes narrowed. After a time, he shook 
his head in surrender.

"Among Men, I am accounted far-sighted, but this is too far distant for me. It 
must be a great storm, though, for even an Elf might not notice it."

"A very great storm indeed," Legolas replied. "I should not like to be out in 
it." Faramir grunted and folded his arms across his chest, waiting in silence. 
Legolas continued to stare south for some minutes, ere finally he turned to the 
other and proffered a smile for the other's patience. "'Tis but a storm, 
Faramir. My uneasiness has some other source, but as of yet, I cannot discern 
it."

"And mine has too many roots to trace!" Faramir murmured, turning his eyes back 
to the city below.

"Many roots, yet they nourish one tree, my friend. We shall discover what lies 
beneath all of this, rest assured. What said lord Azhon after I left?" Legolas 
inquired. Lord Azhon had greeted the Elf civilly enough, but it was clear that 
he was not comfortable in his presence, and Legolas had excused himself from the 
meeting at the earliest opportunity.

"Naught of great import or novelty. He and I have spoken in the past, and I know 
him well if mostly by reputation." Faramir gave a low bark of laughter. "He was 
ever involved in smuggling, and my men often clashed with his when I served in 
Ithlien under my father's aegis."

"A pity I missed this conversation then," the Elf replied with a smile.

"It can be dull indeed to listen to a meeting between old… 'acquaintances.' And 
truly, lord Azhon remains primarily concerned with trade of all sorts, though I 
believe he smuggles further to the south these days," Faramir shrugged slightly. 
"He is not a politician, save only in matters concerning trade and the making of 
a profit."

"Would that not make him a valuable informant, though, since he must surely know 
who speaks to whom and who allies with whom?" Legolas asked.

"It would, and as he has no trouble sharing such things with one who seeks not 
to rival him in trade, the fact that he had nothing of interest to tell seems to 
me significant."

"The Haradrim grow discreet, it would appear," the Elf said.

"Say rather 'more discreet,' and more's the pity for we who must uncover their 
plots!" Faramir sighed, staring sightlessly at the lamps in the streets below. 
After a moment, though, he spoke again, and now his voice was grown firm, as if 
he had reached some inner resolution. "Nay, Azhon knows naught. He is the sort 
of man who delights when others know of his cleverness, and so even though he 
may betray nothing specific, it is never a secret that he keeps secrets. So, we 
look elsewhere and hope that my questions have stirred Azhon's curiosity enough 
to make him useful to us."

"What did you promise him?"

"Naught but my fond remembrance," Faramir replied, raising a brow at the Elf. "I 
am but the steward of Gondor, not the king, after all. I am not here to grant 
favors!" Legolas shook his fair head and laughed softly.

"Boromir never said aught of his brother's sense of humor. And your men worry 
that I may cause them trouble!"

"Boromir was more guarded in his revelations than many gave him credit for 
being," Faramir replied, and to the elf, it seemed that his tone was darkened by 
a flash of pain…. Of anguish, Legolas realized, both surprised and disturbed by 
this. Though he knew well that Faramir had loved his brother, such violent 
regret seemed to him out of place, somehow, and he wondered at it. But there 
were other matters that deserved more attention than a dead man, and so Legolas 
let the moment pass unremarked. Let Boromir rest, as Faramir said, for he 
deserves his peace. It came at a high enough price, after all! the prince 
thought, remembering the bold warrior whose stubborn sense of honor had led him 
at last to an end beneath the trees of Parth Galen. And for an instant, as he 
gazed at Boromir's younger brother, it was not Boromir who lay dying in his 
memory, but Faramir. A chill swept through the Elf, and green eyes darkened 
suddenly, causing the steward to look askance at him.

"Legolas? What is it?"

"Nothing I may speak of now," the Elf replied after a minute hesitation. 
"Perhaps some other time, if I believe it merits it. But let us go in, Faramir, 
for there is naught more to see here." And inside, it may be safer for you, for 
there are fewer sight-lines! the Elf carefully did not add. Faramir gave him an 
odd look anyway, for it was not like the prince to suggest that they go indoors, 
but he acquiesced without question. With Beregond and Mablung following, they 
left the heights and returned to the room that they shared. And though they 
spoke no more of Boromir, nor of any matter pertaining to their journey, the 
chill that had worked its way so swiftly into Legolas' heart refused to leave.

***

Nharadh groaned softly as he levered himself off of the ground and limped 
towards his horse. The cut on his thigh was not deep, but it was long and 
painful, and he could not remember how he had gotten it. Not that it mattered 
overmuch, given the choir of protests that his abused body raised. Bruises, 
assorted nicks, and abrasions from the merciless, flaying winds all ached and 
stang with every movement, but Nharadh gritted his teeth and ignored the 
discomfort. It was still dark, but the storm had blown over and that meant it 
was no longer safe to tarry on the trail. The Variags would pursue, and Nharadh 
did not know what had become of the other three escapes of Khera. Which 
ignorance he cursed bitterly, for if he but knew that even one other had a 
worthwhile chance to bring the news north, he might have been free to remain 
behind. Although tradition was by no means iron clad, and 'honor' was understood 
differently in Harad than in Gondor anyways, it was generally held that a 
Haradrim commander stayed with his company to the bitter end, unless other, 
overriding considerations made that impossible. And although carrying news of 
the outbreak of war certainly met those conditions, Nharadh had never thought to 
have to make so terrible a choice, and it tore at his heart to turn his back on 
his people. But I must! Otherwise, their honor shall have been in vain! With a 
final sigh, and a darkly longing look cast back over his shoulder, the young 
Haradrim wound the reins round his left hand and tugged firmly.

Obediently, the animal began to move, though it listed to one side, and Nharadh 
grimaced slightly. The war stallion had picked up a rock in the debris, and 
though he had managed by feel alone to dig it out as he sat on the trail, the 
damage had already been done. I shall go faster on foot, doubtless. But for a 
time, at least, we go together. Once I reach shelter, however, we shall part 
ways, we two. For the moment, however, he and his steed were doomed to hobble 
along as best they could, and it amused Nharadh, in a darkly morbid way, that 
they limped to opposite sides, so that their uneven gaits balanced each other 
out. The moon's light was pale and faded swiftly as the silver orb sank 
downward, and Nharadh shivered slightly, feeling as though he followed the moon 
into the cavernous depths that (according to legend) had housed it once. Spurred 
by a sudden and rather inexplicable sense of dread, he quickened his pace, 
praying that he would not trip and turn an ankle, or plunge headlong over the 
edge of the narrow trail. The Variags must have moved quite far up the path ere 
ever the storm struck, or they would have lost too many men to such accidents. 
Bless that storm!

He had limped along for perhaps half a mile when the horse whiffled, and drew up 
short, causing Nharadh to frown. What does he smell, I wonder? It was too dark 
for him to make out very much, but he knew where he stood now: at a bend as the 
trail curved back to follow the repanded edge of the canyon wall. What lies 
beyond that bend, where I cannot see it? As quietly as he could, he drew his 
sword and, freeing himself of the reins, continued forward alone. For he deemed 
it a greater peril to have a frightened, lamed horse at his back than to proceed 
on his own. At least he knew there was nothing behind him that was close enough 
to present a danger. Senses alert, he crept slowly downward, wishing that his 
injured right leg gave him less trouble, for every shifting pebble seemed 
terribly loud to him….

Something swished in the darkness. Nharadh turned swiftly towards the sound, 
sword raised. Leather and metal creaked and chimed, and the Haradrim snapped, 
"Hold!" All movements ceased in an instant, which might be a hopeful sign. "Who 
goes there?"

A soft sigh came back, and then, "Valar help you, Nharadh, I would have slain 
you!"

"Bergil?" Nharadh demanded, incredulous but unable to doubt his own ears. "Are 
you hurt?"

"Who was not?" the other replied dismissively. "I can walk and ride still, and 
that is all that matters for the moment. So we two have escaped. I know not of 
any others, but I have not come very far, I fear. I… it was dark," the other 
finished lamely, seeming somewhat embarrassed.

"I only began walking again once the storm had ended," Nharadh confessed. "Stay 
here! I shall return in a moment." Relieved, Nharadh climbed as quickly as he 
could back up to where his horse stood, and then began leading it down to where 
Bergil was, carefully feeling his way forward with one hand on the rock wall.

"How much further 'til we reach the floor, do you think?" Bergil asked when he 
rejoined him.

"If we continue walking, we should reach it soon enough. Come! I know the way 
well enough from here, for I got a glimpse of my surroundings ere the moon set."

"I must have been too far down for its light to reach me," Bergil muttered, but 
he obeyed, leading his horse with his left hand, and keeping a hand on the rump 
of Nharadh's mount for guidance. So he felt the animal's painful limp, and 
asked, "What happened to the horse?"

"He caught a stone ere he left Khera, but I was able to remove it. Alas, fortune 
is niggling in her favors of late, for though this fine fellow shall recover 
eventually, he shall do me no good now." With that, they both fell silent, 
unwilling to give their positions away by their chatter, though doubtless, if 
any followed them or lay before them, they could trace them by the sound of 
their painful descent.

Perhaps an hour's nerve-wracking climb later, Nharadh let out the breath he had 
been holding in an inaudible sigh of relief as he set foot upon flat ground at 
last. Welcome to the cavern of the moon! the trite phrase washed round his 
mouth, but he refused to break his silence quite yet. Not until we have reached 
shelter. Mayhap not even until the sun rises…. Nharadh gritted his teeth against 
his own aching muscles, and the burning of cuts and sand-abraded flesh. Behind 
him, Bergil's steps faltered a bit, as if the other had stumbled, and his 
breathing sounded jerky and painful. So you can walk, can you my friend? he 
thought dryly. From the sound of it, Bergil might well have broken ribs, and 
Nharadh hoped that the damage was not too bad. If the bones pierced his lungs, 
then there is naught I can do for him, for I have not the training for that! And 
though he was ashamed to admit it, a part of him wanted Bergil to be well enough 
just so that he could send the other on in his stead. Well… we shall see. He 
seems to be able to keep pace for the moment. Once we stop for the day, we shall 
see what has been done to him.

Morning came not to the depths of the canyon, however, for the rays of the sun 
did not reach the floor, and all remained in shadows. But there were other 
senses besides sight, and the desert-born or -trained learned to rely upon them, 
so as to know when they ought to seek shelter. To Nharadh, the most evident 
change was in the air, which acquired a sharp, almost metallic scent; and 
although the desert was generally a quiet place, the stillness became absolute 
as all wise creatures sought the comfort of their nests. As shall we! Nharadh 
thought, turning at last aside beneath a slight overhang. Behind a few boulders, 
and well-hidden from casual observation lay a low-roofed cave, and Nharadh 
guided his mount inside, pressing the horse's head down. Fortunately, the 
ceiling was just high enough that he had no need to stoop, and when they were 
perhaps thirty paces in, he stopped and sighed softly. Fumbling in his 
belt-pouch, he produced matches, a vial, and a shallow dish, which he set down. 
Pouring the contents of the vial into the dish, he then lit a match and dropped 
it into the oil, which quickly caught and burned brightly, revealing the 
exhausted face of his companion. From the look on Bergil's face, he decided he 
must look little better, but he gestured for the other to come and sit before 
him. With a grunt, the other let himself down heavily, wincing slightly. But he 
still raised a disapproving brow at the sight of the bandages wrapped round 
Nharadh's leg and left hand. "What happened there?"

"Wrong end of a saber," the Haradrim replied, holding up his hand, and then 
shrugged, "As for the other, I know not! But both are shallow--scratches, 
really. But I like not the sound of your breathing, my friend. Let us see what 
has been done to you!"

"I think my ribs are cracked, but it is not too bad," Bergil replied in feeble 
protest as Nharadh reached across and unbuckled the clasp of his cloak.

"Then let us make certain. Come, I have one good hand to my name, so help me now 
and undress yourself," Nharadh chided. "I am not your mother!"

"Valar be thanked!" Bergil muttered under his breath as he obeyed. It was easier 
said than done, however, because every movement hurt, and Nharadh did have to 
help him with the chain mail that he wore under everything else. The Haradrim 
grimaced slightly as he probed at the bruised area on Bergil's left side, and 
the other sucked in a breath, tensing.

"Where you struck by a shield?"

"I think it was the spine of a saber," Bergil replied tautly.

"How fortunate it was not a double-edged weapon, then, or I fear you would be 
far beyond my help. Does aught else trouble you?" And when the Gondorrim's eyes 
flicked briefly away, Nharadh narrowed his eyes. "This is no matter for jest or 
needless valor, my friend. If you are hurt, you must tell me!"

"My back," Bergil admitted.

"Turn around then, and let me see," the Haradrim ordered. With manifest 
reluctance, the other obeyed, and this time, Nharadh uttered a curse. "Gebe 
Annataru, what happened?" For the pale skin of the other's back was marred by 
livid purple bruises that covered him from waist to shoulders, and in places 
there were cuts. Not the relatively clean cuts that came of edged weapons, but 
abraded puncture wounds where something had driven the mail links through the 
thin leather lining and into Bergil's flesh.

"When the blast destroyed the wall, I was struck by some of the debris," Bergil 
replied through clenched teeth. "The force of it threw me against you."

"Then you likely saved my life," Nharadh murmured, feeling as gently as he could 
along Bergil's spine, hoping to feel nothing resembling a break or a fracture. 
The Gondorrim shivered at his touch, fighting to hold still, and Nharadh shook 
his head. "You should have spoken sooner! I would have stopped had I realized 
how much pain you were in!"

"Nay, you were right to push onward, for we dare not be found by either the sun 
or our enemies," Bergil countered, trying not to be too obvious in his relief 
when he heard the other rise and go to search in their saddlebags for medicinal 
supplies.

"Be that as it may, my friend, I have seen men stoned who looked not half so 
bad: one good blow to the head ends all. I marvel that none of those rocks broke 
your spine! Truly, you must be fortune's favorite tonight."

"Say not so, for she is a fickle mistress, and if she hears you say such things, 
she shall turn her back on me soon enough."

"I think, Bergil, that you have used your luck already, so my saying so changes 
naught. Hold still if you can."

It seemed to take Nharadh an eternity to clean out the cuts and the pressure of 
the bandages for his ribs did nothing to ease the pain in his back. 
Nevertheless, they did help ease his breathing, and Bergil endured all in 
silence, though afterwards he was exhausted. "Thank you," he managed, as he 
painfully pulled his clothes back on, and Nharadh shook his head.

"When you reach the next town, assuming that it has not been seized by rebels, 
then you must see one whose skill in healing is greater than my own," the 
Haradrim said, offering a crooked smile. "I was taught many ways to kill and 
wound a man, but very little in the way of soothing the hurts that I can 
inflict."

"I shall… when there is time," Bergil replied, and was weary enough that he did 
not remark that Nharadh said 'you' and not 'we.' "I wonder, though, how soon 
they shall move on, or if they wait now for reinforcements. It seemed to me that 
they had only enough men to take and hold Khera."

"And seek for escapes, of course," Nharadh added grimly. "But I think that you 
are right. There must be others, and they must have some plan other than to sit 
and wait for a stronger force to come south and crush them. We may need to move 
soon and swiftly, even during daylight at times. Best that I see to our horses, 
then, while you rest."

"I can help you," the other said, making as if to rise.

"Nay, you shall not! Lie down and rest, Bergil."

"Are you certain…?"

"Lie down, or I may hit you with a rock for lack of a more elegant solution!" 
Which threat only elicited a pained chuckle.

"You are no physician, Nharadh!"

"I never claimed to be one. Now rest! I shall keep watch for a time." To his 
relief, Bergil obeyed, curling up on his right side, where the bruising was less 
severe. And while Nharadh did his best to treat the horses, who had patches of 
raw skin where the sand-laden wind had struck most forcefully, Bergil drifted 
off into an uneasy slumber. The Haradrim paused in his ministrations to listen 
for a time, and then gave a sharp, contented nod, for the other's breathing 
seemed untroubled. Good, he thought, as he smeared ointment on the horse's torn 
hide. He shall be able to travel, then, without endangering his life. That is a 
relief indeed. For I shall not be there to help him….

******

Ruohk hala nhimai!-- Here stands honor.

Gebe Annataru!-- Sauron's bones!

A/N: Thank you Thundera Tiger for the suggestions regarding the pacing. I think 
switching the sections a bit helped here.

 


 ~~~~~~



Chapter Six
Dark Night of the Soul




 April finally delivered of its promise and drenched Gondor with its traditional 
showers. The morning was wet, and the clouds hung low in the sky as the wind 
fairly moaned in sympathy for their rain-swollen weight. Below in the city, the 
streets were well-nigh empty as all sought the comfort and warmth of home or 
tavern. But work did not cease entirely, and particularly not in the tower of 
Ecthelion. In the king's study, which lay just off of the royal chambers, Arwen 
stood staring at a map that had come to occupy the desk closest to the fire's 
light, and her eyes wandered over the notes and markers that she and her 
husband had spread over it. Some of those notes significantly predated others, 
going back almost fifty years, and she traced the handwriting with a smile.

Aragorn's work, this, the product of his extensive travels and a prodigious 
memory for detail and intrigue. Not to mention an opportunistic mind and quick 
hands to 'borrow' the map from an unwitting Haradrim scholar who had not missed 
it soon enough. Indirkan, when he had learned of the theft several years ago, 
had been caught between appalled admiration and disbelief. In the end, the 
Haradrim had shaken his head and said, "Orodruin's fires, could you have stolen 
something less useful to you? Desert wanderers take water, not parchment!" 
Aragorn's excuse--that at the time, there had been no useful maps of the deep 
reaches of Harad in the West--had earned naught but a dismissive grunt. The 
Haradrim had said nothing further about the incident ere his return to his 
homeland, leaving Aragorn to wonder whether he had committed a greater sin than 
even he had realized. That had seemed for a while to be the end of the matter, 
but within a month, a courier in Rhanion's livery had arrived with a gift: a 
beautifully drawn and much more detailed map of Far Harad, given with Indirkan's 
compliments to a deserving thief!

Indirkan's map now graced the war room's walls, and many were the councilors who 
had stood before it of late, contemplating what might pass within the deep 
desert. But the original map remained in Aragorn's possession, and although 
there was naught new to be gleaned from it, she had spent much of the morning 
staring at it as she sought answers to her questions. Bhor'tarat… Ya'dyahnhir… 
Rhadi… Urudai… Eight houses and a perfectly closed figure… a perfect balance, in 
theory. The names of those Eight hung in her mind, clear as the streaks of rain 
that decked the window, each name anchored by ties to other houses, major and 
minor, and to Gondor and (probably) Khand. Before her upon the map's surface 
were markers for each, and as she moved them about, the ties that her mind 
imposed upon them changed, creating shifting patterns like a drunken spider 
weaving crazily in the night. Unfortunately, patterns that made no sense were 
unlikely to be the basis for political insurrection. What is it that I do not 
see? she wondered, frowning slightly. Something is lacking, yet I cannot say 
what. Not yet….

The door opened and shut quietly, and though she knew quite well who it was, she 
did not glance up, unwilling to interrupt her concentration. Nevertheless, a 
part of her mind marked the slap of wet cloth against stone as the other spread 
a cloak to dry on the mantel, and the fire hissed as sleeves were wrung out over 
it. At length, the other came to stand at her side and joined her in staring 
down at the map, but he maintained his silence, recognizing the peculiarly 
elvish quality of her meditative concentration. Finally, however, she gave a 
soft sigh, abandoning the effort. "Heavy thoughts?" Aragorn inquired, running a 
hand through rain-slick hair.

"There is no balance in this," she replied, pursing her lips slightly. "I can 
find nothing in what we know that will balance Harad's ruling houses."

"I do not slight your efforts, my dear, but you have known this for long," 
Aragorn said gently, and with an air of concerned puzzlement. "Why, then, return 
to this map and a futile exercise, love?"

Arwen said naught for a moment, debating the wisdom of a full explanation. After 
all, so uncertain a feeling helps us not at all, and may serve only to distract 
him, she thought. That they could scarcely afford, but on the other hand, 
Aragorn was not one to let himself be led astray easily, be it by human wile or 
elvish intuition. And so, after a lengthy pause, she replied, "I cannot say with 
certainty, beloved, but it seemed to me last night that some warning touched my 
mind." And at the look of sharp interest that her husband turned upon her, she 
made haste to add, "Seemed, I say, for 'twas very brief and faint. It could be 
naught but my own fears making themselves felt as sleep took hold. I fear I 
dream no longer as an Elf, you know."

"I know," Aragorn replied in a low voice. It had been one of the more unsettling 
changes that Arwen had undergone, and the most telling sign of her renunciation 
of immortality. Especially as Harad's first civil war had approached, the pair 
had suffered through those last nights ere his departure as Arwen had endured 
her first nightmares. Three millennia of peaceful dreaming had left her utterly 
unprepared to deal with the images that the unconscious human mind crafted, and 
for all that she slept now the sleep of mortals, she was still elvish enough 
that her dreams were much sharper, more vivid, more terrifyingly real, than any 
that a human might have. Unsurprisingly her husband remembered well those 
nights, but as Aragorn cocked his head to peer at her with worried eyes, Arwen 
smiled reassuringly.

"I am quite well, Estel. You need not fear for me," she said, catching hold of 
his hand and bringing it to her lips. Aragorn chuckled at the gesture, but 
clearly was much relieved as he leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the mouth.

"Then I shall not. Should this feeling wax, though…."

"You shall know of it. But," she added sternly, changing the subject as her eyes 
flicked over his dripping person, "I do wonder whether I ought not to worry over 
you. An Elf may find the rain to be little trouble, but Men may sicken when 
exposed to the damp and cold, love."

"After the many winters spent camping in the wild, in cold and wet far worse 
than this, a springtime shower is unlikely to trouble a Ranger overmuch," 
Aragorn replied with dry humor. Which might be the only dry thing about him this 
morning! Arwen thought, noting in spite of that that her husband took care not 
to drip on the paperwork.

"I marked when you left: the sun was still an hour short of rising, and since 
then she has wandered a leisurely three hours above the clouds. Surely the 
weather merits a shorter ride, at least, rather than a longer one."

"The weather troubles me little, but since I know well the opinions of others on 
rain, I felt that no one would miss me if I left an hour earlier."

"I would feel for your guards, but that I had to placate them already this 
morning after they realized that you had slipped past them again," Arwen gave a 
long-suffering sigh and shook her head.

"I think we have had this argument before," her husband responded, quirking an 
eyebrow at her.

"We have, several times, and doubtless we shall again since you are so 
thoroughly incorrigible, love," Arwen said sweetly, and drew forth a short 
laugh.

"I would contest that judgment, my lady Úndomiel, but that if I must face the 
council thus, I think they shall look to depose me and find another, less 
disreputable soul to take my place," Aragorn replied, sketching her a bow that 
did not conceal the rakish grin.

"Doubtless that is so. Lord Dírthandar might well suggest it anyway, since he 
could not find you this morning."

"Dírthandar?" Aragorn looked up with a skeptical expression. "He never seeks me 
before noon, short of a council session. And sometimes even then he is late!"

"Wonders occasionally happen. Also, Khet, who has assumed, for the moment, 
Indirkan's role, wished to speak with you this morning," Arwen informed him.

"Did he give any indication as to the matter?"

"You know the way of the Haradrim around women, love!" And Aragorn, with an 
audible sigh, nodded.

"I do at that! And I know their skittish ways around Elves, as well. It cannot 
be helped now, but I shall make a point to seek him out later. As for lord 
Dírthandar, son of Mirhal, if he would speak with me, then he can join me on my 
outings or else learn my schedule!"

"Bold words, King of Gondor, but best that you learn to follow your schedule, 
then. The session begins in a quarter hour! Get you gone and make yourself 
presentable," Arwen ordered, exasperated but also amused as her husband, 
chuckling to himself, obeyed. He may wear the crown, but that star brooch 
remains nearest the heart, and always shall I think. For several moments, she 
stared sightlessly after him, and her mind was filled with memories of the 
irretrievable past. I never thought to love him when first we met. And yet, 
despite nigh thirty years' absence, I could not forget him, nor cease to dwell 
upon our few brief meetings. No Elf are you, Estel, but you have your share of 
wanderlust, and perhaps that is akin to the sea-call of the Elves, I know not! 
After a short time, she shook her head and made herself focus once more upon the 
present. For before them lay another war, and who knew how long it might last? 
Another war… more doubt and uncertainty for Gondor! Arwen closed her eyes as 
memories of last night's love brought with them thoughts of Liríel and 
Halareth--two young girls on whom all of Gondor's hopes now rested should the 
unthinkable come to pass--and she felt the familiar bite of fear and guilt 
unwarranted. At least Aragorn assures me 'tis unwarranted, but we have no son. 
And although I am mortal now, I was not raised thus and still I find the 
condition… frustrating… unsettling….

Arwen forced herself to abandon that train of thought ere it truly began, and 
she drew herself up. It was past time that she went to collect Liríel for this 
session, and Aragorn hardly needed her supervision. We need focus most in such 
times as these, she thought. Let us hope that the legacy of Gondorrim vigilance 
has not been swiftly forgotten!

***

Indirkan grit his teeth as he swung out of the saddle, and while others milled 
about, he took the opportunity to stretch. Vigorous though he was, he was still 
the oldest member of this company (excluding the Elf, of course), and as he had 
not Aragorn's longevity, his body protested its abuse. Faramir was pushing the 
pace, for they had lost time waiting for him beyond Poros, and the Steward of 
Gondor knew with precision the leagues that lay between Mharosh and 
Rhath-Ihnfar. Fortunately, he knew also that men and horses would ride the 
longer and swifter for a brief rest, and Indirkan gratefully leaned against his 
mount, unobtrusively kneading the stiff and sore muscles of his back. At least 
the heat of the ground helps during the day! he thought.

"May I be of assistance?" a lilting voice, soft as a summer's breeze in Gondor, 
murmured at his shoulder, and Indirkan waited an anxious few seconds to be 
certain that indeed, his heart had not seized, ere he cast a glance back at the 
elven prince.

"Please!" Indirkan was not one to complain overmuch, and in his youth his had 
been a very pricklish pride, but age brought with it the wisdom to accept help 
gracefully when it was discreetly offered. Legolas' deft fingers played over his 
aching back with a musician's consummate skill, and the ambassador hissed softly 
as the other found knots that even he had not realized existed. Probably because 
one reaches a threshold of pain, and can no longer distinguish between levels of 
it! he decided.

"Tell me somewhat of the lords of Harad, for I would fix certain of them in my 
mind ere I meet them," the Elf said nonchalantly.

"Have you never met one before?"

"None save you, though I have seen some at a distance during festivals at Minas 
Tirith. But I have never been introduced."

"A wise decision on Aragorn's part, I fear," Indirkan muttered, and added 
quickly, "Meaning no offense to you, my lord prince."

"None taken, for I understand that the Haradrim are wary of Elves. The queen 
complains that they are uneasy in her presence, even, and says that her brothers 
quite intimidated most of your staff."

"Those two rogues…!" Indirkan growled and shook his head in the darkness, biting 
off the rest of that sentence. The lords Elrohir and Elladan had intimidated 
him, and of all his people he was by far the easiest about the Eldar race. "Yes, 
well, that is so. We of Harad know little of Elves, and what we do know--or at 
least, what we have always been told--does not incline us favorably towards your 
people, I fear. Were I you, my lord, I should wear my hair long and loose from 
now on to cover the tell-tales and keep my mouth shut until it became evident 
that they knew my bloodlines."

"Then I shall follow your advice, though there are other ways to tell an Elf, 
after all!" Legolas replied, chuckling in the darkness. "But come, you were to 
tell me something of these lords whom I am to watch."

"The first thing you must understand, then, is that we have no king. Nor have we 
a steward, nor any other final arbiter among the great. There is only the 
Council of Eight, and that body governs all. No one lord stands first before 
others, and none stand last when it comes to a vote or the enforcement of 
decrees."

"But?" Legolas prompted.

"But," Indirkan replied, smiling slightly as he felt muscles begin to ease under 
the Elf's ministrations. "The ideal is not the reality. The longer a lord has 
served, the greater his influence within the Eight. But a newcomer may gain much 
from having a powerful family name to fall back upon, or some other resource 
that is badly needed. This much is basic to all dealings between peoples, and I 
doubt not that it is so among the Elves." Legolas gave a non-committal grunt at 
that and by his silence urged the other to continue. "But there are other 
factors as well, and we esteem one who, by his cleverness, protects his own 
while managing at the same time to avoid both winning and losing as one might 
say in the West."

"Do you say that your people value a stalemate?"

"Nay, that we value equilibrium. That the terms of success are different among 
us than they are among the nations of the west. Your people seek a clear 
victory, where a Haradrim seeks just enough to sustain his own without inviting 
future vengeance from his neighbors. Again, though, this is the ideal, and few 
are they who have the skill to achieve ideal results. This is why Harad is a 
dangerous place for a novice, and why I am glad that Aragorn has sent Lord 
Faramir as his herald."

"I hope that you shall have so high an opinion of me by the time this ends," 
said a new voice, and both Elf and Man looked left to see Faramir standing there 
in the moonlight. The Prince of Ithilien gestured minutely with a raised 
forefinger for Indirkan to continue, saying, "Please, do not let me interrupt!"

"Very well, then. In all of this, you will wish to keep your elvish eyes fast 
upon two in particular," Indirkan replied, continuing to address Legolas. "Lord 
Mhinad of Bhor'tarat house and Lord Dharu of Ya'dyahnhir. Of the others, Lord 
Intahr of Urudai house is the most powerful influence, but he has not the same 
standing as Lord Dharu. Should aught happen, I would imagine that the first blow 
would be against him, and so his position on the Council is the more precarious 
for its prominence. This he knows, and so he has sought to make himself valuable 
to those most likely to act against him. Lord Mhinad is one of only two lords 
whose holdings lie in Far Harad, and so his position is well-known. When war 
comes, he shall break the council in order to govern his own. I think he would 
be dead but that there are no other southern lords willing to take his place, 
and Ghoradi has already withdrawn unofficially from the council."

"Seven* lords," the Elf sighed, as if in pitying resignation, and Indirkan 
frowned as he saw Faramir bite back a smile. Whatever amused the prince, he kept 
it to himself, and Legolas, in a display of elvish agility, returned to the 
matter at hand as if that brief interlude had never occurred. "So," the Elf 
continued smoothly, in a thoughtful voice, "in a sense, we need not worry 
overmuch, since Mhinad's position is declared and understood." It was not truly 
a question, but Indirkan nodded confirmation anyway.

"Precisely. He has no need of subtlety in that respect, so look for threats of a 
more obvious nature, should he feel the need to make any."

"And what of Lord Dharu?" Legolas asked.

"That one would steal an Elf's song if he could," Indirkan replied, darkly. "His 
house has a long history of service, and a reputation for sly politics."

"I have met Lord Dharu before," Faramir interjected. "And while I agree that he 
is certainly a force to be reckoned with, he does not strike me as an illogical 
man. What would he gain by playing a double game? The current arrangement seems 
to favor him, after all."

"Because his is a wealthy house, and his people prosper compared to others?" And 
at Faramir's nod, Indirkan laughed softly. "My lord, you and Lord Dharu have 
much in common, but it remains to be seen whose political idealism eclipses his 
judgment first. Dharu is not simply a politician, he is an artist, and were 
there any way to be certain of him, I should count him an ally. But as his aims 
remain unclear, we must count him an enemy. Therefore be wary still!"

"An artist, you say?" Legolas spoke then, hoping to cover over Faramir's 
momentary discomfiture over the comparison. "That at least an Elf has some 
knowledge of, and perhaps it may help me to see better where lies the danger he 
represents. Already, he distracts attention from Bhor'tarat and Ghoradi, whom we 
know will break… or have broken, in Ghoradi's case… with the Eight."

"Now you begin to see why we must tread softly in Harad, even while making our 
presence felt," Indirkan replied as Legolas stepped back from him. The old man 
glanced from Faramir to the Elf, and said, "Dharu has done naught that would 
merit censure, yet he does not hold with Intahr's faction. Whether intentionally 
or otherwise, he shields Ghoradi and Bhor'tarat from the worst scrutiny, which 
would seem to argue against his innocence since so experienced a politician 
cannot be ignorant of the effect he has. But whether friend or foe, assuming his 
house survives this war, we shall have to deal with Ya'dyahnhir. And so we must 
be cautious not to alienate him while we know not his intentions."

"And while we are ignorant, we are vulnerable. 'Tis the uncertainty that shall 
kill us, if naught else does!" Faramir said darkly, and Indirkan nodded 
reluctantly. For a moment, the three stood silent, each wrapped in his own 
thoughts. Eventually, though, Faramir sighed and glanced about at the others of 
the escort.

"I value your advice, Lord Indirkan, and I shall bear all that you say in mind. 
But for the moment, I think it best we get underway again, the sooner to test 
your words against their proper objects!" Faramir raised a hand, and called to 
the others, "Mount up!" Credit to them, there were no curses or muttering in the 
escort, but given its composition, one would not expect such complaints. Mablung 
would have had the hide of any Ranger who made an audible peep, and Beregond was 
not known to promote the faint of heart to the White Guard.

And as Indirkan climbed once more into the saddle, he kneed his horse nearer 
Legolas' steed and murmured, "My thanks, Prince Legolas."

"None needed," the Elf replied graciously and flashed him a grin in the 
moonlight. "I am always mindful of my elders!" And while Indirkan spluttered at 
that comment, the prince laughed and said a word to his horse, which darted 
forward, easily moving up the ranks to join Faramir at the forefront. Elves! One 
moment they are serious as a summer's day, the next they are as children with a 
secret! Indirkan thought, and shook his head as he snapped the reigns and 
spurred his mount forward. Was it his imagination, or did the ring upon his 
finger sparkle the brighter as he thought it? No time for wonder, he told 
himself. The night is but half over. Yet he felt himself less resigned to the 
notion than he had before. Mayhap I do need to laugh more often. And though I 
fear to inflict him on the somber dignitaries of Hradar, Legolas may, by his 
very laughter, prove more confounding than all our cunning! That would be a 
sight to see, and the ambassador felt his lips twitch against his restraint at 
the mental image of Dharu standing dumbfounded before the Elf. Yes… a sight to 
see indeed!

***

Ancient and venerable tradition made of the desert a lifeless entity, a thing of 
horror and devoid of all beauty or merit--so said those of Gondor, whose lives 
were circumscribed by green fields and tall forests, by broad rivers and the 
endless roaring of the sea. It took time and the guidance of one born to the 
desert to realize that the lifeless desert was a thorough-going myth and as 
false as the heat-shaken images that lured the unwary traveler to his doom. Bats 
and hawks found places to roost, and even owls were not unknown. Around the 
shallow seas of Harad--which to a western eye were no more than lakes or even 
ponds--clustered clinging reeds and the mud-guppies that fed upon them, as well 
as a few other creatures peculiar to the south. In the rocky zones one could 
find many a lizard and lichen-eating desert mouse, and beneath the earth moved 
sandsnakes that preyed upon the scorpions and other insects. Nevertheless, the 
desert did not encourage its denizens to give strident evidence of their 
existence, and so the night was silent, save for the whistle of wind and the 
thudding of hoof-beats as two refugees wound their way through the corridors of 
Khera Canyon.

Bergil clung to Nharadh and listened to the emptiness of the night. And for all 
that he had grown accustomed in the past five years to ride the desert, he felt 
it very foreign tonight. Part of that had doubtless to do with the fact that for 
once, the desert was both friend and foe. More, it was less an enemy than those 
who pursued him, which was something of a novelty, though one he could have done 
without. And he had no place whither he could return in the end: this journey 
had no final destination, and he felt adrift, like a swimmer who had gone too 
far from shore. Memories of lost friends clouded his vision, filling the 
darkness with pain worse than any he suffered physically. Before him, Nharadh 
gave their mount a hard kick to the ribs, and called a command to the laboring 
beast as he leaned forward into the wind. Bergil could feel the other's anger 
and knew it for a blind, for a way of covering over his own grief and fear. And 
shame. There was that, too, to deal with, for both of them: for on them in the 
end rested the burden of command. A captain who lost his company was at loose 
ends, wondering whether he could have done aught to save those lost lives, 
fearing that perhaps there might have been. Bergil only hoped that Nharadh would 
not ride the horse into the ground in a misguided effort to leave his pain 
behind long enough to avenge it.

Bergil at least could lose himself in the misery that was his back and aching 
ribs, not to mention the splitting headache that had developed and which pulsed 
sharply each time the horse's hoofs touched the ground. Pain had never been so 
much a friend, and the Gondorrim willfully wallowed in it to keep his mind from 
thinking overmuch on all that he left behind. As the miles flew by, he heeded 
them little, content to concern himself with nothing more than keeping his seat. 
Time enough to think once more of responsibility, for their path drew them on 
towards it. If their pursuers did not catch them first, that is, which was a 
large assumption to make. During their last, brief halt, Nharadh had pressed his 
ear to the ground and listened, and his voice had been grim when he had arisen 
and dusted himself off. "They come, and they gain upon us steadily. They are 
closer than they were when we began this morning, and I doubt not that they 
began before the sun set." Had the pair of them had healthy horses, they might 
not have worried so. But Nharadh's poor beast had been thoroughly lamed by that 
stone, and so they had left him behind. Bergil's mount was hale enough, aside 
from the abrasions they had all suffered from the sand, but to bear the weight 
of two men taxed his strength and slowed his pace considerably.

It would have been wise to lie up in some hidden shelter, to wipe away their 
tracks and allow their pursuers to pass them by and hope that the Variags gave 
up searching. Unfortunately, the situation being grave as it was, they could not 
afford to spare the time. For all that they knew, the way was already blocked, 
or would be soon. If they were caught behind the line, if the Variags out-raced 
them to take town after town, then the first warning Near Harad would have of 
them would be the approach of the army. And Gondor would not even be aware that 
aught was amiss unless a messenger could reach the garrison at Poros! he 
thought. That would be disastrous, and Bergil tried not to imagine the chaos 
that that might cause. Twenty-five days on the direct path, he thought grimly. 
That was how long it would take any message of his to work its way back to Minas 
Tirith, and that with minimal delays and frequent changeovers to fresh mounts.

Twenty-five days, and in the mean time, their enemies would dig into the 
Midlands and march steadily northwards….

 

***

Nharadh sighed as he dropped a pouch filled with travel rations on the ground 
and hunkered down across from Bergil. Dawn had come and gone, and still they had 
pressed on, driven by fear, until the heat grew stifling and the blazing disk of 
a Haradrim sun had peaked over the eastern rim of the canyon. Unfortunately, 
their shelter was less accommodating than yesterday's cave: tucked beneath a 
narrow overhang, their campsite was nothing more than a shallow scoop in the 
rocky wall. There was barely enough shade to protect the two men and their 
horse, and if they slept, they would do so sitting up and leaning shoulder to 
shoulder. Ordinarily, they would have leaned back to back, but Bergil had enough 
trouble supporting the weight of his clothes pressing against the bruises and 
cuts. Both men sat now with their legs crossed, and Bergil leaned his elbows 
against his knees, staring at the parched earth as Nharadh searched through 
their food supply for something that might have some amount of moisture in it. 
The longer they could abstain from using their water supply, the better off they 
would be once they left the canyon's shelter for level ground. His efforts were 
rewarded when he turned up two tough, thick-skinned waterplant fruits. Passing 
one to Bergil, he pulled out a dagger and set to work cutting through the 
leathery rind. "Does your back give you too much pain?" he inquired as he 
stripped away the first peels.

"I can continue, if that is what you mean," Bergil replied, frowning as he cut 
his lunch into quarters, not bothering with the time consuming task of peeling 
it. "What of yourself?"

"Scratches, as I said. Irritating, but naught worse," Nharadh answered with a 
shrug, and having succeeded in skinning his fruit, he bit into it, careful not 
to let any of the liquid go to waste. After a long night of riding following 
hard upon a harrowing escape, he knew how desperately he needed the water. 
"Barok'an is the nearest fort, and the nearest source of water. But it may not 
be safe to stop there, for the Variags could have reached it in the time we have 
taken. I should make for Zhari instead."

"Is that not still quite close?"

"It is, but what would you rather? 'Tis on the direct route, and they may be 
able to lend a horse. Else, one must turn aside and detour through the eastern 
provinces, I should think. But though Dargalt is also close enough, given the 
water supply, it will add to your journey."

To which Bergil said naught, only finished with the fruit and dug out one of the 
morsels of Haradrim journey bread. Breaking it, he offered half to his friend, 
and Nharadh accepted with a nod of thanks. For a time, they ate in silence, lost 
in their own thoughts. When Bergil had finished, he sighed softly and, using his 
knife as a stylus, he began to draw lines in the sand. The idle leisure with 
which the other worked said that his mind wandered far afield, and Nharadh 
wondered whether those fields were green. Probably, he thought, uncertain of the 
odd emotion that coursed through him as he considered the other's meditative 
expression. A place where water does not lack; where children are not 
constrained to lick away their tears if they must shed them. Perhaps it was the 
tug of loss that stirred his soul, the sudden acknowledgment of the closure of 
his horizon. I will never see Gondor. Into the silence he said suddenly, "Tell 
me more of your home in Gondor. In Ithilien, yes?"

Bergil blinked, surprised by the request, but after a moment, he replied, "If 
you wish. Emyn Arnen is the seat of Prince Faramir's power, and thither my 
father and I went when I was eleven, at the king's command. Once it was called 
the Garden of Gondor, the Jewel of the Crown, and we who live there now would 
see it restored to that place. The forests are vast, and though we have had to 
fell some of it in order to support farmland, still, the prince would preserve 
the trees as much as possible, for he loves them well. Oak and ash, and a few 
stands of rowans in places. The fog comes in off of the river at night, 
especially in the fall and winter, and you would not think it was a place of 
Middle-earth. I think that is why the Elves love it so: 'tis like to one of 
their songs, or at least so I believe. But I am no Elf, to make such a 
judgment."

"You visit these Elves often?"

"Once or twice have I gone south, and they come to the prince's court fairly 
often. Their prince, Legolas son of Thranduil of Greenwood, is great friends 
with his highness Faramir."

"And with you?"

"I would not go so far as that. I am a child to him, and will be even should I 
live to see a hundred," Bergil responded. But he smiled slightly and added, "But 
he is somewhat different from the few other Elves I have met. More easy, I 
suppose--less remote. I think it is because of his friendship with Gimli of 
Aglarond and with the king. And with Prince Faramir's brother, of course." To 
which, Nharadh could only nod, knowing nothing of Prince Faramir's brother. "On 
a day like this, when the sun is hot, one can smell the grass and the trees. 
'Tis like perfume: thick and heavy, and the air grows more humid with the 
deepening of summer."

"More…?"

"Humid. I know not the word in hradathur. I know not whether there is a word for 
it, for I have never experienced it here. It means that the air has much 
moisture in it."

"That would be something to tell of. Will you return there when this war is 
over?"

"I know not. That is a decision others shall make for me, for I have many years 
of service ahead of me, assuming I live, and the king sends his soldiers to many 
different lands. I do not mind, for I would see this world, but I do miss home, 
as I said." Bergil glanced up, and there was a measuring look in those hazel 
eyes that sent a sudden warning up Nharadh's back. "And whither will you go, 
Nharadh? When did you plan to leave me?" Bergil's aggrieved tone cut deep, 
prodding painfully at Nharadh's already burdened conscience, and the Haradrim 
cursed inwardly. The Gondorrim waited, clearly expecting an answer, but Nharadh 
found himself speechless, caught between Bergil's forthrightness and his own 
more subtle honesty that would yet cloak itself in misdirection. But how to 
misdirect a direct question? Before his incriminating silence, the other gave a 
soft, humorless bark of laughter. "'You must seek out a healer,' 'one must turn 
aside,' 'it will lengthen your journey.' I know I took a blow to the head, my 
friend, but my ears are intact, and I like to think my wits survived as well."

"I am glad to hear it, for you shall need both to cross Hradar," Nharadh 
responded at last, striving for a mild tone of voice despite the feeling of sick 
nervousness that came to roost in his gut, and skitter up and down his spine.

"Would you simply have left, or had you planned to tell me what you intended?"

"I… had not thought so far ahead." Gebe Annataru, what feeble excuse was that?!

"I think you lie when you say that, or why else did you say naught?" Bergil 
demanded, sounding rather hurt beneath his anger. "Nharadh, what is this about? 
What madness is this?"

"Madness it may seem to you, but you are not hradari," the other replied 
stiffly.

"And because I am not, I still understand nothing of your decision," the 
Gondorrim replied, pausing a moment, and his expression seemed to soften 
somewhat with pained confusion. "Must I beg you for an explanation, or will you 
give it freely?" Nharadh bowed his head mutely, unable in that moment to bear 
the note of pleading in the other's voice, or the look upon his face. After a 
moment, he heard Bergil exhale heavily, letting his breath hiss through his 
teeth in rush of puncuated frustration. At length, he spoke again in a low 
voice, and Nharadh winced at his words. "For five years, I have tried to serve 
as best I knew how, and to learn your ways. But if you cannot trust me in this, 
then why offer me your friendship? Or did I misread you?"

"Nay, you did not," Nharadh said quickly. Alarmed by the turn of the 
conversation, he jerked his eyes back up to Bergil's face, fearful that he would 
be thought insincere otherwise. "Think not that it is a matter of trust that 
held me back, but… your ways are different," said he in earnest explanation. 
Bergil raised a skeptical brow, and Nharadh sought to return that look. But in 
the end, he sighed heavily, and admitted in a low voice: "And I did not wish to 
argue with you over this."

"We still do not argue over 'this,' Nharadh, but over your silence which seems 
to me deceptive," Bergil pointed out. "I know not yet what 'this' is."

"When your people go to war, they protect their leaders. So also do mine, for we 
cannot lose those who have our land in trust," Nharadh said wearily, yielding at 
last. "But a captain's place is with his men, always. We who cannot take a 
nation's burden upon our shoulders take lesser ones, and we are bound to them. 
Why else should our soldiers have remained upon Gondor's fields when the day was 
lost and our captains slain or defeated? Not for hatred, though there was that, 
I grant you; nor for glory, for there would be none left to tell of it. For 
honor." And at Bergil's wide-eyed stare, Nharadh smiled gently. "'Ruokh hala 
nhimai': did you think it an empty calling? Your people do the same, at times. 
The difference is that you do not seek to push the battle to its logical extreme 
at every occasion."

"So you will simply walk into our pursuers' arms and let them take you?"

"Never that! 'Tis a matter of honor, after all, and you must reach the next town 
and pass the message on at least. Nay, I shall take as many of them as I am 
able, but what happens next is not my decision. But I cannot leave my people 
behind, and perhaps yours need guidance as well. In all our time together, we 
never discussed the disposition of prisoners of war."

There was a profound silence as Bergil strove to digest all of this, and Nharadh 
found himself playing with his dagger now in turn, awaiting a response. He was 
not entirely certain what to expect of the other: disbelief and confusion, 
certainly, but perhaps anger or disgust as well. He knew Bergil to be a 
reasonable man, but this was not something that had to do with reason so much as 
feeling, and so Nharadh steeled himself for the worst the other might have to 
offer.

Finally, Bergil shook his head and said slowly, "Let me understand this. You 
would prefer to be captured than to continue north?"

"I would prefer that I had not had to make the choice to leave Khera."

"But this is not… workable. You would lose too often if…."

"I told you, you are not hradari, and this is a more complicated matter than I 
have time to paint for you. Suffice it to say, there are rules within rules, but 
this case is clear enough: I belong in Khera, not in Zhari!" Nharadh replied, 
desperation adding force to his words.

"But if you attack the Variags who pursue us, surely they shall slay you rather 
than capture you!"

"If they were kind, which I am certain they are not, yes."

"Is it death you wish for then?"

"'Here stands honor': your king heard that cry and knew its meaning sixteen 
years ago. 'Twas good of him to allow them to keep their honor, for he could 
have had them captured, but he did not. He is remembered well for that in 
Hradar." Nharadh paused, realizing that the conversation chased itself in futile 
circles, and he sighed, defeated. "Never mind! Despite how it may seem, I do not 
seek death but to keep my honor. To keep my loyalty intact and hold with the 
fate of my people. Accept that I cannot satisfy both unless I remain behind. If 
you must have some better reason than that, then think on this: the Variags ride 
more swiftly than do we, and we have but one horse to share our weight. One of 
us must remain if the other is to escape them. Your people must know of this, 
Bergil, as must mine. You have no reason to remain, but I do. More, I can give 
you a reason to leave: you are under me, by the terms of the treaties signed 
sixteen years ago. If I order you to go, you may not refuse."

"And do you so order me?" demanded Bergil tautly.

"Need I?" Nharadh asked, cocking an eyebrow. Beregond's son glared at him for a 
seeming eternity, and he knew the other felt abandoned… betrayed. I am sorry, 
Bergil, but this must be! He opened his mouth to tell him so when quite 
suddenly, the other bowed his head.

"Nay, you need not," he said in a low voice, resignation and resentment 
distorting his tone.

"Thank you." Nharadh replied, just as quietly, and did not bother to hide his 
relief. Bergil jerked his eyes back up to his at that, and there was that 
confusion as the other searched his face intently. But at length, the confusion 
bled away, leaving only pained incomprehension behind.

"Do not think that I approve, Nharadh. But I cannot stop you, and unfortunately, 
I cannot argue against the necessity, save to say that it is not necessary that 
I be the one to ride north."

"But it is necessary that I stay."

"So you say," Bergil replied neutrally. Another long pause, and then, "Are you 
frightened?" Nharadh hesitated a moment, feeling those light eyes upon him, and 
then he nodded, once.

"Yes." It came out in a breathy, hushed syllable, and Nharadh bowed his head in 
shame. There came the rustle of cloth and leather, and the scuff of boots 
against the sand, and then Bergil was at his side. A moment he stood and Nharadh 
felt his stare, and then he sat. An arm was laid about his shoulders, drawing 
him against the Gondorrim. It was surprising, the strength of that embrace, and 
Nharadh knew that the other had to be hurting, yet Bergil did not complain. And 
after a split second's indecisive wavering, Nharadh sighed softly and laid a 
hand on the other's knee, leaning against him. There was a time and a place for 
strength, but if Bergil needed to be strong, then Nharadh equally needed to be 
comforted, for he had run out of strength with that admission. "This was not a 
choice I expected to make. Not so… soon," he confessed painfully, hating the 
slight tremor in his voice.

"'Tis nothing I ever expected to face," Bergil responded tensely. "Do you know 
when…?"

"There is a place not more than a few hours' ride from here. By then, I doubt 
not that they shall have caught up, but the path narrows enough that I should be 
able to make a fight of it, at least." Nharadh closed his eyes, feeling suddenly 
quite weary indeed, and he felt the other's hand leave his shoulder and come to 
rest against the back of his neck.

"Rest then, and I will watch for awhile," Bergil urged.

"You shall not run off to find the Variags, shall you?" Nharadh asked, feeling a 
spark of suspicion flare up in spite of his weariness.

"No."

"You promise me that?"

"I swear it." The hand tightened, and something suspiciously like tenderness 
entered the other's tone as he said, with quiet assurance, "You need me, after 
all. Now sleep if you can, and forget for a time."

Nharadh needed no further urging, and he felt Bergil adjust his position 
slightly to ease the strain on his ribs. His head on Bergil's shoulder and his 
weight braced against the other's body, Nharadh let exhaustion wash over him and 
hoped that flesh and friendship were shelter enough to ward off dreams.

*******

*seven: hearkens back to something I cooked up for "Roots" regarding elvish 
numerical superstitions. In Appendix D of RotK, pp. 440-441, Tolkien noted that 
the Eldar preferred to reckon in sixes and twElves, and that their basic unit of 
(useful) time measurement was 144 mortal years, or twelve squared. I'm just 
playing around with that idea a bit and designating seven an unlucky number, as 
it is the first one after six, and the first "odd" number by elvish custom.



~~~~~




Chapter Seven
Tracery




 Khera Fortress stood alone and high upon the plains, seeming as a sandcastle 
caught by the running tide. Its watchtower gone, the western wall was a sloping 
ruin that petered out into rubble, and there were no gates, only emptiness that 
opened onto a splendid vista of desert and canyon. Hawks hung in the air, 
drifting high on winds that never touched the earth, and the sun shone bright 
and hot in the afternoon. The view, however, was furthest from the thoughts of 
the hooded, masked figure who stood in the shade of the surviving eastern wall, 
surveying the fair day through the gaps in the brick-work.. His dress was 
hradari and bore familiar sigils, yet the snake emblems in red and black 
proclaimed him Variag, and one of some rank, and the hradari who crept about 
the rubble-strewn square were conspicuous in their avoidance of him. Etun 
en-Lhat en-Bharag stood still and silent as the young trees of his homeland, 
and smiled contemptuously behind his veil. The resentment of the hradari 
troubled him little, for the chill of their dislike eased the heat of the day. 
I know their ways. They speak of honor, of loyalty to House and homeland, yet 
look at them! They crawl through the blood of their own people without remorse. 
Animals, all of them! Naturally, he kept such thoughts to himself, for there 
was no point in inviting retaliation from so fickle a people, especially when 
he and his Variags were outnumbered. Cavalry gave them an advantage not to be 
underestimated in battle, yet none of them were mounted at the moment.

Save our messenger and those who hunt the rats for us. They had caught one of 
the escaped hradari almost immediately--Etun had put his last cross-bow bolt 
into his back. But three others had reached the canyon, and much though it had 
pained him to abandon the hunt, he could not justify the risk to his own. The 
canyon's pathways were narrow and winding as they snaked towards the floor, and 
it would have been madness to dare them while the storm raged, blinding them 
all. Once the winds had died, though, his best riders had charged ahead in 
pursuit, and he waited now for their return. In the mean time, work parties 
cleared the square and repairs would soon enough be underway. Kharish had opened 
its gates to them two weeks ago, and with the news that Khera fortress was 
safely taken, they ought to see supplies coming soon out of that city. Even 
before the walls were rebuilt, however, they would need to move on to the next 
village, the next city, and it seemed that fortune favored them today. Such 
messages as had come from the surrounding fortresses were quite encouraging, and 
since for this stage of the campaign, all commanders acted more or less 
separately according to a prearranged time table, there was little he could do 
to help or hinder his hradari 'brethren.' If they moved quickly enough if they 
could only take Mahnit, the nexus of many of Harad's roads north of the Midlands 
line, and if they could hold the land for the next few weeks, then they would 
have all of summer to entrench themselves here, in the Midlands. That shall give 
us time to build, time to make this a worthwhile line of defense and a 
stronghold from which to strike out at our enemies. Oh yes, 'our' enemies, Etun 
thought with cynical amusement.

The southern provinces of Harad might mistrust the Variags of Khand, but even 
House Ghoradi knew not the extent of Khand's plans. It made sense, after all, 
that the Variags should aid South Harad, for if the South secured its own 
borders and more arable land, then Khand need not sell its precious reserves of 
food under threat of invasion, for the hradari were indisputably more numerous 
than the Variags. More, if South Harad seceded and became self-sufficient, it 
would be one more power standing between Khand and Gondor, which would be all to 
the good. Yet if we are truly successful, then our victory will raise us above 
these hradari, and Khand shall stand secure for the first time in its history!* 
To achieve that goal required some sacrifices however, and his own hradari dress 
was one of them. Although he was Lhat's son, he was known still within Khand as 
Etun en-Bharag, and his grand-father's long shadow remained over him. Dwelling 
ever in the obscurity of his infamous grand-sire had displeased him as a child 
and an untried warrior, for he was no more hradari than his father had been. 
Bharag himself had thrown off his hradari roots as thoroughly as possible, 
though he had insisted that his son and grand-son learn the language of his 
youth. Thus Etun, like many Variags, spoke hradathur, but his speech was more 
subtle, and he never tripped over the aspirants, having grown up hearing and 
using the language.

But he cared little for the hradari themselves, or their ways, and rather 
resented that he shared in their bloodline. Bharag might have risen in Khand's 
service, but he had never been fully trusted, and that distrust had been passed 
through the generations to Etun himself. Although it helped that he was fervent 
in his desire to serve Khand alone, and that his disgust over certain hradari 
customs was fundamental, still, others looked askance at him. This campaign, 
though, might well be the proving of him to his fellows, and for the first time, 
his hradari blood was a help, not a hindrance. For no other could claim the rule 
of a hradari House, and an ambassador's House at that. No other could present 
himself as wrongfully disinherited to the Ghoradi. A natural ally he was, at 
least politically, and thus he served both his "homelands" by founding his 
current rank of captain on his alien origins--Khand could rest assured that it 
had a loyal commander in place to oversee matters, whereas the hradari felt 
secure in the knowledge that they helped one of their own. Of course neither 
side is complete in its trust of me, but when I am through, Harad will be 
subjugated and Khand will owe its salvation to my 'tainted' blood! At the 
moment, however, he had still to prove himself, but despite a flare of anxiety, 
he welcomed the challenge. Even if we do not topple Harad, this war will leave 
it weakened! And mayhap that shall be enough. 'Twould not be so ill, to be 
remembered as he who began the breaking of Harad, even if my children must 
complete the task!

But to even begin that task in earnest, he had first to hold the Midlands and 
take enough of the lands north of the line to provide a barrier between the 
forces of North Harad and Gondor. It was an odd thing, Etun thought as he stared 
meditatively at the sun-swept sands. On the one hand, Gondor's rise to 
prominence was but the crowning humiliation, for while it prospered, the East 
had spent years in painful disarray. That the king of Gondor should be so 
closely bound to Harad (or to the northern part of Harad) was an intolerable 
state of affairs to Khand, which had had its own plans for that land. Indeed, 
had not Gondor intervened, this campaign might well be unnecessary, for the 
Variags might have struck much sooner, while Harad's Council of Eight dissolved 
itself in a fit of fratricidal strife. But King Elfstone-- And what sort of name 
is that? Etun demanded contemptuously-- had proved more far-sighted than Khand 
had hoped, helping to end the war too soon for the Variags to take advantage of 
it. Since then, Elessar's allies in the north had entrenched themselves in the 
Council, and it would be very difficult to rid northern Harad of the entangling 
ties to the West. Difficult, but not impossible! Ghoradi and Bhor'tarat have 
broken with the Eight already, and Lord Dharu courts us, buying us time through 
misdirection. Given enough time, surely that fratricidal instinct would rear its 
head again, leaving the way open to reduce North Harad to little more than a 
vassal state.

And of course, there was the other side of the coin to consider. Humiliating as 
it might be to bow to some bloodless king and a renewed Gondor and Arnor, surely 
there was a hopeful lesson to be learned from the West. For if some houseless 
wanderer from the frozen wasteland of the far north can resurrect two nations, 
surely Khand can do the same and better! The Variags were an ancient people, 
after all, and not bereft of wisdom, having learned much over the millennia. Not 
least of which is how to bait a trap! For while Gondor, like an untried 
mongoose, noses about in Harad, seeking the head of the snake, it shall be 
vulnerable to a bite from other quarters! Recovering Rhûn lies north of Khand, 
and largely open to Gondor on a direct route northeast from Minas Tirith, and 
for all their riches, they are weak-- a conglomerate of folk, content to sit and 
let the rains fall upon them. If they wish to keep those fields of theirs 
intact, they shall bow to our wishes in this matter... or else yield their 
bounty up to us! Faced with such an ultimatum and the lines of Variag cavalry, 
the nominal leaders of Rhûn would have been very foolish to refuse Khand's 
wishes, and Etun smiled again, this time in anticipation. After millennia of 
being trapped ever between Rhûn's politically powerful leaders and the devious, 
unstable, but numerous hradari, Khand was about to claim its rightful place in 
the East. No longer would invaders trample its few arable plains or take its 
people to work foreign lands, for the benefit of foreign powers; no longer would 
its heights-dwelling people fear hunger when rocky, steep farmlands failed to 
yield sufficient crops, for they would be in a position to take what ought 
rightfully to have been theirs; no longer would troublesome neighbors dictate 
the ebb and flow of Khand's fortunes. And no longer shall we stand amazed before 
King Elfstone of Gondor!

With such pleasant thoughts warming his heart, Etun turned from the view and his 
dark-eyed gaze swept over the work parties. In amidst the hradari were his own 
folk, their brighter garb and snake emblems seeming to glow in amidst shades of 
brown and black, and Etun felt a spark of pride. None of them had fond memories 
of the hradari, yet one might not know that from how readily they worked with 
their nominal allies. They were few, his men--this was, after all, supposed to 
be a largely hradari uprising, and the presence of too many Variags in the line 
might raise unpleasant speculation in certain western lords' minds. Indeed, King 
Elf-stone seemed uncommonly cautious--word had it that he had men stationed 
already along the likely approaches from Mordor. But he could know nothing, 
truly. Not until we move, Etun thought. And then... then let him beware! In the 
mean time, there is much to do. We must make a sorting of our prisoners, at 
least, and see what use can be made of them! "Reda!" He raised his voice and 
beckoned with a wave of his hand to his senior lieutenant. In response, the man 
abandoned his own vantage point to come stand before him. "Has our hradari 
captain finished sorting through the Kherans?"

"He had not when last I looked, but it seems they are mostly hradari."

"How many Gondorrim?"

"Perhaps twenty-five survivors, and several of them wounded. The rest...." Reda 
gestured about to the bodies being recovered and heaped on the funeral pyre. 
Etun grunted. He had rather hoped for more than that, but he supposed that all 
things considered, they were fortunate to take so many alive.

"Which is their captain?"

"I do not know, sir. Hrenat," he replied, naming the hradari captain, "told me 
that he has found no one yet who claims to be in command, and the uniforms seem 
to bear him out. It may be that he is dead."

"And they still live?" Etun's brows shot up at that.

"They are not sworn guardsmen, nor even hradari, any of them," Reda answered 
with a shrug, and his tone indicated that he expected little of them in any 
case.

"Hmm... Very well then. See that we learn the truth, but do not damage them too 
badly. We do need hands to help repair the damage."

"Aye sir." Reda saluted and then made his way through the rubble towards the 
keep. So the Gondorrim are leaderless, yet still alive. I wonder.... All Variags 
were quite conscious of different customs, for having been crushed between 
peoples for all their long history, they could not afford ignorance. Yet that 
did not mean that they approved at all of such differences, and often knowledge 
seemed to breed a more tenacious hatred. Etun, raised between two worlds, 
however, was more cautious than many in his prejudices. For much as he disliked 
the hradari, he knew better than to let that hatred blind him. The hradari had 
survived a cruel land, therefore their customs must have some merit to them, and 
the same must surely be true of the Gondorrim. He had heard that the Gondorrim 
were brave, that they fought tenaciously and well. If, indeed, they had not any 
custom among them that resembled that of sworn Variag guardsmen, or the 
intricate loyalty oaths of hradari soldiers and captains, that was no reason to 
underestimate them. Whatever Reda's opinion of such rough, uncivilized manners, 
they were not cowards. That Etun knew from the tales of older warriors, and they 
would bear careful watching. As careful watching as the hradari, no doubt, who 
were known to be unpredictable captives at best. This may prove more interesting 
than I had thought it would. I have never met any Gondorrim, after all! Well 
that I begin my education early, before we face them once more in battle!

Which was why, after a but a little while longer, he left his place in the shade 
and followed in Reda's trail, bound for the dungeons of Khera.

 

***

They began their journey early, ere the sun had set fully. As soon as it passed 
over the western edge of the canyon, Nharadh and Bergil had stirred from their 
uneasy slumber and made ready to depart in spite of the heat. Neither man spoke, 
enclosed together in a subdued, tense silence as they mounted their horse and 
turned north-west again. Muted by sand and the wind whistling in their ears, 
their mount's hoof-beats yet measured out the agonized rhythm of their hearts. 
With every step, they felt time slip a little further from them, and Bergil 
clutched at his friend's waist firmly and not only for balance. And as the 
canyon flowed by in a monotonous blur, he felt Nharadh's right hand slip down to 
cover his clasped ones. The grip was almost painfully tight, and Bergil knew 
that within the other's gloves, his knuckles were white with that tension. 
Leaning his forehead against the other's shoulders, Bergil shut his eyes and 
tried not to think, but his traitor mind refused to obey. And so with each 
stride, he was reminded--He goes now to die! For despite Nharadh's dread 
anticipation of captivity, he could not bring himself to believe that their 
pursuers would be satisfied with a prisoner. What profit in another, when 
already Khera's cramped dungeon must be filled nigh to bursting with survivors?

Long they rode, and though they sped through the shadowed depths of the canyon, 
above them, the sky darkened, assuming that deeper shade of blue that hints at 
the coming of evening. And of a sudden, Nharadh drew rein, and their mount 
snorted, rearing slightly to break its momentum. The Haradrim turned their 
horse, staring a moment into the night of the canyon's narrowing passageway ere 
he gave Bergil's hands a slight squeeze. The Gondorrim released him, and Nharadh 
swung a leg over the horse's neck and dropped lightly to the earth. Using his 
teeth, he pulled a glove off and began tugging at the straps that held a small 
set of saddle bags to fore, across their mount's shoulders. Working by feel 
alone in the dim lighting, he freed them after several moments and let them fall 
to the ground with an audible clink! Then, pulling his gauntlet back on, he gave 
the gelding's neck an affectionate slap, and seemed to laugh softly when the 
animal laid its nose upon his shoulder, whickering. "You shall run the lighter 
now, my friend, so do not spare your speed!" he murmured as Bergil settled 
himself into the saddle, finding the stirrups. "To Zhari, Bergil, or Dargalt. 
But choose swiftly and well, for if you go to first one and are forced to the 
other, I know not whether your water shall last."

"Nharadh...." the Gondorrim paused, and as swiftly as they arose he discarded a 
number of seeming trite and hollow farewells. Finally, "Valar protect you, and 
if they do not... ."

"If they do not, the Lord of Gifts may yet deal out his particular 'gift' to a 
cunning warrior," Nharadh replied, and the pale crescent of a grin glinted in 
the fast-waning light.

"If they do not," Bergil persevered, refusing to accept that, "then take care of 
yourself." And at that he saw that smile--forced and false--falter. Nharadh 
reached up, a silhouette without a face, yet Bergil unerringly stretched his 
hand forth to clasp the other's hand. "Take care of yourself, and look for our 
return!"

"I count upon it. Now, go! They cannot be far behind, and I have all that I need 
for this task. Ride! Go!" Nharadh pulled free and stood back as his friend 
jerked the reins hard. Their horse--Bergil's horse--snorted as it turned, and 
then leapt forward as the Gondorrim gave it a hard kick to the sides. With all 
his heart, Nharadh wished that he could watch as the other disappeared into 
darkness, that he could listen until the hoof-beats faded away into silence. But 
he made himself kneel instead and open the saddlebags. A cursory inspection of 
them while Bergil had slept the day before had revealed that the Variags, true 
to form, remained prepared for all contingencies, and he felt a grim smile light 
his face despite the situation. I remember my father's tales of fighting beside 
the Variags of Khand! You were ever aloof, ever fierce... ever distrustful. Once 
allies, yet ever enemies at heart, we all of us served Sauron well and cursed 
each other often behind the other's back. There is a poetry to this, I feel it! 
he thought as he drew forth a spiky form from the saddlebags. A moment he 
contemplated it, then set it back in its pouch.

Rummaging through the other pack, he found a length of tough rope and stood, 
shaking it out. The canyon narrowed quite severely, until no more than two 
mounted men could possibly ride abreast, and he sought now in the darkness 
beneath a rocky outcropping purchase enough for a knot. Finding a suitable 
stone, he quickly tied one end of the rope firmly about it, then laid the length 
of it across the gap. He could find nothing else to fasten the other end to, but 
that was not so troublesome. Returning to the saddle bags, he unclipped one from 
the other and tossed the one that had held the rope to one side in the shadows. 
The other he opened and, with his heart pounding in his chest, he tilted it and, 
like a farmer tossing grain to his chicks, scattered the contents all along the 
narrow passageway. The caltrops chimed as they struck each other and then 
skittered away, littering the sand that muffled their fall. In the darkness, 
they ought to be indistinguishable, and even if they were not, they were 
certainly unavoidable. Having finished his preparations, Nharadh retreated to 
crouch in the shadow of the wall, taking the loose end of the rope in his hands. 
He would need to be quick, but the noise of the horses ought to alert him long 
before he need act. In the mean time, he simply loosened his blade in its 
scabbard and felt at himself to be certain that his knives were securely in 
place and within reach.

And that was all. Squatting on his haunches, head bowed, the Haradrim waited, 
listening to the desert, mind blank. Or nearly so, for Bergil's voice and words 
whispered in the corners, denying him that perfect state of concentration. Curse 
it all, have sense, man of Gondor! Leave me be and be on your way! For they 
come... they come, and I cannot afford the thought of you! So he thought and 
counted his heartbeats in an effort to remind himself that time still flowed as 
it always had, that there were moments and minutes and hours that had yet to 
come. But for Nharadh, the river of time swept past in a channel that narrowed 
to a point, and he knew not what might lie beyond it. He thought that the 
Variags must be close, must be hard upon them, for at the last measure he had 
made, the hoofs of their horses had been loud, reverberating through the parched 
earth. Variag cavalry were feared throughout the east and south, and until the 
hradari had encountered the Rohirrim, they had known no better horsemen. 
Therefore, he urged Bergil on in his mind, hoping that their poor, abused mount 
had still strength enough to last the night at a good canter. The swifter he can 
ride, the more chance we have against these rebels and their allies. Variags... 
what might they gain from this? The long history of feud and uneasy alliance 
between Khand and its neighbors was well known in the south and east, but even 
so, Nharadh could not quite see the logic of the Variags' involvement.

Unless Ghoradi threatened them, as has happened before. Father said once that 
when he was a young man, Sauron sent a lieutenant to the South to mediate 
between the South hradari tribes and Khand.... 'Mediate!' The word was sour on 
his tongue, for according to the tales he had heard, the blood had been hip deep 
in places, and one needed both hands to count the number of heads taken ere the 
matter was settled to the satisfaction of the Overlord. And now that we have no 
Overlord to force our cooperation, old hatreds burn bright once more, he thought 
grimly. Although he remembered vaguely the days under Sauron, he had been too 
young, in truth, to appreciate the reality of life under Mordor's dominion, even 
as Bergil's understanding of Gondor before the Great War came mostly of a man's 
thoughtful meditations rather than of his childhood memories. But despite the 
knowledge that Hradar's position was less bad than it had been in many ways, it 
seemed to him that there was much to be said for life under the rule of another. 
At least we knew our enemies, and when we served in Sauron's armies, we were one 
company, no matter what our origins, and ours was a common goal. Now, though, 
there is no one to save us from ourselves, nor from any other. Much as Nharadh 
had grown to respect and love Bergil as a comrade and friend, there were 
times--and this was one of them--when he bitterly resented him his good fortune. 
For Gondor had come through the crucible largely intact and united, whereas all 
the South and East still suffered the consequences of their supposed liberation.

Ere he could sink much further into such frustrated speculation, a sound caught 
his attention. Stiffening, he listened intently, clutching the rope tightly in 
automatic reaction. Faint but steady in the distance came the sound of hoofs. At 
last! Shifting his weight slightly to let blood circulate more freely, he drew a 
deep breath and shook troubled thoughts from his mind. As the pursuing horsemen 
drew nearer, he tried to make a count of them: between four and six, he judged. 
Steadily... patience! he rebuked himself for the sudden surge of anxiety. 
Closer... closer... Ride, Bergil! The first pair of horsemen appeared around the 
bend and sped towards the trap at a gallop. About fifteen feet ere they reached 
the narrowest point of the canyon's passageway, the horses screamed, stumbling 
as their stride faltered. Momentum carried them past Nharadh a good several 
yards, spilling their riders into the sand as they went down. The next horses, 
hard on their heels, could not stop in time and met a similar fate. But the 
final pair looked about to break through, and so Nharadh stood suddenly, pulling 
the line taut. Curses reached him even as he was jerked forward from his 
position and right off his feet by the staggering mounts. Dropping the rope, 
Nharadh rolled, gritting his teeth as the impact jarred him despite the 
cushioning sand. He was quick to come to his feet, however, and as he rose, he 
swept his sword out. A dagger dropped into his left hand from its wrist sheath 
and he turned towards his enemies, picking his targets. Ere any of the Variags 
could face him, he threw the dagger and a horse screamed. And as one of the 
animals that he had tripped staggered to its feet, the Haradrim dashed forward, 
grabbed the reins to jerk the head down, and cut the animal's throat. He hated 
to butcher horses, yet he could not risk leaving the Variags with useful mounts. 
In the dim light, it was difficult to see much, but Nharadh had spent his life 
learning to move in darkness. He spun to parry a lunge, then answered with a 
quick riposte ere he leapt sideways over the fallen horse and used a second 
dagger to kill another of the horses.

As he turned once more, however, seeking an opponent, something glinted in the 
air, and Nharadh staggered as a Variag throwing knife sank into his shoulder 
just below his collarbone. Pain screamed along his nerves, but training was 
ruthless: he pulled the knife, sweeping it wide to cut the throat of one of the 
Variags who rushed towards him. But there were two more in his wake, and they 
lunged in tandem for him, bearing him down to the ground with their weight. The 
Haradrim snarled as he managed to shove the dagger into one of them, but the 
other sank his fingers into Nharadh's wound, hooking them into muscle and 
pulling. When the Haradrim cried out sharply in pain, his assailant grabbed his 
right arm and slammed it hard against the earth, causing him to drop his weapon. 
By now, the others had gathered round, and someone had his legs pinned so that 
no matter how he thrashed and writhed, seeking escape, he could not gain enough 
leverage to turn. And while one of his captors sat on his chest, pinning his 
arms, a pair of hands clamped over his mouth and nose, cutting off his air. 
Nharadh tried to scream, to bite, to do anything at all, but those hands were 
too strong. The weight across his chest was nigh intolerable-- a band of 
pressure slowly crushing the breath out of him, and his lungs ached. Bright 
spots danced in his vision as he futilely struggled to breathe, but in vain. He 
was sinking swiftly into unconsciousness, and one by one, his senses failed him. 
Sight surrendered to darkness, and his body grew numb. Words swam in his 
hearing, fading away, and until they were finally buried beneath a roar not 
unlike that of the surf upon the strand. But I have never seen the ocean! a 
voice protested inside his head, and then drowned, taking with it all memory of 
wakefulness.

***

"Every line is a path, every curve is both boundary and void. Ink is the blood 
of the creative soul that pours itself out for others to see." Halareth drew a 
deep breath, lips moving soundlessly as she mouthed the words along with 
Kirdali, trying to ingrain them in her mind. "Find the balance: every path has 
its end, every boundary knows transcendence, and every horizon returns to the 
earth. Bleed too much, and there is only chaos and destruction." Her 
instructor's voice had that sing-song intonation that tended to lull Halareth 
into a half-somnolent state, and she struggled against the temptation. Throwing 
all the powers of concentration that a six year-old child had into the fray, she 
carefully traced the symbols that spelled out her own name. Again and again, she 
wrote them out, and Kirdali had told her that she would continue to do so until 
she was satisfied with her technique. In the mean time, the Haradrim noblewoman 
had drilled two or three basic teaching mantras into Halareth's head over the 
past few days, and the little girl found the words running ever through her 
mind, even in sleep. Even if I do not understand all of the words, I dare not 
forget them! Líriel had helped her with that, at least, but Halareth still was 
not certain she knew whether she truly understood what Kirdali told her. When 
she had rather timidly voiced such fears, the Haradrim had merely smiled and 
told her that all would be revealed with time. "And with practice. Therefore, 
take your brush and begin again!" And so Halareth had obeyed, and hoped that she 
would be able to remember her teacher's cryptic sayings long enough to ask Líri 
for help.

She supposed that she could also ask her parents, for her father and mother had 
both questioned her about her newfound art. Yet though the King and Queen of 
Gondor seemed quite pleased with her initiative, something held her back from 
asking about Kirdali's mantras. There was, Halareth had discovered, something 
utterly satisfying about the fact that she knew something that her parents did 
not. It was an utter novelty, and although Kirdali told her repeatedly that 
pride had no place in an artist's heart, still, she was proud of herself, that 
she could answer her parents' questions for them. Even her father, who had gone 
to Harad when he was young, knew very little of kevan'atailit, other than that 
it existed. And although Kirdali had informed her that she was Not Allowed to 
make any serious attempts to write anything other than her own name, Halareth 
had nevertheless written the names of all of her family. I only do it because it 
pleases me, so it is not a 'serious attempt,' she rationalized. It was a way to 
practice her art and stave off boredom, particularly since between her father 
and mother, she had at least seven different names with which to practice.

"Halareth!" Kirdali's sharp voice made her blink, and she realized that her 
attention had strayed. Casting a guilty glance upward at her teacher, she set 
her brush aside. "Child, you must concentrate if you wish to improve."

"I beg your pardon," Halareth murmured meekly, embarrassed.

"There is no point in writing if it has not purpose, and purpose does not come 
from daydreams. Why do you write?"

"To learn to perceive," Halareth replied, dutifully repeating the imparted 
wisdom of generations of Haradrim artists.

"That is the answer, but what would you perceive?"

"What would I...?" the little girl trailed off. This was a new question, and she 
searched her mind furiously for an answer, aware that Kirdali was waiting. "I... 
would learn to see why some names are beautiful?" She hazarded, and got only a 
skeptical look.

"Some names? All are beautiful, child. Some are beautifully terrible, others 
terribly beautiful, but the power of the brush is to find that beauty in all 
things. Now," and of a sudden, Kirdali's severity abandoned her, and she offered 
Halareth a kind smile. "You would not know this, of course, but well that you 
learn it early. And there are other reasons to write. A name is a part of a 
person, and how it is written reveals much of the writer's thoughts about that 
person. Do you understand that?"

"As the stitches tell of the seamstress," Halareth replied promptly, recalling a 
similar lesson that Arwen had given her a few months ago.

"Yes, just so," Kirdali replied, seeming pleased.

"Who do you think of when you write, my lady?" the girl asked, curious.

"Many people, and many things," the Haradrim replied, and then gave a slight 
smile. "I admit that of late, however, it is your mother who occupies my 
thoughts."

"Nana?" Halareth asked, glancing up briefly as one of the serving 
women--Irin?--drifted closer, going to sit before the window so that she could 
see better her own needlework in the morning's light. Halareth still had yet to 
hear them speak in voices above a whisper in their mistress' presence, and they 
refused to meet her eyes for more than moments whenever she stared at them. She 
would have asked Kirdali about them, but she had been taught that it was rude to 
ask questions about another when in that other's presence. Uncertain what to 
make of such behavior, Halareth had decided simply to ignore them, for that 
seemed to be what they wished.

"Your mother is the only Elf that I have ever met, and she is... complicated," 
Kirdali replied. "A long tale she has."

"Mmm." Halareth nodded, but said nothing. She knew not what to say, in truth, 
for Arwen was her mother, and in a child's mind, one's mother simply 
is--ageless, ever-present, one not to be questioned--one not able to be 
questioned. Three thousand years or thirty, age made little difference as of yet 
to Halareth's mind, despite her precocious nature. Her Nana was wonderful of 
course, and very wise, and very... wonderful. That anyone could think otherwise 
was not quite within the reach of Halareth's comprehension--she knew that some 
people were uncomfortable around Arwen, but with a child's logic, she assumed 
that such people were merely foolish and in need of instruction.

"I think she has known much sorrow, and that intrigues me," Kirdali was saying, 
and Halareth blinked, earning a quick but piercing stare from her teacher. "It 
helps me to write her name, because then I learn what my heart knows of her 
already. And often, one learns new things as well, things that can only be seen 
when glimpsed as a whole. But you are not yet ready for such explorations, I 
think. For now, it is enough that you continue with your exercises." With that 
pointed hint, Halareth grinned and obediently picked up the brush again, pulling 
a new sheet of paper before her.

"Again! Every line is a path, every curve is both boundary and void. Ink is the 
blood of the creative soul that pours itself out for others to see...."

***

Rhath-Ihnfar rose out of the ground in a profusion of fluted rock and brick, lit 
like a lighthouse on the coasts of Belfalas. Or like Minas Tirith, Faramir 
thought as he gazed up at the spires of the keep within the city's walls. Eight 
of them, tall and slender, rising to vicious points--symbolic of the council and 
the eight ancient provinces of Harad. For some reason, the sight recalled staves 
he had learned as a child. 'Nine for mortal men doomed to die'... I wonder 
whether there ought not to be some verse that speaks of the mortal proclivity 
for towers! It was the dark before dawn, and the city still bustled about them. 
Already, they had passed one large, open-air market, each stand lit by lamps, 
around which crowded customers. "This will continue 'til mid-morning, my lords," 
Indirkan had remarked. "Then the shops will close, reopening in the late 
afternoon. As summer draws nearer, the hours will shorten. Indeed, in many 
places further south, the stands are open only at night, for the day is too hot 
for such enterprises."

At Faramir's left, Legolas stared about, his bright eyes gleaming in the 
lamplight. Indeed, he was tense as a strung bow, though not with anxiety: his 
was the attentiveness of an Elf in new surroundings, and the Prince of Ithilien 
did not doubt that sharp elven ears sought out the cadence of Haradrim speech 
already. For his part, the swift ebb and flow of competing voices was too 
chaotic for him to understand more than snatches of conversation, or words here 
and there, but he listened nonetheless as he followed Indirkan down the broad 
main streets. The Haradrim ambassador, too, was tense, or so Faramir thought, 
and wondered what subtleties the other read in the crowd. As they approached the 
keep and began to cross the last square, Indirkan suddenly held up a hand, 
signaling the entourage to move aside. Faramir obediently side-stepped his mount 
to the left, noticing as he did so the ripple in the crowd as it parted. Legolas 
glanced at him, as if to ask whether the steward knew what passed, and Faramir 
simply cocked his head slightly ere he turned his eyes back to the crowd and the 
bizarre figure that strode through the human aisle. Dressed in layers of black 
and green, with long, grey-streaked hair hanging loose, save for a dark braid 
down his back that ended in a gold clasp, the bone-thin man walked with an 
unexpected vigor. Sigils of a sort different from any that Faramir had ever seen 
on a Haradrim were painted upon his face, and in his hand, he bore a staff that 
had many beaded lengths of leather wound about it, and more signs traced along 
its length. As he passed, men and women bowed their heads and remained thus, 
muttering what sounded like a formal blessing or invocation of some sort. When 
the man reached their ranks, Faramir bowed his head as well, covertly signaling 
behind his back that the rest of his party was to do the same, and he heard 
Indirkan speak in a low, reverent voice: "Bless your ways, honored one! Bless 
all your comings and goings!" There was a long silence, broken only by the sound 
of the old man's movements, and Faramir felt his hackles rise at the quality of 
it--there was deference, yes, but also fear, and no little awe.

"You may raise your heads now, my lords," Indirkan's voice sounded close at hand 
just as chatter broke out again, and the sounds of people hurrying to be on 
their way.

"What is he?" Legolas asked, staring intently after the retreating figure.

"A staff man. A sign of troubled times," the ambassador replied in a grim 
undertone. "But come, such explanations can wait for a time, and I doubt that 
you need pay much attention to such as he. What need of symbols have you when 
you shall be at the heart of the storm?" With those encouraging words, they rode 
slowly onward. And although Faramir had been to Rhath-Ihnfarh before, as he 
watched the spires rise high above the looming gates of the keep, he could not 
help but think of that other gate that lay now in ruin. The Black Gate is gone, 
and the Towers of the Teeth are no more, he told himself firmly. We deal now 
with mortal men! Nevertheless, as he passed through the entry and into the 
square, memories of Mordor whispered in his mind.

"Welcome to Rhath-Ihnfar, my lords," Indirkan murmured at his side, and but for 
the gravity of their mission, his tone might have been wry. "City of intrigue!"

*****

References for Khand and Harad are from:

http://rover.wiesbaden.netsurf.de/~lalaith/Tolkien/Fr_Men.html

Thanks to Isabeau of Greenlea and Gayle M for their beta-ing services. No more 
pointed ears, Isabeau! 



~~~~~




Chapter Eight
The Game's Afoot




 Dharu of Ya’dyahnhir House let his eyes stray over the group that approached, 
surreptitiously marking the positions of those within it, trying to deduce 
precedence and function. Of course he knew Lord Indirkan of Rhanion House, and 
knew him to be a fierce proponent of cooperation with Gondor and of internal 
reform of Harad’s political landscape. His frankness--rare in the cauldron of 
dissent that was Harad, and noticeable amidst steaming rumors and maneuvers 
hidden beneath the surface of a heady brew of intrigue--might have made him the 
butt of many a derisory opinion, but that all knew well that he had led the 
Rebels of Hradar for sixty years without once being caught. Even now, the 
secrets of that organization remained just that: secret. Dharu admired that, 
and refused to underestimate the old man, for age had not dimmed his wits, and 
those of his bloodline tended to remain quite active unto the day of death. 
Tonight, Indirkan walked beside a young man whose features in Hradar would have 
marked him as of Umbar or one of the High Houses from which Dharu was 
descended. Dressed in black and silver, with the plain, white crest of his 
house sewn onto aillettes, Lord Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of 
Gondor, appeared calm enough, but Dharu knew better. No man in his position 
could possibly rest easy. More, despite his youthful appearance, the prince was 
of an age with Dharu himself and had dealt with hradari for many years, in one 
fashion or another: Faramir of Gondor thus knew the danger into which he 
walked, even if not the precise degree of peril.

As for the rest, they were clearly escorts for one or the other of the two 
lords--the hradari guards were readily identifiable by their dress, while the 
Gondorrim were equally distinct and had the somber but alert posture of men who 
knew well the gravity of their task. What interested Dharu was that the two 
appeared to be of different units--the one who walked abreast of his lord wore 
black and white, as did many Gondorrim troops, but the white was in the form of 
a plain shield upon his tabard, rather than the White Tree; the other brought up 
the rear in grey and brown, with a heavy, brown cloak over all, so that the 
patch of white upon his right breast was nearly hidden. Obviously, both were 
members of the Steward’s house, but unless Dharu was mistaken, the second man 
was one of the troublesome Rangers whose company had often clashed with hradari 
units ere the fall of Sauron. A Ranger and a member of Faramir’s personal guard. 
I wonder what that betokens, Dharu mused, as his gaze went at last to the final 
member of that company and paused there, unable to look away. Indeed, he 
wondered that his eye had not been drawn to him immediately.

The man held himself one pace behind Faramir and slightly within his shadow, so 
that between the steward and the guard in black and white, he was very nearly 
hidden, save for his face, which he kept downcast mostly. Yet at the moment, he, 
too, was covertly watching his opponents, eyes sweeping over the assembled 
hradari lords, and as it happened, Dharu found himself staring into a green, 
green gaze. Fair of face and with hair golden as the sun, he might have been one 
of the Rohirrim, except that Dharu had met Rohirrim before and they had not 
struck him thus. The sons of Rohan did not hide, nor walk with a maiden’s 
modesty behind their betters--they moved with the power and pride of war horses, 
which might be expected of them. And none are quite so... lovely... . The 
hradari lord could think of no other word to describe the man, though it was 
wide of the mark and made him think of his daughters. Nay, ‘lovely’ was not the 
word, but neither was ‘handsome,’ nor ‘comely,’ nor one of any of a half-dozen 
words that usually could be used of men. Nay, no words of Men could describe 
him, for he is no Man, of that I am certain! Dharu thought grimly, even as he 
swiftly glanced at Faramir again, unable to bear that keen-eyed gaze. Intahr of 
Uradi House stood forward from the group just then as Faramir’s entourage 
halted.

"Welcome once again, my lord steward, to Rhath-Infahr," the man said, bowing 
gracefully. "On behalf of the council, may I say that we are always pleased to 
host you?"

"And on behalf of Gondor, I thank you, my lords, for your courtesy," Faramir 
replied gravely, including the council entire in his words and in the courtly 
bow he made. Straightening, he produced a formally sealed writ and handed it to 
one of Intahr’s escorts, as was only proper. The guard took it, examined it 
carefully with bare hands, testing the wax ere he broke the seal. No powder 
spilled out, and so he held it so that his lord could read what was written 
therein. After a moment, Intahr nodded sharply, and Dharu took that to mean that 
the letter contained naught of particular note.

"The king is most gracious, to send his steward to us as his herald and 
negotiator," the lord of Uradi said, confirming what all had guessed already. 
Mhinad of Bhor’tarat House looked nonplussed, but Dharu knew the man had to be 
seething inside. Faramir was a worthy opponent, after all, and would make such 
dealings as were necessary more difficult. Ya’dyahnir’s lord made a note to 
himself to have a word with Mhinad ere the day was too well begun.

"King Elessar views events in Harad with great concern, and as an ally, would 
gladly see balance restored to the provinces. War is such a costly endeavor, and 
our two lands have paid the price too often in recent years," Faramir replied, 
his grey eyes wandering from face to face as he spoke, noting reactions. A well 
thought-out response, and one designed to play well before the Council of 
Eight--or rather seven!-- which disliked to be reminded of the lack of balance 
within its ranks. Yet it was not unpointed, either: King Elessar knew what he 
could expect of the Council, and should Faramir give an unfavorable report, 
doubtless, Gondor would charge high for its assistance in quelling rebellion, 
even if there was a treaty in place to cover such happenings. There was always 
room to... ‘negotiate’... after all, Dharu thought, as he in his turn met 
Faramir’s eyes. Was it his imagination, or did the steward hold him under 
scrutiny a bit longer than he had others? Dharu glanced swiftly at Indirkan, who 
as yet had said nothing, only watched and listened with a stony expression on 
his aged face. I do not doubt that Lord Indirkan has tutored the prince well for 
this occasion. As well he might, for he knows not whether he shall have a voice 
in this, unless it be through another! Dharu knew that the Lady Kirdali had gone 
north, and he doubted not that she would remain there until Indirkan deemed it 
safe enough for her to return. Which might be never, for neither of them are 
young, and who knows how long this war shall last? It would be best for all 
concerned if it were swiftly over, but in his considered and private opinion, 
the hostilities would drag on for at least two years, and for one on the edge of 
disgrace, isolated in a small town in the north-eastern wastes, even a formal 
conclusion of the conflict would likely not bring security enough to risk a 
return home.

"Wise words," Intahr replied then. "Gondor’s concern and friendship are of great 
importance to us. And while there is admittedly little hope for a peaceful 
resolution to the South’s protests, we pray that it might prevail." From the 
corners of his eyes, Dharu caught Mhinad’s brief expression of contempt and had 
to fight the urge to forestall him. Better to let him draw attention to himself 
than sacrifice my own discretion for nothing--there is no point in his hiding, 
after all! All Harad knows, and so Faramir must as well, that he will break with 
the council as soon as word of fighting comes north.

"The South’s protests, as you call them, my lord Intahr, are but spurred by the 
neglect of the North," Mhinad said smoothly, but not without an edge to his 
voice. He stared at Faramir a moment ere he added, "Gondor would do well to 
remember that we do not wish to lose the flower of our youth to another 
bloodbath, but neither shall we tamely lie down before aggressors who would 
deprive us of our place!"

"I assure you, my lord, that the king is not unmindful of the unfortunate state 
of affairs here in Harad, and indeed, he has seen your people’s plight more than 
once himself," Faramir replied calmly, but no one missed the confirmation of the 
fact that at some time in the past, Aragorn Elessar had managed to penetrate 
quite far into Harad without anyone’s notice. For the King of Gondor had come to 
Harad thrice in the past sixteen years, but never had he gone south of the 
Midlands, save only once, when the first civil war had been fought. Mhinad’s 
eyes narrowed as he digested the steward’s revelation, but Faramir gave him no 
chance to speak. "Gondor has no desire to deprive you of your young men, nor to 
lose her own sons in an uncertain cause. War is so ill-made a tool, unless it be 
a means to a clear victory or a clear defeat--do you not agree, my lord of 
Bhor’tarat House?"

"Of course," Mhinad replied, and Dharu smiled slightly. What else could the man 
say, after all, when faced with so elegant a reply?

"The Council has only recently concluded its business this night," Intahr 
intervened ere this could get out of hand. "And you and Lord Indirkan have 
traveled long and far to Rhath-Ihnfar," said he, nodding politely as he 
mentioned Rhanion’s lord for the first time. "Tomorrow we shall meet again, when 
you have both rested from your journey. There is space for your men in the 
barracks, and two suites have been prepared, if you would care to see them. 
Others can be found if you deem them unsuitable...."

"I am certain that I shall have nothing to complain of, my lord," Faramir 
replied politely as he and Indirkan exchanged a brief look. "Until tomorrow 
evening, my lords." There was a polite murmuring of ‘good-day’ as the councilors 
watched Intahr lead Faramir and Indirkan away, playing servant. I wonder what he 
would say? Dharu wondered, then quickly dismissed the matter as the councilors 
began to disperse. I can guess at it already, he thought as he slipped down a 
certain corridor with quiet haste. Trust not the South! Trust not Ya’dyahnhir! 
Put your faith in me and follow my lead! The chances of that last bit of advice 
being heeded were quite low, for clearly nothing good brewed in Rhath-Ihnfar, 
else Elessar would not have risked sending Faramir. The steward clearly did not 
trust any of them fully, and Dharu least of all, yet Ya’dyahnhir’s lord did not 
fear Faramir’s suspicion. He respected the man--he would be a fool not to--but 
there was too much that he could not know, and so he could not be that much of a 
threat. And even were it otherwise, the lord steward is safe from me at least. 
I, for one, do not wish to rouse Gondor’s wrath by eliminating one of its most 
loyal and useful props! Others, however, might not be so well-disposed toward 
the Prince of Ithilien, and as he reached the desired intersection, he paused, 
listening. After but a few moments, footsteps sounded, and a dark-clad figure 
appeared.

"My lord Mhinad," Dharu murmured, stepping into the other’s path, his escort 
quickly moving to block Mhinad’s minders, and to keep an eye on the lord of 
Bhor’tarat’s hands. "A word with you, if you would."

"Dharu!" Mhinad scowled, rocking back on his heels, his eyes smoldering, his 
hand still gripping the hilt of his sword. "Save your breath, for I know what 
you would say--"

"Do you? Are you, perchance, a reader of minds, my lord?" Dharu cut him off 
smoothly. "I think you ought to hear me ere you decide what you do and do not 
know."

"Are you certain that this is wise? They watch me already, and you know that 
none trust you!" By which statement, Dharu understood him to mean that he did 
not trust him, either, nominal allies though they were. None of my so-called 
allies trust me, Dharu thought, pulling an aggrieved, slightly exasperated face. 
How wise of them!

Aloud, he said, "We risk marring each other’s plans if we do not speak. As for 
the northern lords, they have always suspected me. Naught that I do can be 
viewed without suspicion. Thus any meeting between us merely allows them to feel 
satisfied with their own cleverness, to have guessed my game. Nevertheless, I 
would prefer that our conversation take place somewhere private, where watchful 
eyes cannot see us."

"Oh very well!" Mhinad sighed. "Come! To my chambers, then." Which was a good 
way of covering himself, for at the least, it would seem that Dharu had pressed 
for the meeting (which was actually true enough for once!), which might deflect 
some suspicion from Mhinad himself. "You saw that staff man today?" Bhor’tarat’s 
lord asked in an undertone as they continued down the corridor.

"Aye, I saw him. What matter, Mhinad? Surely you do not think we live in 
tranquil times!"

"Nay, but I do not trust them. Sauron tried to stamp them out and failed, more’s 
the pity! I only wonder whether he was invited to the keep, or whether he came 
of his own whim. You would not happen to know anything about that, would you?" 
Mhinad shot him a hard look, and Dharu merely smiled slightly.

"I do not believe in the powers of such men to predict the future. Which of 
them, after all, predicted the downfall of the Overlord? Why, then, would I have 
interest in such a one?"

"I had rather hoped you would tell me," the other man replied in a low voice.

"Come, Mhinad," Dharu said persuasively. "If you wish your people to prosper and 
your designs to succeed, then you must learn to distinguish the important from 
the ignoble. Let us waste no more words on the trivia of the day! There are 
larger things afoot, after all--much larger things, as Gondor shall shortly 
learn!"

***

"I think he does not know yet," Legolas said, glancing from Indirkan to Faramir. 
The three stood in the middle of the antechamber to the suite of rooms that the 
Ithilien lords would share, while Faramir’s men stowed what gear they had and 
investigated the chambers. Indirkan’s people were engaged in similar activities 
down the hall a ways. "But he knows that I am not your common servant, at least. 
How often has Lord Dharu seen Elves?"

"I think he may never have seen one, save for the queen," Faramir replied, 
thinking back to the three occasions when he had met the man. Twice in Harad, 
once at Minas Tirith, and on none of those occasions had Elves been present. Or 
so I think! ‘Twas not a festival, so the likelihood is low, but I know that he 
has been introduced to Arwen. With a sigh, he said, "Unfortunately, he is 
astute, and I doubt not that he will eventually realize what you are, my friend. 
And there are others who, though never introduced formally to any of your 
people, have seen them before at court. You know that they distrust Imrahil for 
his elvish airs, which is in part why I am here and he is not. Dharu may not 
need to think overmuch to discover your identity, only listen."

"In any case," Indirkan intervened, "Legolas’ identity is a matter for later 
discussion. Until they are certain of your race, my lord prince, they dare not 
act against you. And even once they do learn what you are, nothing may 
happen--we fear Elves, yes, and some may seek to destroy them, but you are 
shielded in part because you are Faramir’s, or so they think. Dwell not overmuch 
on the fact that you shall be watched, Legolas. In Rhath-Ihnfar, one expects to 
be watched, and you may take my word that each of the councilors is discussing 
this meeting with his escorts, all of whom, I might add, are guard captains. As 
for your own men, at your request, Faramir, I have done my best over the past 
few days to instruct Mablung and Beregond in the etiquette of hradari escorts, 
so that none shall spot a weakness and try to exploit it. Nevertheless, be you 
cautious! Remember that poison is the preferred weapon among the high lords of 
Harad, so do not eat or drink anything that has not first been tested by one of 
your men. If you open your own letters, wear gloves! If you can avoid breaking 
the seal, then do so! I can tell you now that Lord Mhinad is not best pleased by 
your presence, and even the supposed ‘northern coalition’ is of two minds about 
you, Faramir. Legolas may be an Elf, but you are the king’s right hand and they 
remember you from Ithilien. We all do!"

"Strange to say it, for I have never loved war, but almost I wish I only faced 
them across the battlefield!" Faramir sighed, then gave a slight smile, 
dismissing the matter with a minute wave of his hand. "Never mind! There is much 
to consider ere we meet again with the lords of Harad. And those of us who are 
not Elves might prefer to rest in that interval. Good day, Indirkan. Rest you 
well."

"Rest you safely, and keep your dagger under your pillow," Indirkan replied, 
which response was hardly conducive to sleep. Then he bowed and quietly left, 
his escorts scurrying to cover him, front and back.

"Is it possible that Dharu is merely cautious, isolating himself from the others 
to avoid sharing in their troubles?" Legolas asked when the door had closed, 
returning to a topic oft-debated among the three of them--Indirkan, Faramir, and 
himself.

"I would like to believe so, but I fear I dare not! I still cannot quite believe 
that he is in league with Mhinad and Rhist of Ghoradi House, yet that does not 
mean he has not his own agenda. His aims may not be wholly in accord with our 
own, for all that he has professed often in the past to honor Gondor’s alliance. 
And so long as we do not know his plans, we cannot know how to position 
ourselves with respect to him."

"I would ask whether Aragorn knows what a task he has given you," Legolas 
murmured.

"He knows. We have spoken too often of this, and the king has been playing this 
game longer than have I," Faramir replied. And then, in a voice so low that even 
Legolas had to concentrate to hear it: "I hope only that I do not disappoint him 
in this!"

"I think you need not worry about that, my friend," Legolas said softly and with 
utter certainty, and was surprised by the look that that elicited. For one 
instant, Faramir’s guard seemed to drop, and the Elf found himself staring at a 
very young, very weary, and very anxious man whose grey eyes evinced a desperate 
hope: Do you truly think so? they seemed to ask. It was a brief moment and 
Faramir covered it quickly and so naturally that Legolas almost doubted what he 
had seen. Almost. What was that, I wonder? the elven prince wondered, disturbed. 
Granted I have not known him long, but even Aragorn has not kept so much from me 
in sixteen years. This journey seems to work something in him... something that 
began with his brother, perhaps? he mused, thinking of their conversation ten 
days ago, as they had waited near Poros, and then again of that moment in 
Mharosh. But ere he could decide whether to voice his questions, Faramir 
preempted him, moving past that moment of doubt.

"Well, time shall tell. And as the sun is risen already, I shall speak to 
Beregond and then retire for the day."

"Very well then. If you could convince Mablung to rest as well, and perhaps to 
order all his men to conserve their strength...." Legolas added, striving to 
lighten the other’s mood a bit.

"Then that would leave you in a dangerous city without any minders, and I would 
be derelict in my duty," Faramir replied sweetly enough and gave him a crooked 
smile. "Welcome to Harad, Legolas!" With that, the steward left him to join 
Beregond, who was quietly discussing something with Mablung on the other side of 
the room, and Legolas stared after him. Welcome indeed! Habit had him moving to 
a deep-set window, and heedless of Mablung’s suddenly taut expression, he 
settled upon the sill, letting one leg dangle over the outer edge as he drew the 
knee of the other leg up to his chest, leaning back against the frame to think. 
So many closed doors in this land... closed windows and closed minds... and 
Faramir is not least among those with secrets, I think! The sun shone warmly 
upon his face, hot even at this early hour. With a sigh, the Elf stared eastward 
and let the light dazzle his eyes.

***

It was the heat that woke him. His dreams had been filled with fire--searing 
flame that had tormented him to the sing-song babble of some demonic verse. Then 
had come the darkness again, interrupted only by dim and fleeting nightmares of 
pure sensation: heat and jarring, jolting movement, and a feeling of odd 
dissociation from the aches that he knew racked him. No real thought, nor even 
vision, just the feel of pressure, stifling pressure and his heart beating out 
of time with the world. Just that, and the heat, which was constant, throbbing 
at points and diffusing more generally throughout him. And between ragged bits 
of dreams, there was always darkness, yet almost never silence. Ever there 
whispered and occasionally roared a noise not unlike the sea that he had never 
seen. But unlike water, which cooled and soothed, the sound brought with it the 
caress of flame, and Nharadh groaned involuntarily, opening his eyes to the 
sandy floor of the canyon.

"Ha! A idat!" Laughter greeted that, a rumble of grimly amused voices and 
foreign words. Blinking against the brightness, Nharadh attempted to shield his 
eyes, but found that he could not move. A rather bleary-eyed glance downwards 
revealed that his captors had trussed him up quite nicely--bound at the ankles, 
again at the thighs, and twice round his torso to hold his arms fast at his 
sides, his wrists were in any case bound behind his back. His left arm was numb 
from supporting his dead weight, and the bonds about his thighs rubbed painfully 
against the cut on his right leg as he writhed a bit. He supposed he ought to be 
grateful that he could not feel his left hand at all, but his right shoulder 
throbbed as if to compensate for that reprieve. A pebble struck him, bouncing 
off his forehead, and he managed to glare at his captors, who only grinned back 
from their place beneath a thin strip of rock. A little ways further, where the 
ledge broadened appreciably, two horses stood with their heads down. "Awake at 
last, little one!" one of the Variags said, his hradathur heavily accented. "Do 
you want for anything?" he mocked.

"For a few fewer Variags," muttered Nharadh, ere he could think the better of 
it.

"You killed two of our men and wounded Shathi," the man replied levelly. "Three 
horses you slew, and we had to put down a fourth. Such company as you have, you 
have earned, little one." The man rose and came forward a few steps to kneel 
before Nharadh, reaching out to clutch fistfuls of robe. The long brigandine 
that the hradari wore meant that his fingers did not scrape against the knife 
wound, but the pressure against his shoulder made him hiss as he was lifted 
slightly. "Such company, and also such treatment! You have ridden your last, 
hradari! From today until Khera, you walk. You drink last, after the horses and 
only as much as we allow you. You eat last, if at all and only because your 
uniform makes you a captain. Were it not for that, we would slay you! Understand 
you me if I speak thus to you, little one?" the man sneered, giving him a 
sudden, hard shake that rocked Nharadh’s head on his shoulders, and the hradari 
twisted, trying to worm out of the other’s grasp. With a disgusted curse, the 
Variag simply dropped him. Nharadh winced, and then the wince became a grimace 
as the man caught his face in a rough, one-handed grip. "Save your strength, 
hradari, for the day waxes!" With that, the man released him and retired to 
huddle with his fellows beneath the ledge, leaving Nharadh on the very edge of 
the shadow of the eastern wall... a shadow which was shrinking.

Nharadh caught his breath, realizing their intentions, and he craned his neck to 
glance up at the edge of the cliff, which was backed by a painfully bright sky. 
Even in the shade, the heat was uncomfortable, if tolerable, but once the sun 
cleared the canyon’s rim... . The sun shines on the floor of this rift for 
perhaps an hour or two at most, though the heat lingers long after. And I have 
my robes... I can survive this! Of course he could survive--the Variags wanted 
him to live, else they would have killed him already, as their commander had 
said. Even had the exposure been longer, it was possible to live through it, if 
one was properly equipped and trained. Nharadh had only the clothes on his back, 
but that included a hood. If he could cover his face with it, and if he could 
present less of himself to the sun’s direct glare, then he should weather the 
experience. It would not be pleasant, but that was the point, after all. 
Gritting his teeth, he rolled onto his stomach and managed to get his knees 
under him so that he could sit up. Numbed limbs responded sluggishly, and pain 
shot up his right leg, but he ignored it as he twitched his shoulders forward, 
once, twice, and then again until the hood fell suddenly over his head. With a 
soft sigh of relief, he raised his eyes to the Variag commander’s, noting the 
other’s slight smile and he bared his teeth in return as he settled himself to 
wait. Normally, he would have knelt with his legs further apart for balance and 
his cloak spread out to provide some shade, but the way he was bound made it 
impossible to take advantage of such a stance.

No matter! So long as my head is covered and I do not faint, I should be well 
enough! Lowering his eyes, he stared at the sand, and tried to calm himself. The 
Gondorrim spoke of glad news as brightening the day, or of joy like a sunny day 
in April, earning odd looks from the hradari. As a telling counterpoint, the 
hradari would threaten their unruly children with a day spent in the sun, and 
Nharadh could feel his skin prickling already as the light spilled over the edge 
of the cliff and touched the back of his neck. Not since yesterday afternoon had 
he had aught to drink, and thirst plagued him already. Do not think of it! he 
ordered himself, knowing that dwelling upon his discomfort would only make it 
seem worse. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the sand before him and watched as the 
line of shade retreated inexorably toward the cliff wall....

***

"Halareth!" Líriel sighed softly, glancing up from her book when she heard 
Halareth squeal delightedly from on high. Her sister was in the tree across the 
way, ignoring the pained expressions of her nurse and the two guardsmen who 
watched anxiously from the ground. "Halareth, do please come down!" the 
long-suffering Eilith called up beseechingly.

"Líri!" Halareth cried, ignoring her nurse’s entreaties.

"Aye, what is it, Hal?" Líriel demanded. From where she perched amid the 
branches, her sister pointed out over the wall of the gardens.

"I can see Emyn Arnen from here!"

"Yes, Hal, I am certain you can. ‘Tis not so far, after all," Líriel replied 
blandly. Halareth shot her a pouting look and stuck her tongue out, dignified 
princess that she was.

"Oh what fun are you? You sit there and read all day!" Halareth complained.

"I like to read," Líriel answered back in an absent-seeming tone, lowering her 
eyes to the pages again. And with the book safely between herself and the 
others, she grinned. All the guardsmen and nurses in the Citadel knew quite well 
that she and Halareth were Arwen’s daughters, and therefore had a share in the 
blood of Elrond Half-elven himself. They were no more likely to fall out of a 
tree than their mother was, but neither girl had had much success in convincing 
their minders of this. Possibly this was because none of the guards or nurses 
had ever seen Arwen climb a tree, but given that she was an Elf, even if a 
Noldorin Elf, it seemed reasonable to conclude that she could. Certainly her 
daughters were unafraid of heights and quite at home in them, much to the dismay 
of the court. That irritated Líriel, who knew that boys her own age were already 
training for war and suffered far worse hurts as a matter of course. If we had a 
brother, would they be half as concerned if he joined us? she wondered. Which 
was why she yelled across the lawn: "Go find a bird’s nest, Hal, and leave me 
be!" At that, Eilith’s face turned an interesting shade of red as she stared 
despairingly up at the branches, for Halareth simply laughed and began climbing 
higher.

Pleased with herself, Líriel really did return to her interrupted reading. She 
did enjoy tales, but of late, she had delved quite seriously into the library 
records, seeking information about Harad. Despite Aragorn’s assurance that she 
had time to learn Haradrim politics, Líriel found herself urgently compelled to 
learn more. Her tutors she had badgered with questions and she had listened 
carefully in council whenever Harad was mentioned, which was often of late. And 
in the evenings, she had taken to walking with Kirdali around the Citadel’s 
grounds, asking her question after question about her native land. She thought 
that the old woman was pleased by this, even if she seemed often sad when they 
returned home. Kirdali had even lent her some of her own books to aid in her 
studies, though none of them were political. Still, Líriel devoured them, 
seeking the key to understand Gondor’s ancient enemies. For if Ada must go to 
war again, as seems too likely, I would know everything there is to know of the 
Haradrim and their land. Líriel might never ride with her father into 
battle--and for that she supposed she ought to be quite grateful--but through 
her studies, she gained a measure of peace, as if by knowing what lay before 
him, she did travel with him. And if I am with him in thought, I can watch over 
him, too. If mother can do it, so can I!

"Líri!" Halareth called again, and Líriel looked up again, frowning in 
irritation. But her annoyance drained swiftly away as she registered the fear in 
her sister’s voice.

"Hal?" Laying her book aside on the grass, Líriel rose and went swiftly to the 
foot of the tree, there to stare up into the branches, seeking Halareth. It was, 
however, no use: the screen of leaves was too thick now that Halareth had moved 
higher. With a sigh, and ere anyone could stop her, Líriel hopped up onto a 
stone bench, and thence to the top of the garden’s wall. From there, she grasped 
the lowest branch and swung up into the tree, clutching at her skirts. Halareth 
was young enough that she did not care about such things yet, but Líriel rather 
wished she had worn trousers today. "Would you mind... ah... moving back a bit?" 
She motioned to the guards and Eilith. The adults exchanged looks of 
exasperation, but after a moment, they obeyed, though Eilith looked ready to 
burst. "Thank you!" With that, Líriel quickly began picking her way through the 
branches, ascending easily. At length, she saw Halareth, clinging to some of the 
slenderer branches. "Hal, what is it?" she asked as she drew near.

Wordlessly, Halareth pointed down towards the streets of the sixth circle, and 
Líriel followed the line of her arm. Below, there came a horseman, moving 
quickly up the main street. Horses are not allowed past the second circle! Not 
unless.... Líriel felt her insides grow cold and tight, and she stared as the 
rider approached the final, cavernous tunnel that led up to the Citadel. 
Already, the guards there were motioning him to slow down, to dismount, and the 
horse had scarcely come to a halt when the rider leapt from the saddle. Cair 
Andros’ livery, she thought. A messenger... a messenger who cannot wait. "What 
does that mean?" Halareth asked just then.

"I do not know," Líriel replied honestly. But I suspect! "Come, Hal, I think we 
had best go down now. Nana and Ada may want to talk to us soon. Come on!" She 
gave Halareth’s skirts a tug, and after a moment, her sister obeyed, scrambling 
down with a squirrel’s ease. Líriel followed more slowly, thinking, trying to 
compose herself.

"Why must you torment me, child? Can you not see the danger...?" Eilith had 
already begun her lecture by the time the king’s elder daughter dropped to the 
ground. Halareth stood there, looking uneasy, and she threw a pleading look at 
Líriel.

"Eilith," Líriel said, interrupting her, then glanced past the nurse to the two 
guards. "A rider has come-- right up into the Sixth Circle ere he dismounted. I 
think Halareth and I should return to the Tower. Come on, Hal!" She grasped her 
sister’s hand tightly, tugging her along to retrieve her book.

"Something is wrong, isn’t it?" Halareth asked in a low voice, glancing up 
darkly at Líriel.

"Something has happened, that seems certain. But wrong... I cannot say!" she 
replied in as soothing a tone as she could manage. "Let us go find Ada, shall 
we?" With that and ignoring Eilith’s protests, the two girls dashed through the 
gardens and across the courtyard. Through the main hall of the Tower, past the 
throne room and on towards the war room and their father’s offices they went, 
surprising the guards with their speed.

"Here now!" The one stationed outside the door to Aragorn’s office made a grab, 
trying to restrain them from bursting in on the King of Gondor, but Líriel, 
though not a warrior, was not completely untutored in the art of defense. She 
ducked and her left hand darted up, delivering a glancing blow to the other’s 
forearm that caused him to miss her. Twisting the doorknob, she hit the door 
with her shoulder at nearly full tilt and she and Halareth skidded to a halt 
just inside the room. Aragorn turned swiftly away from his conversation with 
Lord Húrin, his hand closing automatically on the dagger he always wore. Both 
men stared at them in bewilderment, then exchanged a look of concerned 
confusion.

"Excuse me," Aragorn murmured to Húrin, releasing his hold on the dagger’s hilt 
as he strode towards his daughters.

"Father," Líriel managed, panting still.

"I trust that this is urgent?" the king asked, his voice suggesting that if it 
were not, there would be words later on about this.

"A rider came!" Halareth gasped.

"From Cair Andros, Father," Líriel elaborated. "He rode straight up from the 
gates to the Sixth Circle ere they made him leave the horse!"

"What?" Húrin demanded sharply, and Aragorn’s expression grew very intent at 
that, and his mouth tightened slightly, which Líriel knew was not a good sign.

"Cair Andros...." Aragorn glanced over his shoulder towards the east, as if he 
would pierce the stonework and see the isle that guarded the entrance to 
Anórien.

"‘Tis ever Cair Andros!" Húrin sighed.

"And ever Ithilien," the king murmured under his breath. "Éowyn!"

"Sire!" The guard, who had been standing speechless in the doorway ever since 
Líriel and Halareth had dodged past him, spoke up then, just as the sound of 
hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor. The four of them turned toward the 
noise, and after a moment, two men arrived. One was a guardsman, obviously sent 
to guide the other, who wore Cair Andros’ colors.

"My king," the messenger said, going to one knee.

"What news?" Aragorn asked, sounding oddly calm. As if he knows already the 
tidings! Líriel thought, staring at her father. And she supposed, given all she 
knew, that she could at least make a guess. For what else could send a man so 
swiftly to Minas Tirith, if not the news that....

"Rhûn has invaded Ithilien!"



~~~~~




Chapter Nine
Bondage




For though I sit, and though I knit my cares in towers high,

I die, I die by you, my love, upon the far-flung fields flowery,

Once for loss, and once for grief, and all for homeland’s bitter glory.

--Silvaríel of Arnor, fragment from "Bondage."

****

A thin, wavering ray of light pierced the darkness, growing broader, 
illuminating a patch of the stone floor as the door opened wider and a tall 
shadow slipped within the room. The windows stood open, for it was a warm night 
and the air was filled with the scents of springtime in Gondor: ivy and herb, 
tilled earth and grass, and the perfumed exhalations of the night blooms that 
grew below in the gardens. A soothing scent, one made to lull a restless soul to 
sleep--a peaceful smell. Deceptively so! Aragorn thought resignedly as he set 
down the candle that he bore. Folding his arms across his chest, Gondor’s king 
considered the two forms curled up beside each other in one of the beds, and 
smiled to note who had won the lion’s share of the pillows. Halareth might be 
the younger and smaller of the two, but she had a tenacity that even a Dwarf 
might admire; Líriel, trying her best to mimic her mother's stately manners and 
mannerisms, tended to accede to the younger girl’s impulses with a severe stare 
ere she politely ignored them. For a time, at least. And once her patience runs 
out she is every bit the hawk to the other's ferret! Aragorn thought, amused, 
noting the copious amount of feathers that lay strewn all about. I shall have to 
have a word with them in the morning. Or else Arwen shall.

That uncertainty over who would have that conversation was, in fact, a part of 
why he had come so late. Rhûn and Ithilien. I would I could have come earlier, 
but there were so many other tasks that I could not put off ‘til later. For 
there shall be no ‘later’: we leave tomorrow. Again! Aragorn heaved an inaudible 
sigh as he went silently to the bedside, there to kneel down, the better to see 
his daughters’ faces. Halareth slept curled up, two somewhat battered pillows 
caught in her arms; Líriel lay at her back, cradling her sister, with one arm 
draped limply over the younger girl and her chin pressed into Halareth’s hair. 
Dark-haired, both of them, and every inch their mother’s daughters. But for all 
that, they are so very different from each other, and from Arwen. For though at 
first glance the girls seemed Arwen’s very image, a closer look revealed a 
subtle adulteration of elvish blood. In the sharpness of their features, which 
ran towards severe; in their complexions, which tanned readily in summer; in the 
set if not shape of Líriel’s eyes; and in that particular sly grin that Halareth 
affected when she was being clever, Aragorn could see traces of himself as well. 
But the rest… the rest was very much Arwen’s influence, and for that he was 
glad.

I shall miss you both! Aragorn gently stroked Halareth’s cheek, smiling as she 
yawned in her sleep. "Pleasant dreams, little one," he murmured softly. "And 
you, Líriel, if you can manage the task and yourself at once, keep your sister 
out of trouble!" He reached over Halareth to smooth long, dark hair from his 
elder daughter’s face. Líriel grunted softly, almost as if she had heard him, 
ere she snuggled further down beneath the light blankets. A shadow fell upon him 
as someone passed soundlessly between himself and the candle on the night stand, 
and then hands settled upon his shoulders. After a moment of silence, Aragorn 
said in a low voice, "I thought Halareth had given up sleeping in her sister’s 
bed."

"She only does so when she knows you mean to leave," Arwen replied. "And then 
she waits until you have come to kiss her ere she creeps to Líriel for comfort. 
It would not do to have you know her secret, after all, for only little girls 
are frightened!"

"Little girls and grown men, say rather! And how do you know this, then?" 
Aragorn asked, curious, craning his neck to look up at Arwen.

"Líriel told me once, for I came late to see them and Halareth slept already in 
her arms. It was after you went to Ithilien earlier this year, to see Faramir."

"Ah." With that, he fell silent once more, and for a moment, husband and wife 
simply watched their daughters. But ere long, he felt Arwen’s hands tighten on 
his shoulders.

"Kiss them farewell, Aragorn," she urged, whispering now so as not to risk 
waking either girl.

Obediently, Aragorn did so, bestowing one light but heart-felt kiss on each 
forehead ere he rose and edged past Arwen to blow out the candle. "Dream well," 
he wished them both, glancing back at them for a long moment. Then, turning from 
his daughters, he laid an arm about Arwen’s shoulders, and smiled as she slipped 
one of hers round his waist. Together they quietly crept out of the nursery, 
bidding Eilith a good night as they left and exited into the hall, closing the 
door in their wake. Aragorn glanced up and down the corridor quickly, and since 
there were no others to see, he stole a kiss from his wife as they walked. That 
elicited a laugh from Arwen, and also a light smack on the chest for his 
trouble. "It has been a long day!" he protested by way of excuse, tightening his 
arm to press her briefly against him ere he relaxed once more.

"And the night is still young enough," Arwen replied, assuming a faint air of 
concern. "I hope you are not so very weary as you seem to imply!"

"I said not that I was weary, only that the day has been long," Aragorn said. 
"Are you certain that you can deal with Khet?"

"He shall have no choice but to deal with me. He is here to serve Harad’s 
interests in Gondor, and he cannot do that if he will not speak with me, as 
shall be made quite clear to him," she assured him.

"I wish I could have left you with Indirkan rather than with him. I wish at the 
least that I had Faramir available."

"I doubt not that Kirdali suffers from Indirkan’s absence more than do either of 
us, and I am certain that Éowyn misses the steward more than you or I could," 
Arwen answered. "Fear not for me, my dear, one obstinate Haradrim shall not 
trouble me. Discretion is the better part of valor, yet I have teeth to bite 
when necessary."

"Mmm... I had noticed," her husband replied in a suspiciously bland tone. But 
then, ere she could remark upon it, he sighed softly. "At least Harad is home to 
Indirkan, and when war comes, he shall not look on helplessly from afar. Faramir 
may hate war, yet he would defend Ithilien whatever the cost. He ought to be 
there tonight, for he has lost too many to stand by and allow others to fight 
his battles for him. Yet that seems to be his curse." In that instant Boromir’s 
ghost hovered close, and Arwen closed her eyes momentarily, letting her husband 
guide her steps. Faramir had never blamed Aragorn for his brother’s death, but 
Arwen suspected that her husband harbored still a sense of guilt for having 
failed to prevent it. That guilt colored his relationship with Faramir, as did 
the fact that the steward’s friendship kept touching upon ties and feelings that 
had once been reserved solely for Halbarad, whose death on the field of the 
Pelennor had shaken Aragorn to the core. So many ghosts! she thought, reaching 
up to place her free hand over the one that clasped her shoulders. She heard 
Aragorn sigh softly, and felt his grip tighten once more for comfort.

In silence, then, they reached their own chambers, and once within, the tension 
in her husband lightened appreciably. Having escaped unnoticed to their private 
haven, it was highly unlikely that anyone would come seeking them with some 
final question or concern, for it was generally understood that once Aragorn and 
Arwen retired, they were not to be disturbed, save in dire circumstances. Given 
the long hours they both kept, no one could complain of that stipulation, and 
not since the earliest days of their reign had anyone dared his sovereign’s 
wrath by intruding with less than cause. Which meant that they could speak and 
do as they pleased without fear of interruption. "Tell me truly, Aragorn," Arwen 
asked, as they passed through the antechamber to their sleeping quarters, "what 
think you of this invasion? Since you rode against the Easterling tribes, they 
have not had the strength nor the leadership to muster an attack. And though it 
is possible that a poor year’s harvest drives them to this, they seem not to 
ride for a final victory. Else where are the wains that would bear their 
families hither?"

"I know not, and I think that you are right--this has naught to do with a bad 
year, nor with conflict among the various peoples who live upon Rhûn’s plains. I 
can imagine no good reason for such an attack, not when they know what our 
response must be. And yet," Aragorn continued, quickly pulling his overtunic 
off, and taking Arwen’s mantle to hang them both on pegs set into the wall, "we 
have not seen such unrest in the East and South, at the same time, since 
Sauron’s fall. Coincidence sits ill with me."

"And with me. But though I doubt not that Harad is at the heart of this, does it 
not seem to you odd that she should exercise such influence, over such 
distances, when internal strife is at hand?" Arwen asked, watching as Aragorn 
sat down on the bed to take his boots off.

"Khand is closer," her husband replied grimly.

"We may have a broader conspiracy than we had imagined," Arwen said darkly, 
shaking her head as she did off her girdle and loosened the ties of her dress. 
"How many Houses might know of this? Éowyn reminds us in her latest missive that 
Bergil deeply mistrusts Dharu, but has no proof of malfeasance, and would not 
unless he could search a herald."

"Which the Haradrim shall not permit, I dare say," Aragorn replied, standing 
again to turn down the sheets. "When last we spoke, Faramir was 
inclined--cautiously, at least--to trust Dharu, for he sees it as not in his 
interest to play both sides, but he took care to say that Éowyn does not agree," 
Aragorn said, with a slight smile.

"Then be certain that you listen to her when you see her, husband mine, for 
Gondor has much to lose in this, you not least of all!" Which brought them to 
matters that touched closer to home--matters that they had discussed often 
before, and Aragorn paused in the act of unlacing his shirt, shooting a sharp, 
concerned glance at his wife.

"You know that I go not lightly," he said.

"I have never thought that of you," Arwen replied. "I have watched over all your 
departures since you were twenty, after all, love. And though I have long since 
been convinced of your caution, the years have changed naught but the gravity 
and breadth of the responsibilities that you bear. And that I bear." Arwen 
crossed the short distance between them to stand in her shift before him, and 
she caught his hands, gripping them tightly, feeling the calluses that came of 
almost five score years of a life lived by sword and dagger, bow and lance. 
Aragorn raised her hands to his lips, then settled them against his chest with 
one of his own resting atop them. With the other hand he reached out to caress 
her face, trailing his fingers down her cheek, to her throat, exploring the 
curve of her collar bone ere he moved up once more cup her chin in his hand. 
Arwen ignored the caress, saying instead, "If aught were to happen to you, 
Aragorn, Gondor might suffer another stewardship, for we have no heir to bear 
either scepter or crown."

"Daughters we have, and though in Gondor custom has changed, in the North 
Kingdom the law of Aldarion holds still. It would be a roundabout manner of 
succession, but Líriel would rule Arnor, and through the laws that bind those 
realms together again, she would inherit Gondor eventually. She, or her 
children, it matters not: the line holds still. In the mean time, we could do 
far worse than have Faramir as steward, with you as regent upon the throne, 
love." Arwen sighed softly, knowing that that was indeed the legal response, but 
they both knew well that popular opinion, though not precisely opposed to this 
solution, was nevertheless quite uneasy with it. Doubtless, should the worst 
happen--and Arwen prayed it would not--Líriel’s claim would be accepted, if only 
because Aragorn’s firm insistence on his daughter’s candidacy was a well known 
fact, and his popularity was such that the kingdom, from highest to lowest, 
would support his wishes in this matter. But that did not mean that Gondor would 
not be vulnerable for many years, until Líriel reached her majority, and beyond 
that until she had had a chance to prove herself. Perhaps not even until her own 
children grew up and a son was once again available to take up the scepter and 
crown would things settle. Given how fragile peace was, a decade’s instability, 
or even longer, was an unwelcome prospect at best. A son would, of course, 
render all such gloomy speculation moot, but as they had none, they had no 
recourse but to hold Líriel as their heir.

Aragorn knew all of this, of course, and knew equally well that having spoken on 
behalf of Gondor, the pain and worry that shone now in Arwen’s eyes had naught 
to do with political concerns. Hers was the fear of wife and lover who would not 
be left behind, to a life of memories and an empty bed; hers were eyes that 
spoke of too many partings and the dread of yet another that might end in loss. 
I know that look too well! Aragorn closed his eyes to shut it out a moment, 
unable to bear the pain. "Once I thought to say farewell to such leave-takings, 
Arwen," he sighed as he reopened them again. He released her chin to touch the 
end of one long, wayward strand of raven-dark hair, then began twining it about 
his fingers, feeling a shiver run up his spine at the silky feel of it. "Once, 
when I was young, and hopeful still that one day I could lay down my labors. 
Foolish of me, no?"

"Perhaps, but endearing nonetheless," Arwen replied, eyes flicking to the hand 
that played with her hair ere she resettled them on his face. His heart beat 
strongly beneath her hands, pulse quickening as he leaned closer to kiss her 
brow, her hair, and just behind her jaw--just there, where her own pulse 
throbbed. "Alas, we shall never see an end to such labors in our life-time," she 
murmured, smiling sadly as she explored with her fingertips the exposed portion 
of his chest, above the laces that still held his shirt half-closed.

"Nay, we shall not. And though I would never be parted from you, over the long 
years I have come to cherish our farewells. Ask me not why!" he added, sensing 
the question rise within her. "I cannot explain it, save to say that I remember 
you as radiant in those moments," he murmured between kisses, and Arwen caught 
her breath as he released her hands upon his chest to slip an arm about her 
waist and draw her close against him. For forty years, she had asked no 
more--for herself, that is--than that a day should come when she could hold him 
in her arms and know that he was hers, body and soul. Sixteen years had passed 
since that wish had been granted, and still, she found that that remained in 
truth the one thing that she wanted, save only that now she wished it would 
last. Another war. Gondor rises, but there is a price for all things. Take him 
not from me yet, Valar! Arwen fairly purred as her husband, tracing the lines of 
her collarbones, hooked his fingers into the broad collar of her shift and 
slipped it from her shoulders, letting the garment tumble the length of her body 
to the ground. She felt him continue his caress, down over her back to her hips. 
She, impatient now, slid her hands beneath his shirt and ran her palms over his 
stomach, over breast and shoulders, dragging the cloth up as she went, and then 
off over his head. He had to release her long enough to clear his arms, but the 
parting was brief and then he clasped her to him once more.

Arwen twined her arms about his neck, running the fingers of one hand through 
his hair as she let the warmth of his body seep into her own and willed it to 
drive away the chill born of another imminent separation. Her husband’s 
touch--eager, awed, hungry--bespoke his own need, and after another few moments, 
she felt him guide her back a few paces to their bed, and then bear her down 
with his weight. Arwen raised her head enough to claim a long, lingering kiss, 
ere she broke away to kiss his throat, nipping gently and hearing him laugh 
softly in response. And for all that he had the strength of many years of hard 
service, she pushed him firmly onto his back, kneeling astride him so she could 
get at the belt buckle more easily. Aragorn watched her, eyes wandering over her 
body with erotic speculation rife in them, and she smiled rather coyly down at 
him, playing suggestively with the belt, inflicting teasing caresses as she 
gazed at him. Her lover gave an exaggerated sigh, recognizing that look, then 
made a grab, missing when she swayed gracefully back, just out of reach yet 
close enough to feel his fingertips brush against her bare skin. "Impatient 
tonight, love," she murmured as if in mild reproof.

"Tonight and every night--always, Arwen! Have we not had our share of waiting, 
you and I?" he replied.

"I suppose that we have," she replied softly, relenting a bit. Trousers and belt 
soon joined the rest of their clothing on the floor, and she leaned down, 
relishing the touch of his skin against hers. Loosing her hair from its bonds, 
she let it tumble forward about her face, let it trail along his body as she 
poured herself over him ‘til they were nose to nose, staring into each other’s 
eyes. She kissed him lightly on the mouth, tugging at his lower lip with her 
teeth ere she committed to a deeper one. "Of course," she added pointedly as she 
drew back a bit, "you came late not only to your daughters but to your wife. You 
owe me somewhat, love!"

"And what might that be?" Aragorn demanded, sensing that Arwen awaited his 
response, and willing to play along for the moment.

"Your complete attention," Arwen replied.

"You have it!"

"And since because of that I shall sleep little tonight, I think that I shall 
let you speak to them about the feathers tomorrow," Arwen said sweetly, kissing 
him once more. "Do you love me, Aragorn?" she murmured a little breathlessly 
when she pulled back slightly, unable to resist the temptation to tease him a 
little more. And she smiled when he groaned softly as she trailed her fingers 
down over his taut stomach, down to touch between his thighs.

Quick as a fox, Aragorn caught her up and rolled her over, reversing their 
positions in a breathless instant. "You know the answer to that! But since you 
ask: I love you… every part of you… as I always have…." His voice sank with each 
word, and in the pauses he kissed her, moving over her body now with his mouth, 
and it was Arwen’s turn to groan. She tangled her fingers in his hair, 
possessively, and though none would know it on the morrow, she felt afraid in 
the very marrow of her bones. What if he should die this time? Arador and 
Arathorn had died young, as had many of Aragorn’s forefathers. What would I do, 
if he were to die in this war? Gilraen had lived a widow in exile, as had many 
of his foremothers, heroic in her steadfastness. But I am still newborn as a 
babe to this mortality of yours, and now that I feel it in me, I can scarce 
fathom how you have managed all these years. So very… very… many… years…. Why 
did we wait so long? And why can I not tell him what fears I have? Superstition, 
perhaps, held both their tongues, kept them speaking in terms of statecraft if 
ever they gave voice to fear, and left agony to speak itself through touch, 
through teasing words and gestures on the eve of departure that never quite 
acknowledged their inspiration. For perhaps they needed that levity, something 
to distract them even in the midst of their love-making from the gravity of the 
moment; something to distract them from the knowledge that even here, in their 
most private, most intimate moments, there was ever a third party in bed with 
them: Gondor lurked at the bedpost, and would come between them ere the night 
was over. But even an Elf who had chosen mortality and a Ranger who had earned 
his kingship could not bear forever the weight of such matters, and while words 
remained them, they teased each other, by turns serious and then playful, ‘til 
passion stole their voices, robbed language of its power, and left them with 
naught but touch and trust.

***

"Halareth!" Halareth jerked straight in her chair, and in her startlement, her 
elbow hit the inkpot, spilling its contents. With a yelp of dismay, she leapt 
up, banging her knee against one of the desk’s legs, which only caused the 
already empty vessel to roll off of the desk and onto the floor. Pottery 
shattered on flagstone, and Halareth’s brush clattered alongside the inkpot’s 
remains shortly thereafter. Mortified, the girl raised eyes full of tears to her 
mentor’s face. Kirdali’s mouth was tight-lipped, and the crow’s feet about her 
eyes were darkly evident as she fought a scowl, while Halareth felt as if her 
heart had sunk into her stomach, there to send queasy dismay pulsing throughout 
her body. "Child, have I not told you time and again that you must pay 
attention?" the Haradrim demanded sharply, even as Irin hurried forward with a 
much-stained cloth to mop up the ink. The shards she began carefully collecting, 
disposing of them in a basket in her customary silence. But ere ever Irin had 
moved or Kirdali had spoken, the door to the solar had opened and a guard had 
poked his head in, alerted by the commotion, and only Líriel’s quick gesture 
stopped him from coming any further. He paused a moment, took in the fact that 
neither princess was in danger, then relaxed visibly and retreated again, with a 
nod in Líriel’s direction. Halareth scarcely had eyes for any of it, however, 
gazing up at Kirdali and fighting her tears. "Well, child?"
"Y-yes, milady. I am sorry, I,..." Halareth paused and tried to swallow past the 
lump in her throat. Manfully, she squared her shoulders and forced the words 
out. "I should not be so careless. I do wish to learn!" Kirdali stared down at 
her oppressively, a stark-standing shadow in the bright room, and Halareth felt 
her insides quiver, like a worn harp-string, ready to break with its last note, 
or as if her innards had turned suddenly to water. I am going to cry! she 
realized with horror.

But Kirdali sighed then, and her shoulders drooped, as if suddenly, all her 
years had landed upon her at once, and she leaned against the desk, as if in 
exhaustion. "Yes, of course you do, Halareth. But I think that we have practiced 
enough for the moment. Go, girl! Take some air and take some time, and we shall 
speak again later, when we are both more focused." Halareth nodded, dropped a 
curtsey, and fairly fled out the door, likely on her way out either to the 
gardens or the nursery and Eilith’s arms. Arwen’s embrace would have been a more 
welcome comfort, but the Queen of Gondor had many tasks, Líriel knew. She had 
Khet to deal with this morning, and could not afford to remind the Haradrim that 
she was a mother, as well as a woman and an Elf, if she wished for him to 
listen. Líriel let out a heavy sigh, watching as Irin continued to clean up the 
mess with wordless efficiency, as if she were blind and deaf, and had not heard 
nor seen a thing untoward. I wish I were thus! she thought, feeling the ache in 
her own chest, knowing well her sister’s distress.

She had kept a brave face when their father had come to say farewell that 
morning. And Halareth had done her best to imitate her, but although they had 
done well enough last night to convince themselves that all would be well, it 
needed only the sight of Aragorn in his black mail, and all the regalia of a 
warrior-king, to bring fear home to roost. And perhaps he had seen them flinch, 
or sensed their sudden stillness, for his grey eyes had held a knowing look as 
he had knelt and received the fiercest embrace that two young girls could 
bestow. "Help your mother, both of you, and also Lady Kirdali," he had told 
them, when he had managed to extricate himself enough to breathe more easily. 
"If you can manage it, do not torment Eilith too badly with your antics, hm?"

"Yes, father," Líriel had replied, speaking for both of them, since Halareth 
still had her arms about Aragorn’s neck, and was clinging tightly. "And I shall 
take care of Halareth."

"Líri!" That had roused her younger sister to a display of pert indignation, and 
Aragorn had chuckled at her expression.

"Take care of each other--your uncles, in amidst all the mischief that they have 
taught you, should have taught you also that a sister or brother is the surest 
ally you could possibly have. Even if you do martyr your pillows for the sake of 
sorority," he had added, glancing at the feather-strewn floor. "Good morning to 
you both, and good night, and good day, for as many days as I am away. I love 
you." So saying, he had given them each a last kiss, then risen and left. They 
had been quite subdued after that, cleaning up the feathers in uncommon silence. 
Halareth had not even bothered to throw any of them at her sister. Although 
Aragorn had gone away on journeys before, it was the first time that she had 
understood what war might mean.

"I grow so tired of this testing," Kirdali murmured just then, sounding weary 
indeed as she, heedless of the ink, sank down upon the chair that Halareth had 
abandoned.

"Are you well, milady?" Líriel asked, concerned. Moving away from her place by 
the window, she came to stand by the older woman.

"Yes, child, you need not fret over these old bones," Kirdali replied, offering 
a slight, remorseful smile as she waved her off. "My temper occasionally 
outstrips my caution. Your sister is a very young student, and does not need my 
rebukes today." To which, Líriel could only nod, unwilling to say aught and risk 
her own composure. Kirdali gave her a long look, then said, gently, "Líriel, 
have faith--he shall be well."

"Oh, I know," Líriel replied quickly. A shade too quickly, likely, as her voice 
had a slight quaver to it. Drawing a deep breath, and attempting to order her 
thoughts, to quell with dauntless facts the wyrm of terror within, she 
continued, "Ithilien is Ranger territory--Lord Faramir trained them himself, and 
was part of them for many years. Neither he, nor Lady Éowyn would stand for the 
Easterlings to ravage their demesne. And my father shall be certain that they do 
not flee across Anduin past Cair Andros. That is a very great fortress, though 
it is smaller than some," she added, for Kirdali’s benefit. "Further north lies 
the Wetwang, and who would want to go there? Ada means to force them back east 
by boxing them in, if he can."

"And can he?"

"Of course!" Líriel replied, with more confidence than her swift-pounding heart 
might feel. Not that she doubted her father could do just as he proposed, but 
one thing he had taught her was that even the best plans go astray. And 
sometimes... sometimes one was simply unlucky. She had realized that when she 
was ten, when last her father had gone to war, and it had struck her as a 
dreadful and terrifying thing, that all the preparation in the world could not 
save one from blind luck or bad odds. It is not fair! All the years before, when 
Ada fought the orcs and in the Ring War--they ought to count for something in 
fortune’s eyes, Líriel thought, aggrieved. But she said not so, and smiled 
brightly, falsely, trying to keep up appearances. Kirdali, however, was not 
fooled, and lifted a fine brow at that. Líriel sighed, spreading her hands 
slightly as she moved restlessly about the room, trailing fingertips over the 
leather backs of books, over furniture and walls. "It is only that... well... it 
is only the third time that Ada has gone away to war."

"Truly?" Kirdali asked, sounding surprised.

"Well... no, what I meant was that it is only the third time that I remember. 
Halareth was only four when he fought against the Easterlings, and I do think 
she understood not at all what was happening."

"I had thought that Gondor was more often at war."

"In the past, before I was born, yes. And when I was very young, Father was 
often absent because of it," Líriel paused, frowning, and Kirdali, after a 
moment, gestured that she should continue. "I remember once, when I was somewhat 
younger than Hal, that he came home from some campaign or other. He came to see 
me that evening, and I... I did not recognize him. His own daughter, and I did 
not know him! Can you imagine?" Líriel demanded, pausing by a bookstand. Kirdali 
simply nodded, and in the face of silent encouragement, the girl continued. "His 
beard was much longer, and his hair as well; it was crinkly, too, as if he had 
had it in a braid for a long while. He was very darkly tanned--now that I think 
of it, he looked a proper Haradrim, almost, and I... I think he limped a little. 
I asked Nana who he was, and I remember him closing his eyes, as if he were very 
tired of a sudden, and mother’s face grew very still." She darted a look in 
Kirdali’s direction, seeming ashamed even now, or else subdued. Kirdali was not 
certain which it was, as Líriel continued in a low voice, "It was well for all 
of us that the next few years were peaceful enough. He left once to deal with 
the Corsair remnant, and two years ago, he rode with Éomer King against the 
Easterlings. Short wars," she murmured, absently flipping through the book that 
lay open on the stand, watching the pages fall away from her fingers like sand 
through an ancient hour-glass. "Short wars, but long weeks of waiting, and 
trying not to answer Halareth’s questions too closely."

"Have faith, then, that this one, too, shall be short. But know that even a long 
war can bring family home at last, and there is joy to be had in relearning the 
face of a loved one," Kirdali replied.

"Mm," Líriel replied, avoiding a skeptical answer, and was silent awhile, 
thinking. It will not be a short war, that I know, for I am my father’s 
daughter! After a few moments, therefore, she shook herself, assuming a 
determined air. Straightening, she closed the book and nodded to Kirdali, a nod 
calculated to imitate Arwen’s regal gesture. "I had best go and see to Halareth. 
Good morning, milady," she said politely, and the Haradrim inclined her head in 
response. Kirdali watched as the girl turned and marched away, head held high in 
defiance of all the world it seemed, and the old woman gave Irin a sad smile. So 
young! Her maid returned the smile with a small one of her own, then finished 
blotting the ink upon the desk, throwing the cloth into the basket with the 
shards. The stain would remain until someone sanded the surface, and Kirdali 
sighed as she turned her attention to Halareth’s aborted efforts. She was 
improving, had been steadily—she had progressed from her own name to those of 
others, and despite her distraction today, she showed signs of growth. Or 
perhaps it is because of her ‘distraction’ that she improves--my art changed 
when Ndirak left, Kirdali thought resigned to the truth that had haunted her all 
her life. There was no growth without struggle, and fear, pain, and tragedy were 
often a student’s best teachers, and midwives to her art, if she could endure 
the pangs of labor. And Halareth shall have many years to learn from them. More, 
perhaps, than did I, if she lives long enough. With a sigh, Kirdali rose, 
feeling chilled as she had not in years. The sun might be cooler here than in 
Harad, but she felt a need of its heat on her back. Irin, seeing that she moved 
to leave, hastily came and took up the ink-smeared paper.

"Shall I dispose of it, my honored lady?" she asked in a soft voice.

"Nay, Irin. Leave it in my chambers. I shall take Lhinya and go out into the 
gardens. You are free for a time."

"Yes, my honored lady." Irin knelt, crouching in Haradrim obeisance, waiting 
until Kirdali had left the room. Then she rose, glancing after her mistress ere 
she cocked her head curiously at the paper. Splotched and stained as it was, one 
could still read what was written thereon: Adar.

***

Etun stood upon the ramparts that loomed up before north, and with a gloved 
finger, idly traced the sigil etched into the corner stones by hradari artists. 
North was the quarter of death by thirst, and many were the hradari who traced 
the same sigil into the air to ward off that fate. His grand-father had taught 
him the quarters when he was a young child:

North lies under the shadow of thirst;

East lies under the blaze of fire;

West lies under sword and curse;

South lies under the spell of lyre.

Go not to the north to drown in dust,

Nor to the east, where ashes burn,

Nor seek west for glory dear,

Nor go south, temptation-lured....

Etun paused, trying to remember the last two lines of that ancient rhyme. How 
did it go? One was to stand still, yet I cannot recall the words. Perhaps 
because he had always been struck by the fact that the hradari so casually 
ignored the advice of the poet, and had gone eagerly to face the West, which lay 
under the doom of sword and curse. Since Sauron’s fall, one heard that line 
repeated oft among the hradari, as if Gondor’s victory were prophetic proof of 
ancient wisdom. Not that Etun heeded overmuch the advice of a forgotten hradari 
bard, yet there were elements of truth to that rhyme, and as he stood there, 
following the graven lines of the warding symbol with his fingers, it troubled 
him that he could not remember the rest of it. Two lines short, I think, and 
those two lines the lesson of it all. To stand still.... Perhaps he needed not 
the last two lines, if only he remembered the lesson, and Etun smiled slightly, 
closing his eyes against the brightness of the afternoon.

He knew not how long he had stood there ere he heard the scrape of boots on 
stone and the ragged breathing of one unaccustomed to such heat. After a few 
more moments, Reda’s voice sounded at his side. "Captain... should you not be 
resting, now that your watch is finished? What is there to see in this wasteland 
at this hour?"

"‘To see the day in the desert is to seek madness or the holy,’" Etun quoted, 
opening his eyes and turning to gaze at his suffering lieutenant. "So I was 
taught, long ago, and I would test the truth of it." Reda frowned at that and 
cast a wary glance out at the desert; clearly, he saw naught but rock, sand and 
dirt, stretching out in all directions. "What brings you in search of me, 
lieutenant?" Etun prompted after awhile, since Reda remained silent.

"Only that our prisoners remain close-mouthed. So Hrenat tells me, and our 
people have had no better luck."

"So. We still know not whether Gondor will trade for these men," Etun replied. 
"A pity none have noble blood in them, for then we might have a better lever, 
but common soldiers are as naught, unless they come in great numbers."

"Surely some of the other captains must have captured some," Reda replied.

"Some," Etun answered, pressing thumb and forefinger together at the tips, then 
making a brushing gesture to indicate the negligible numbers. "Hatred runs deep 
and boils at the surface in the South. The hradari took very few Gondorrim 
prisoners, preferring to slaughter them like dogs than keep them for 
questioning. An unfortunate decision, as the hradari prisoners have little 
information of any value, whereas the Gondorrim might be able to tell us more of 
Gondor’s position. I suppose they have said nothing about that, either?"

"No, sir. As I said, a close-mouthed lot, even if they do greet us with 
outrage," Reda snorted, shaking his head. "They look down upon us with such an 
aura of right, ‘tis all I can do not to laugh. Prisoners they are, yet they seem 
to expect better than to live as such."

"And yet they speak not. They are not soft, at least, whatever they may expect," 
Etun pointed out. "I may yet grow to admire them somewhat." Reda raised a 
skeptical brow at that, and Etun gave a half-smile. "Courage I admire, wherever 
it is found. And since the Gondorrim show it, it behooves me to insure that 
their testing respects it." His lieutenant still seemed rather skeptical, but 
Reda had grown used to Etun’s odd ways long ago. Indeed, he ought to know better 
than many that Etun’s respect for another’s courage would not stay his hand: 
once, Reda had accused his captain of harboring hradari sensibilities that 
hindered his judgment. It had been quite true in that instance, and Etun had 
left him with a scar across one cheek and welts on his back. But he had also 
made Reda his chief lieutenant after that incident. Not the most subtle man, 
Reda, and not one to appreciate irony overmuch, yet he was sharp and direct, 
both virtues for a lieutenant to have. And he is a good example, for all know 
well the tale of that scar and his promotion, and so know what I expect of them, 
Etun thought, returning his attention to the desert. Stand still.... "In three 
days’ time, we leave to assemble just south of Mahnit at Barok’an fort. The 
commander there has already struck north to take Zhari, and has sent a company 
to circle about Mahnit and waylay any messengers who may try to leave the city, 
and also to warn if reinforcements should arrive. They should not--there has 
been no time, even had a messenger reached Rhath-Ihnfar. You know what to do, 
but spare me some of the Gondorrim--those who seem to have some rank, and those 
who seem healthy enough to endure for a time."

"You want none of the hradari?"

"Save a very few--I leave the numbers to your decision, since I hope that we 
shall have their captain in our hands shortly--but the rest are of no use to us, 
save as slaves. Between Zhari and Mahnit, we shall have plenty of those, and 
less dangerous ones at that. But be cautious--be certain that you have Hrenat’s 
people help you, else we risk creating resentment. The prisoners may be hradari, 
and the hradari may turn on their own, yet we are foreigners here. We dare not 
give the impression either that we expect them to slay their own without our 
help, or that we are unduly thirsty for their blood."

"Aye, sir. It shall be done. That at least shall make the watches less difficult 
to balance," Reda replied, then grimaced. "I can pick you some Gondorrim, 
captain, but have you any preference? We have only one who seems to have any 
rank, and he is sore hurt."

"Ah yes," Etun murmured, searching for a name to attach to the face in his mind. 
"Arendil, I think it is, no?" At Reda’s nod, Etun continued, "Keep him for a 
time. If we find their captain, then we may be able to dispense with him, 
depending upon whether Gondor is willing to bargain with us for him. Else, 
choose whom you will. In any case, keep quiet the date. I doubt that knowing it 
would make them more pliable--it may increase their defiance if they know they 
need only last another two days."

"Or it may breed a riot," Reda replied. They had had one already, and Etun had 
not been best pleased with the results. Of their original twenty-five Gondorrim, 
four had died shortly after capture of wounds sustained in battle. And thanks to 
the prison riot, an additional ten were now dead, either in the fight, or as 
examples afterward. The hradari ranks had been devastated as well. "Will you not 
come down now, sir? Whatever else one may say of the hradari, they are wise to 
sleep during the day in this country, even as our lowlanders do."

Etun laughed softly, eyeing his lieutenant. "Am I your son, now, as well?"

"You are my captain; your health is my concern. Our men look to you for 
guidance, who are all the authority of Khand in this venture."

"You speak truly," Etun’s eyes narrowed, and his lieutenant blinked, wondering 
at the look that passed over his captain’s face: a slow, satisfied smile.

"Sir?" he asked.

"‘All the world is in a man, to traverse at his will/Wisdom lies not elsewhere 
but in learning to stand still,’" Etun answered. At Reda’s uncomprehending look, 
Etun waved a hand in dismissal. "Something I had long forgotten; your words 
brought it back."

"Ah. Forgive me, sir, if I call you not holy," Reda replied, shaking his hand. A 
bold jest, but as he had already earned the right to test his captain’s humor, 
Etun took no offense.

"So long as you call me not a madman, either, I shall be content to agree," Etun 
replied. Clapping his second in command on the shoulder, he began moving towards 
the stairs. And as they walked, he asked, "Tell me, Reda, have you ever heard 
the Rhyme of the Quarters?"

"Nay, I have not, captain. What is it?"

"It is a hradari verse--a poem taught early to children, but ‘tis not best 
suited to them, perhaps. Whoever wrought it had, perhaps, more wisdom than his 
descendents, for he knew the path to victory even then."

"And what path is that, sir?"

"The path that ends where it begins--the way of standing still, as the poem 
said."

"Sir?"

"Think on it, Reda. Khand would rise, yet we cannot challenge Gondor or Harad in 
a contest of arms. And so we stand still, and with such levers as we have, we 
move them against each other. Thus we gain what we wish, all while standing 
still." Reda had that particular look that told Etun that his lieutenant was 
being conscientious in his tolerance of his captain’s peculiarities.

"You claim, then, to be a lever?"

"Did you think we were aught else?"

"Nay...."

"You lack subtlety, Reda--I have told you before, you ought to read more," Etun 
admonished easily.

"They call us crafty who are Variag, yet not for me such bloodless scholarly 
pursuits," Reda replied, as he always did. "What eloquence I have is at the edge 
of my sword."

"‘The sword is the expression of knowledge, and in its wielding is the power of 
truth.’ So said Thanat, to whose memory you swore when you pledged to serve 
Khand. But enough of philosophy," Etun said as they paused at the top of the 
stairs. "Send for me should aught of note occur."

"Aye, captain. Rest you well, sir."

"Good day, Reda," Etun replied. Reda watched him go, and shook his head, mouth 
twitching as he fought a somewhat exasperated smile. It comes of hradari blood, 
perhaps, yet he is more Khand’s son than am I in many ways, he thought, ere he 
turned his attention to the task at hand. There were some men he could not trust 
to do the job in the dungeons, and it would need careful choosing among the 
hradari, prisoners and guards alike. He glanced up at the sun, which had begun 
to sink past the quarter mark in its journey across the sky. Three days and some 
few hours ere nightfall. And where is Vahn? Surely he has found our escaped 
Kherans by now? And if he had, then it might be a slow journey back with 
prisoners. With that in mind, he turned his attention back to the problem of 
their prisoners, and turned away from the desert. The canyon yawned dark behind 
him, and below the ground, creatures moved....

***

In the shadowed heat of the maw of the earth, where perhaps walked once the 
Moon, men left their tracks upon the dry ground. Double-mounted, the Variags 
rode, coaxing the injured, man and horse alike, to continue. They would walk all 
night and into the morning, until the heat and sun forced them to take cover. 
And in their wake, at the end of a rope, trailed Nharadh, and he tried not to 
think. Exhaustion helped to numb his mind to anything but misery, and misery, 
sufficiently diffused, becomes a state like any other—noticeable only 
occasionally, when its uniformity is pierced, providing contrast. The sharp ache 
whenever he stepped forward on his injured leg, the throbbing of the knife wound 
to his shoulder—these were the measures that marked time. Muscles burned with 
fatigue, his lungs ached as he trotted along, and the prickling numbness of his 
arms occasionally became pain when he fell far enough behind to be jerked by the 
rope. Then the bonds cut afresh into his wrists, and the blood would trickle its 
ticklish way down his arms; down, until the drops hung upon the bindings, and 
fell to the earth, leaving a trail for bats or insects to feast upon.

The afternoon wore on, but Nharadh was heedless of its passage, conscious only 
of repetition--one, one, one--he could not for the life of him put together the 
moments to make a second or count a third; there was only now, endlessly and 
forever, now. Dizziness assailed him at times, and sometimes he could not see 
past the swarm of bright flashes that swarmed across his vision. If he stumbled, 
the Variags would drag him along, leaving him to regain his feet on his own, 
stopping only occasionally to see if he had fainted. And if he had not--Why can 
I not?--then he got a cuff and a curse, and was bodily hauled back up. Once, 
someone had relented and given him some water, but that taste of paradise only 
mocked his constant thirst. And then it was off again, and Nharadh staggered 
along until his body rediscovered what rhythm it could manage in its weakened 
state, and the eternal present continued.

He knew not what hour it was, but suddenly, the rope went slack, and there came 
the sound of Khandish voices. They had stopped. Nharadh doubled over, legs 
spread wide for balance, as he bit his tongue against an outcry. Muscles spasmed 
and cramped, and he was unsure whether what he felt was nausea or simply cramps, 
and inanely in that moment, he felt a sudden sympathy for his mother when her 
monthlies struck. Someone grabbed him by the arm, and had his arms not been 
numb, he might have felt that grip as painful. "Move! Into the cave." And then 
somehow he was moving, propelled in part by his captor, in part by the sheer, 
habitual stubbornness that would not let him collapse before the Variags did. 
Once within their shelter--and did that mean that it was close to noon?--he was 
fairly flung into a corner, and for once no one objected when he simply lay 
still. Or as still as he could, as he tried to find a position that was 
comfortable. But no matter how tightly he curled up, the pain in his stomach did 
not abate, and his limbs felt leaden and numb thus. Yet he could not lie on his 
back, and whenever one of his captors passed by him, he instinctively drew his 
knees up in defense anyway. And so he remained as he was, and willed his vision 
to clear, his heart to stop pounding, and the pain to subside. He could hear the 
horses drinking, which was a special form of torment for one who could not 
swallow, so dry was his mouth. Two middays spent in the sun had reacquainted him 
with every curse he knew to hurl at the unrelenting light, and the skin on the 
back of his neck felt sore and hot.

Sunk in a semi-conscious stupor, he did not notice immediately when someone 
approached him. "Wake up!" growled a voice, and a foot was laid heavily atop his 
aching wrists. Hissing in pain, Nharadh twitched violently, and opened his eyes 
to see the Variag commander standing there, holding a water skin. "Sit up, or I 
drink this myself." With that as incentive, the hradari managed to obey, 
although he had to pause and lean against the rock wall of the cave, head down, 
to counter a bout of dizziness. The commander shoved the spout between Nharadh’s 
teeth and tilted it, and although to be watered like an infant was humiliating, 
he could not bring himself to care much as he greedily sucked down the contents. 
The water hit his stomach like acid, yet he ignored that discomfort in favor of 
slaking his thirst for as long as the Variag would let him. All too soon, the 
water-skin was withdrawn, and Nharadh could not help but shoot an envious glare 
at the horses, who were still drinking from the bags drawn over their muzzles. 
The commander squatted down across from him and took a long swallow himself, 
watching Nharadh’s reaction. Then he stoppered the container and set it well 
aside, cocking his head at the hradari, gazing at him in an unsettling manner. 
Nharadh stared back, but pinpoints of light sparkled before his eyes, obscuring 
his vision, and he wanted only to lie down again.

Hence he missed the other’s movement and of a sudden found the other very 
close--too close. A hand snaked out to catch his face in a hard grip, forcing 
him to tilt his head back to look up at his captor. "They say in my land that 
hradari are swift runners, and you have run well," said the Variag. "They say 
that all rabbits are so gifted, to flee their enemies. And they say that since 
the Overlord fell, you have run just as swift to cower before Elfstone’s feet."

"And they say in my land that the Variags are cowards, who skulk in their 
mountains, afraid to come down," Nharadh retorted through clenched teeth.

"So! The rabbit has a tongue, does he? But bold words do not cover truth, little 
one," the Variag replied, and then paused, his attention shifting. Running 
splayed fingers through Nharadh’s hair, the Variag caught hold of one of 
Nharadh’s braids, tugging at it until he reached the red and black beads at the 
end. Frowning thoughtfully, the man worried at them, rolling the beads between 
thumb and forefinger. "The mark of a warrior, these. I am told you hradari value 
your braids over your swords. But what is a warrior if he has not a weapon? And 
what honor has he if he bows to a foreign power?" Fingers moved up of a sudden, 
and the Variag grabbed a fistful of Nharadh’s hair tightly. Nharadh flinched 
from the flash of silver by instinct, pulling against the other’s grip. An 
instant, he was trapped, and then the pressure against his scalp eased suddenly. 
Blinking, Nharadh stared rather dazedly at the Variag, and watched as the 
commander let fall a handful of braids, and felt a shiver run down his back. 
Shock it was, perhaps, as he gazed down at the cut strands of hair, lying like 
black-coiled snakes on the sandy floor. And as he raised his eyes, he was aware 
of the others gathering at their commander’s back, eager to see the spectacle. 
But his attention was fixed on his tormentor’s face, on the sneer that passed as 
a smile. He was exhausted, in pain, and his ears were ringing in a peculiar 
manner, but it did not matter as, of a sudden, bound as he was, he threw himself 
at the Variag and knocked him to the ground.

His hands were useless, but he sank his teeth into the other’s exposed throat 
and swallowed the salty warmth that filled his mouth. Hands clutched at him, and 
nails raked down his face ere someone caught him in a grip just under his jaw, 
squeezing. Gagging, he was pulled off of the commander, and he managed to kick 
someone as he was pressed down onto his back. Someone slapped him hard, and a 
knee landed on his groin, eliciting a cry, and then the heel of someone’s hand 
slammed into his stomach. Excruciating pain lanced through him, and Nharadh 
retched, then threw up, vomiting blood along with what little he had in him. One 
of his captors cursed in a disgusted tone of voice, but the others’ voices were 
an indistinct cacophony as Nharadh’s vision went dim, and numbness spread 
insidiously throughout his body. By the time someone brought the pommel of a 
dagger down on the back of his head, it was an unnecessary gesture--already 
unconscious, Nharadh never felt it. 



~~~~~



Chapter Ten
Entrenched




Bergil woke with a start, alert instantly and for no apparent reason but habit. 
After ten days of heat and thirst and fear, of constantly looking over his 
shoulder, it hardly seemed possible that he had at last reached safety. And in 
Dargalt after all, not Zhari, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, 
as he blessed whatever intuition had prompted him to ride east rather than take 
the straight path north. For once arrived in Dargalt, he had learned, to his 
grim astonishment, that indeed, Zhari had fallen already, and he would have 
ridden into a trap. And how, I wonder, did they learn this in Dargalt, of all 
places? I did not know of it, even! It was certain that Ghed had not brought 
such news, and Bergil had suffered a second (though much more pleasant) shock to 
learn that another Kheran had escaped indeed, and was already well on his way 
north to Rhath-Infahr. His questions about such matters, however, had been met 
with polite, but opaque, smiles. The warden of the town in Lord Indirkan's 
absence, and chief of Rhanion House's household retainers, Rhadam, had said 
simply, "We have our ways, khur'tarakh. For the moment, please accept the 
hospitality of Rhanion House, on behalf of my honored lord." The interview 
finished, Rhadam had delivered him into the hands of a healer and the 
chamberlain and ordered him to get some rest, promising only that all would be 
made clear later.

And now it was later, and still, he had questions. Bergil sighed softly, rubbed 
sleep from his eyes, and stared at the elaborate hradari timepiece across the 
room. They were nothing like the clocks of Gondor, being more often driven by 
the steady trickle of sand, which was, after all, abundant in Hradar. They had 
more often to be reset — four times a day, usually — and were somewhat less 
reliable, but given the often windowless nature of living quarters in Hradar, 
they were a necessity. And if he read the time aright, it was well after sunset, 
which meant that the townsfolk would be about, conducting their business now 
that they had not the sun to fear. Sitting up, he shrugged his shoulders and was 
pleased to find that he could do so more readily now than in days. After a few 
more moments, he rose from the mattress and, snagging a clean shirt and 
trousers, made his way to the washroom to take care of his needs. A short time 
later, he emerged dressed and restless, and wondering what he ought to do. All 
his thought and effort hitherto had been devoted to bringing word of defeat 
north, but if Ghed had preceded him, then his errand was less urgent. Rhadam had 
told him also that he had sent other messengers north, in case something should 
happen and Ghed fail in his mission. There was no need, then, for him to ride 
even as insurance against ill-fortune, and his sudden freedom left him feeling 
somewhat adrift. For how can I help Khera — and Nharadh — now? Valar, I do not 
know whether I hope he is still alive, or beyond the Variags' power to touch 
him!

Even worry, however, must sometimes surrender to other needs, and as his stomach 
growled audibly, reminding him of too many days on short rations, he decided 
that he might as well eat something for a change, and so left his room in search 
of the kitchens. As he went, he studied his surroundings with interest, for 
Khera was hardly representative of all that Hradar had to offer. Rhanion's 
ancestral home was built low and, from what little he had seen of it, on a 
triangular grid, with thick walls to keep out the heat. It was likely that a 
part of the keep was built underground, as well, though Bergil had yet to see 
any stairwells leading downwards. The kitchen would most likely be on the 
leeward side of the triangle, and right along the outer wall so as to let the 
heat escape easily in all weather. Bergil paused at an intersection, and then 
decided to turn left down what seemed a large corridor, so that he could pass 
through the heart of the house, rather than follow the peripheral halls. At 
length, however, the corridor made an odd turn, and then ended abruptly at a 
half-closed door. Bergil paused, glancing about uncertainly. On the one hand, he 
was not certain what lay beyond, nor whether he ought to be in this part of the 
house in any case; on the other, there were no guards, and the door was open, 
after all.... After another moment's consideration, curiosity won the contest, 
and Bergil quietly slipped within the room.

He was not certain what he had expected to find, but certainly, it was not what 
lay before him. A low, round table of ivory and glass sat in the center of the 
room, with a lamp atop it, and cushions set about it. The floor was rock and, 
unlike in most other places, it was not covered with a carpet. Low stands set 
all about the room contained books or scrolls, and some larger books lay open 
atop them as in display. But Bergil noted these things in passing only, for his 
attention was drawn instantly to the walls, and to the arched ceiling. Painted 
onto them in a vibrant mix of red and gold and (to his surprise) green, was a 
large and fantastical pattern of intersecting, interweaving lines and curlicues, 
surpassing the most extravagant designs out of Dol Amroth. Elaborate it was, and 
yet it suited the room in a way that Bergil could not describe, as he stood 
there gaping. And upon each wall, carefully framed and centered amid the play of 
lines, were words written out in black, so that they showed readily against the 
rest of the design. "'Go not to the east, where ashes burn,'" he read, and then 
made a quarter turn to the next wall. "'Nor go south, temptation-lured... nor 
seek west for glory dear.'"

"'Go not to the north to drown in dust,'" said a voice behind him, and Bergil 
turned, startled, to find Rhadam standing there. The warden of the town and 
steward of Rhanion House nodded polite greeting. "If you look at each of the 
books, you will find that together, their pages spell out the last lines of the 
verse. You know this rhyme?"

"I have heard it before, sir. What is this place, if I may ask?" Bergil asked.

"This is aptly named the scriptorium, if you will. The Word-room, and also a 
place of private ceremony for the family."

"I apologize, then, for having intruded," Bergil replied hastily, but Rhadam 
waved the apology away.

"There is no need. There are no secrets here to guard. This is a place of... 
thinking, of art and contemplation, yes?"

"It is magnificent! The artist must be in held in high esteem."

"She is indeed. This was the Lady Kirdali's domain, and her largest work — a 
gift for her family, and a solace I do not doubt. She was loath to leave this 
place for an uncertain welcome in Gondor," Rhadam replied, and then added for 
Bergil's sake, "The lady is Lord Indirkan's sister."

"I did not know," Bergil replied, gazing up at the designs. If he stared long 
enough, he began to fancy that he could pick out letters in all of those 
lines....

"In any case, I had come seeking you, and was directed here. May I ask whither 
you intended to go?"

"The kitchens, in truth," Bergil answered.

"Ah. I can remedy that, but I had meant to ask what you would do next. But this 
is best discussed in more privacy, I think. Come." And with that, Rhadam led the 
way back out through the northern doorway. The Gondorrim tossed a last, 
regretful look over his shoulder, and then quickly followed his guide. As they 
walked, Rhadam spoke of this and that, none of it consequential, and Bergil 
found himself only half-listening while his mind wandered down other tracks. Red 
and gold were the patterns of Lady Kirdali's artwork, and Bergil's mind made of 
it blood... so much of it, and it bound them all together — he and Nharadh and 
too many countless others all caught in a web of red. Rhadam continued to talk 
lightly as the two of them reached another door, tucked away at the end of a 
small and narrow passage. The room behind proved to be an office, of sorts — 
Rhadam's naturally, and as they entered, a servant glanced up. "Our tarakh has 
not yet broken his fast. Bring what you find in the kitchens, please." The 
servant bowed politely and scurried away, and Rhadam waved Bergil to a cushion 
to one side of a low table, and then settled himself across from him. "Now," the 
man said, looking Bergil up and down, "you have come through much peril with 
your message, and you have been told that it is taken care of. What shall we do 
with you, then, Bergil of Gondor? Whither shall you go?"

Bergil considered this question for a moment, and then leaned forward slightly 
as he answered, "I am not certain. Perhaps if I could ask you a question, sir?" 
Rhadam raised an eyebrow and motioned for him to continue. "What is it that you 
do here in Dargalt, sir? How is it that you know so much that even I do not, who 
was but one step behind Ghed? For I had not heard that Zhari had fallen, though 
I suspected it."

Rhadam chuckled at that, pinning Bergil with a shrewd glance, seeming to study 
him carefully. At last, he replied, "A question with a long answer, and one that 
I cannot give you just yet. For if I tell you this tale, then you must promise 
me two things. You shall promise me them now, and when you have sworn, then I 
shall answer your question."

"What do you require?"

"Firstly, your absolute silence. You will never speak of this to another — not 
even to your king, should he ask. Secondly, I need one who would know something 
of the way of warfare who could discover how the westernmost forts in the line 
fare."

Bergil considered this for a time. The part about refusing Aragorn an answer 
worried him, but Rhadam's tone implied that he doubted that the King of Gondor 
would ever have reason for such inquiries. And the King must know what it is to 
keep secrets, even from those whom he would tell, must he not? And this is the 
ambassador's head of house; surely there can be nothing disgraceful behind this 
request. As for the latter part, he could see nothing wrong with a little 
reconnaissance on Rhanion's behalf, since he would have done as much in any 
case, under either Gondor's banner or Hradar's. And so, at length, he nodded, 
and replied, "I swear to keep secret whatever you may tell me, by my oath to my 
king. And if you need a scout, then that I can be for you."

"Good. Ghed spoke well of the Gondorrim at Khera, and so I trust you because I 
trust him. Do not make me regret my trust," Rhadam said, pausing to let that 
sink in a moment, ere he continued in a lighter voice. "Now, I fear that I 
cannot answer your questions as thoroughly as you would wish, but perhaps you 
know the tale of the Rebels of Hradar?"

"I know that they existed before the War of the Ring, and that Lord Indirkan was 
their leader," Bergil responded.

"More than their leader — he created them. When we lived under the dominion of 
Mordor and suffered the presence of orcs and tarakhe — no offense to yourself — 
in our land, they fought against our slavery however they could, following Lord 
Indirkan's example. They are his, and they are many and diverse. And they are 
quite loyal, for we hradari are loyal if nothing else. We who are worthy of the 
name, that is," Rhadam added with a certain bitter irony.

"Then they still exist?"

"Such societies rarely die swiftly unless swiftly found, ere they have a chance 
to grow."

"And surely such societies are not unknown to Lord Indirkan's warden and the 
chief of his retainers," Bergil concluded, and Rhadam smiled. "You are his 
second, then, sir."

"In my small way, I do what I can to aid my honored lord and Hradar. I am merely 
the relayer of messages."

"But you know of the others. You know who they are, and what they do."

"I know of some. I know locations, and the means by which they may be found. And 
they know that all paths lead eventually to the messengers. And all messages 
come eventually to Dargalt... among other places. That Dargalt is so isolated 
suits us well, though we must be careful. Our enemies here — the jealous among 
the Houses Minor — remain under our control, but require careful handling in 
order that they cannot plot against us, and cannot betray our secrets. But never 
mind that. What is important is that the Rebels of Hradar remain, and because we 
are not all of us warriors, we see many things, through many eyes, and few 
indeed can tell us from our brethren."

"But you do have warriors in your service?"

"We have those who can be warriors at need, and some like Ghed, who are warriors 
by trade. Alas, many of those were in the Midlands forts, and we have not heard 
from them for too long." Rhadam raised a brow, noting the thoughtful look on 
Bergil's face. "You have a suggestion?"

"I have an idea, sir, if I may. I know Khera, and I know that most of the forts 
in the line are little different. Tactically, the differences are scarcely worth 
considering. Given enough men who are willing, we could retake some of those 
fortresses, or at least harry the traitors while their defenses are still weak. 
They cannot have rebuilt the walls so swiftly."

"You would lead a raiding force, then."

"We may not be able to hold the forts, but we can wear away at the forces 
occupying them all summer if we must. The canyons are extensive, and I do not 
doubt that your people know every cave worth hiding in."

"And I have not many people to lend you in such an endeavor. In truth, we fear 
more for Mahnit now, for if that city should fall, then our enemies shall 
control all the routes south."

"Forgive me, sir, if I speak out of turn, but I think we must assume that Mahnit 
has fallen. To hold the Midlands line is worthless, if one does not also hold 
Mahnit, for the line of forts in itself cannot withstand a determined and large 
force," Bergil said with bitter honesty. Rhadam sighed, seeming to acknowledge 
the truth of that, and the Gondorrim continued, "Raiders are a versatile lot, as 
I have come to know over the past five years. Even if we strike but once and 
hard at a smaller target, and from then on do naught else but harry the supply 
lines, between Mahnit and Kharish, it would be worth it. The rebel Houses will 
entrench themselves if they can, but if we keep them from settling, it may be 
easier for Hradar and Gondor to dislodge them come September. Khera I know is 
open to us at least, and I know it very well, and it lies directly between those 
two cities. It is possible, sir."

Rhadam considered that in silence, eyeing the younger man shrewdly for a long 
moment. Then, "You have a friend in Khera, do you not?"

"I have many friends in Khera. For that matter, I am the captain of the 
Gondorrim there, and I surely owe it to them to return," Bergil replied, 
attempting to cast that in as hradari a manner as he could. Rhadam simply shook 
his head and laughed softly.

"I think you know not enough of such matters to manipulate me, khur'tarakh. But 
it was an admirable attempt." And when Bergil opened his mouth to protest, he 
held up a hand, forestalling him. "What you say is not without merit. I shall 
think on this, and tell you later my decision. For the moment, though," Rhadam 
looked up as the door opened and the servant returned with a large tray, "let us 
speak of other things. Tell me of your home... how did you call it this morning? 
Ithilien?"

 

***

Earth was shifted, and men kept time with racking coughs, eager to have done 
with the grim tasks that followed hard upon a battle. Aragorn had fought in 
worse places, in worse conditions, and without half so many willing hands to aid 
him, but he had seldom felt worse. After all the years of cursing that I had not 
the power to protect my own, now that I have it, it cuts the deeper to have 
failed to prevent this, he thought wearily, knowing full well that he was being 
unreasonable in his expectations. Nevertheless, even the knowledge that Arwen 
would take him to task for such self-reproach did little to lift his spirits, 
for it brought her starkly to mind. There had been times, particularly in the 
years that had followed hard upon his betrothal, when a part of him had felt 
that the long road would be easier borne if he had had just one night with Arwen 
to remember. Ah, the folly of youth, for now I know better, he thought. One 
night was not enough to satisfy either imagination or longing, as he had 
discovered, and now nine days alone felt an eternity, let alone forty years. 
Thought of Arwen led naturally to memories of his daughters, who doubtless 
stared out at the smoke on the horizon and worried, wondering what had happened, 
and what was happening.

In that they were not alone. It was astonishing how quickly one could reduce 
something to naught but dust, Aragorn thought, and wondered for the third time 
in a week if anyone had yet discovered what the Easterlings were using to feed 
the flames. Oil, some held, given the thick smoke; others were of the opinion 
that there had to be something more to it than that, but as of yet, no one had 
much proof either way. Perhaps it was simply that they had had no rain for 
weeks. In any case, the results were apparent to any with eyes. There had once 
been a forest proper where the King of Gondor stood, but now only blackened 
earth and scorched, leafless trunks of trees remained. Convenient ground for a 
large confrontation, for the lack of cover had let him easily surround the 
Easterling company that had gathered here. But Aragorn felt his wrath burn white 
hot faced with this needless destruction. And would I be less appalled were it 
'needed'? It seems cruel to say that a burned homestead is somehow less 
troubling by comparison! he thought grimly, pulling a gauntlet off to wipe at 
stinging eyes. And yet he was troubled, for in truth, a burned homestead was a 
lesser matter in this instance. He had burned out orcs before, set fire to Imlad 
Morgul, and in the last war in Harad, he had razed townsteads as well, when he 
had seen no other choice. The logic of war, the Haradrim held, and would shrug 
as they tossed the torches. Not, he thought bitterly, that such sentiment marks 
any essential difference between us. But this... this reminds me too much of 
Mordor's scorched plains.

Granted, Sauron had never bothered to unleash fire on his foes, which had always 
puzzled Aragorn, for it was a tactic as old as Arda. It had been Gondor's one 
reprieve during all the long years of Mordor's ascendancy. Faramir had told him 
once that for as long as he had led the Rangers, no one in Ithilien had been 
willing to question it, lest words bring down the very thing they had dreaded. 
Perhaps the Dark Lord had feared to hinder his own servants unduly, but it 
seemed that the Easterlings cared not for such matters. Indeed, Aragorn had 
never known them to behave thus, and as he watched his men bury their dead in 
ashy furrows, his thoughts spun out in long, tangled lines. Of all those who had 
tried to wrest land from Gondor and the West, the Easterlings were most known to 
settle in the lands that they conquered, and so were not wont to be wanton in 
their destruction. They would take hostages, but the land was something to be 
won, not despoiled. It seemed almost as a law among them, from all that he had 
heard and seen of them in his journeys, which led his unhappy speculations 
further south.

Is it Khand who inspired this? he wondered, thinking of his last conversation 
with Arwen. The Variags were reputed even among the Haradrim and the Easterlings 
as cruel and audacious in battle — once committed, they would dare anything, if 
it brought a chance of victory. What, then, do they seek, if indeed they aid the 
rebellious southern provinces of Harad? Try as he might, he could not fathom 
what Ghoradi House could have offered in exchange for Khand's aid... assuming 
that Khand did aid the rebels, which idea grew more entrenched in his mind with 
each passing day. Though Khand's people were fewer than those of either Rhûn or 
Harad, it would have been folly to try to maintain an alliance across its 
borders without the consent of the Variags: the Variags were not ones to 
tolerate trespassers, and if the rebels hoped to succeed in breaking Harad, they 
could not afford war on two fronts. And neither can we! Considered alone, this 
invasion was nonsensical — an act of madness, and he could not help but think 
that the Easterlings knew it. But examined in light of the war brewing in Harad 
— a war which must begin soon, and which Gondor was bound to aid the Council in 
fighting — then the disparate pieces of a puzzle began to fall into place. There 
remained still far too many blank spaces in that picture, but if he were correct 
in seeing all the unrest as attaching to the rebellion in Harad, including this 
invasion, then Faramir ought to send him a message very soon announcing the 
outbreak of war.

But until then, Aragorn had trouble enough to occupy him, and so he made himself 
set that worry aside. Time enough for such news as must come. For the moment, he 
hoped indeed that Éowyn's precautions would be enough. He knew he could trust 
her to know her business in war, but on Emyn Arnen's folk would fall the burden 
of dealing with the flames. If, as seemed evident, the bulk of the Easterlings, 
like the flames, had already crossed the river, then they would likely suffer 
even as the Rangers had. At some point, it was inevitable that they would be 
able to trap their foes between them, as Aragorn had originally intended to do 
with his men and the Rangers; but it might be days yet before they could attempt 
such a thing. If only we last until then, Aragorn thought, feeling his throat 
burn as he cleared it. He and his men suffered already from the ash and smoke, 
and the Rangers were in worse condition, having endured the fume and reek for 
ten days now. By night, they were a chorus of coughs, despite all precautions to 
try to keep the smoke out, and the destruction took its own toll on men's 
hearts. Just as the Easterlings intended it to, he thought and sighed. Letting 
his gaze rove once more over the charred field entire, he felt a familiar wrench 
— it was always surprising how little one saw of a battle, until all was 
finished, which made the scope of the destruction seem more shocking. Eighty 
years and more of warfare; one would think I would become accustomed to this.

At least the messenger, whom he had sent south nine days ago with news of the 
invasion, had not known then the scope of the damage done to Ithilien. Faramir 
would be spared that shock, mercifully, and if he were fortunate, the Steward 
would not see the devastation 'til well after efforts had been made to speed the 
forest's recovery. Alas, that might be the only crumb of comfort to be had, as 
Merry had once said, for Aragorn winced whenever he thought of how news of 
Ithilien would affect the situation in Harad. I wonder, shall the Council still 
exist come fall? If Éowyn and Bergil are correct, and Dharu is a traitor, then 
on him the fate of the Council may well turn should aught happen to another of 
the councilors. If it fell, then Aragorn would have grounds to refuse to aid the 
Haradrim, beyond intervening to retrieve those in the seven forts in the 
Midlands. Moreover, he could at that point consider all ties between Gondor and 
Harad as severed, for the terms of the treaty bound Gondor to the Council of 
Eight as a body, not to any individual House. He had insisted on that point, 
despite offers to the contrary. It had been an attempt to stabilize Harad's 
ever-shifting political landscape, but primarily to avoid Gondor being used as a 
political marker among the Council of Eight, and to spare himself and his people 
the tangled, contradictory alliances that were common among Haradrim 
politicians.

Not that such precautions have done us much good, Aragorn thought, before once 
again forcing himself to leave such matters aside. Think of the task at hand, he 
admonished himself. He and the Rangers would continue east tomorrow, following 
the line of the tributary river towards Henneth Annûn and the road, then turn 
south. Whatever companies might lie ahead of them, they would try to trap 
between the advancing line and the hidden refuge, where Damrod had left an 
adequate defensive force. Until Ithilien was free once more, the South would 
have to wait.

***

"Stay behind me!" Mablung ordered tersely, shooting the prince a warning glare 
ere he turned his attention to the commotion in the halls of Rhath-Infahr's 
keep. Neither Elf nor Man were certain what had caused it. They had come in 
recently from the outer halls of the keep, and upon arriving in the main hall, 
had found it in an uproar. That boded ill, and Legolas felt a sudden, sharp stab 
of fear, remembering all that Indirkan had said of politics by assassination. 
Where is Faramir in all of this? he wondered, searching the crowd. But even 
elven eyesight could not pierce flesh, and if the Prince of Ithilien were in 
this company, he was shielded from sight by the others. Mablung had his hand 
openly on the hilt of his sword, and was pressing Legolas back against a wall 
now, tense and suspicious, and the Elf had to remind himself that the Ranger did 
only as his lord had ordered. Nevertheless, Legolas did not like the feeling of 
being trapped by the other, and he folded his arms across his chest, seeking at 
least that much space. Such a gesture also let him feel the dagger that he had 
taken to keeping up his sleeve, and the knowledge that it was close had a 
soothing effect on him.

"Admirable concern, Ranger, but unnecessary, I should think. Only a fool would 
attack in full view of so many witnesses," said a voice from nigh at hand, and 
both Legolas and Mablung turned sharply towards it. And Legolas felt all his 
senses heightened as he gazed back at Lord Dharu of Ya'dyahnhir House, who, with 
his guards, had apparently slipped away from the crowd in search of space. And 
where goes he now? the prince wondered.

"My lord," Mablung replied, warily, speaking for Legolas out of habit. His eyes 
flicked over Dharu's person, noting the alert guards at his side. "What has 
happened here?"

"Ill-tidings come never alone. Two messengers arrived, one from the Midlands, 
and another from Gondor." Ill-news in Gondor? Legolas felt his sense of alarm 
grow, and he went very still, after the manner of an Elf facing a threat. Dharu 
continued then, "It would seem that the southern lords have moved against the 
Midlands already. Fifteen days ago, Khera fort fell to a company of hradari 
rebels and Variag horsemen." Fifteen days ago we stood in Mharosh, Legolas 
thought with a thrill of dread. This war was begun ere ever we arrived here. And 
none knew it until now, when it is most likely far too late. One does not fight 
a war in Harad during the summer.

"What of the other messenger, my lord?" Mablung asked, and Dharu raised a brow, 
his gaze wandering over the Ranger and then Legolas in turn. Legolas stared back 
at the Man, and after a moment, the Lord of Ya'dyahnhir House looked smoothly 
away. But not ere Legolas caught the flicker of uncertainty in them, and almost 
against his will, a slight, smug smile stretched his lips.

"Ah yes. A quite remarkable ride, his. I understand that he made the journey 
between Minas Tirith and Rhath-Infahr in nine days. A credit to his endurance 
and to the Rohirrim horses he rode, I believe. Your master, the Prince of 
Ithilien, can doubtless tell you more of that matter, but a word of caution, if 
I may. Were I you, gentlemen, I should be very careful in the days to come. I 
suspect that Gondorrim may be very... unpopular... unless the steward has indeed 
an Elf's power to twist the world to his liking by his words alone." And as 
Dharu's gaze slid over the two of them, it paused on Legolas at the word 'Elf.' 
A fraction of a moment, yet the prince noted it.

"And why do you say that, my lord?" Mablung demanded, then.

Dharu cocked his head slightly, and asked, "Have you children?"

"What has that to do with aught?"

"Indulge me. My own son, when he was young, played a game with other boys. One 
makes a tower of small smooth stones, and then each boy takes a stone from the 
structure, in the hope of narrowing it and also ending with the most stones. 
Done carefully, one may remove as many as twenty blocks and the structure shall 
hold, but most towers do not last so long. Do you know why?"

Mablung was staring at the hradari with that particular look that meant he was 
keeping in check an impolitic remark. Dharu, however, showed no signs of 
continuing until he had an answer. After a brief consideration, Legolas made a 
decision. "Because so many hands may lack coordination, as each child seeks a 
stone for himself," the Elf replied. Both Dharu and Mablung turned toward him, 
for Legolas had hitherto kept carefully quiet in the presence of others, always 
seeming to act as Faramir's aide or disappearing as only an Elf could into the 
background. Dharu stared, and Legolas simply gazed back 'til the Man was forced 
to look away.

But he was not so easily cowed, and he recovered quickly, saying, "Indeed, that 
is so. They think only of themselves and so lose the game entire, marring each 
other's designs. We are all of us pieces in just such a game, gentlemen, and not 
all of the players play with skill or foresight. Be careful, then, that you are 
not caught in the downfall."

With that, he moved off down a corridor, his guards closing about him, leaving 
Legolas to stare after him. "I thought we had agreed that I would speak for 
you!" The prince blinked and glanced at Mablung, who seemed rather irritated.

"You lost your voice," Legolas replied.

"You may yet be the death of me, my lord prince," the Ranger sighed.

"Considering the news we have just heard, I tend to doubt it," Legolas replied, 
steering the conversation towards more important matters. "There are others who 
would claim that honor first, it seems."

"Valar, Beregond's lad is in Khera!" Mablung muttered. "And what can have 
happened in Gondor?"

"Legolas! Mablung!" Faramir's voice reached them then, and Legolas turned to see 
the Prince of Ithilien approaching.

"I think, Mablung, that we need not wonder long. What is it?" Legolas asked 
immediately, for Faramir's eyes glittered with the intensity of his emotion, and 
his expression was taut, mask-like.

"Let us withdraw a little from this place," Faramir replied, indicating the 
nearby corridor with a jerk of his head. In silence, Mablung and Legolas obeyed, 
and the Ranger fell quickly into position with the two members of the White 
Guard who were Faramir's constant companions in Harad. Only when they were nigh 
to the end of the hallway did the steward halt, and he cast a careful glance 
about.

"There are no others near to hear us speak, Faramir," Legolas supplied 
helpfully, and laid a hand upon the other's shoulder, squeezing tightly. "Now, 
tell us! What has happened? What word from Gondor?"

"Ill-news of the sort that hits hardest," Faramir replied, drawing a breath as 
he searched Legolas' and Mablung's faces. "Ithilien has been invaded." Mablung's 
breath hissed loudly in the silence that followed, and Legolas lifted his chin a 
bit, feeling his back tense in instinctive defiance. After a moment, Faramir 
continued, "The messenger said that the Easterlings were confined to North 
Ithilien when he left, and could tell little of either the king or my wife, but 
that Éowyn has doubled the watch on the homesteads of Emyn Arnen, and should 
send cavalry north to aid Aragorn."

"Dharu said that Gondorrim may be very unpopular," Legolas prompted. "How does 
news of Ithilien's misfortune make us a threat?"

"It is more that it weakens us that causes problems," Faramir replied, shaking 
his head. "'Tis too late, clearly, to strike south and retake whatever lands the 
rebels have taken. They planned their attack well, for summer is upon us. But 
now that Gondor is threatened, I cannot promise that Aragorn shall be able to 
join the Haradrim immediately come the end of the season, and our forces shall 
be reduced in number. Not significantly so, for 'tis only Ithilien and Minas 
Tirith's companies who suffer, while the southern fiefs remain untouched. Then, 
too, Éomer is likely to offer assistance, and if need be, even Arnor's levies 
could be called, for there is time enough. But try to explain this to the 
Council, which sees only that Gondor's intervention is what stands between it 
and utter dissolution," Faramir shook his head, disgusted. "Without Gondor, 
Intahr's faction in the north cannot stand, if Dharu stands not with it. And if 
the Council loses two more Houses in addition to Bhor'tarat and Ghoradi, then it 
loses all legitimacy according to its own laws. You remember our discussion two 
nights ago?"

"Aye, I recall it. But I recall also that we could find no reason for Dharu not 
to hold with the Council, and so long as he does, prudence ought to hold it 
together," Legolas replied.

"But what if, despite our reasoning, he is allied with them, as Intahr 
believes?" Mablung responded. "Remember what he said to us the first night we 
came, that Dharu would destroy the Council and hand Harad to the South. And to 
me, he seemed not as one upset to hear of these misfortunes, my prince. Perhaps 
he does plot against the Council."

"I could begin to believe it, except that still, I see not what bargain he could 
have made that would prevent his allies — if Ghoradi and Bhor'tarat are his 
allies — from turning on him the moment the other five had fallen. Of all the 
northern lords, his lands are richest, and he alone likely has nearly as many 
men as any two of Intahr's coalition," Faramir said. "But the South is vast, and 
its people are desperate. I cannot imagine what their alliance must be, but I 
cannot otherwise explain his steadfast isolation. So much for Haradrim honor, 
that disdains to lie down tamely!"

"A child pulling stones out," Legolas murmured in his own tongue, frowning, and 
Faramir gave him an odd look for the non sequitur. The Elf ignored him for the 
nonce, however, eyes narrowing as he chased after a thread of intuition. Like a 
child pulling stones out... but Dharu is no child, and though others might 
dispute with me, I think that he is not, at base, a greedy man. No, I am certain 
of it. What then, does he want? What is the 'game entire' that he plays to win?

"Legolas?"

"Dharu has no allies, Faramir." Faramir and Mablung alike stared at him then, 
clearly awaiting an explanation, and Legolas sighed softly, offering a wry 
smile. "He has no allies, though clearly he must use others, and I think he does 
not fear to hazard all — he does not lie down tamely in this. Recall Indirkan's 
words to us as we journeyed here — Dharu is an idealist, even as you are, my 
prince. Did he not say just that?"

"Aye, he did," Faramir replied, falling into Sindarin as well.

"None of the others are, though, and so I think he plays his own game. More, 
being what he is, I think he plays for something other than a new Council, or a 
different balance between the North and the South. That tale he told to Mablung 
and me, of children pulling stones out of a tower 'til it fell — the difficulty, 
he told us, was that there were too many children playing for stones without 
care for the game as whole — namely, to leave the tower standing. There must be 
guidance or else cooperation for such a game to succeed. And as we know how well 
the Council cooperates among its members, do you doubt that Dharu seeks to be 
the guide?" Legolas asked, pinning first Mablung and then Faramir with a 
searching gaze.

"But... if he does not wish for either side to prevail," Mablung asked, speaking 
slowly as his brow furrowed, "then what does he want?"

"I do not know, but Indirkan was also convinced he could steal an Elf's song," 
Legolas replied, and then gave Faramir a somewhat apologetic look, as he added, 
"And in that, he may well have succeeded. At the least, he put words in my mouth 
today, and he knows what I am. I have no doubt of that."

Faramir pressed a hand to his forehead, wincing slightly, and then tugged at a 
lock of hair, ere he said, "Well, we knew it could not last, and now that it is 
done, we shall deal with it. But you may well be right, Legolas. I wonder I did 
not consider the possibility before, that he might be alone in his plots, 
playing for something more than another balance of Houses."

"Doubtless because you have many other things to think of, and have not five 
hundred years to inform your judgments of courtly creatures," the elven prince 
allowed graciously.

"But I did serve my apprenticeship under my father," Faramir replied quietly, 
which earned him a sharp look from Elf and Ranger alike. But the steward nodded 
thoughtfully, then, and said, "I shall think on what you have said, my friend. 
For the moment, however, there are other matters I should see to ere I turn to 
Dharu's intentions."

"What of Bergil, my lord?" Mablung asked quietly then. "We heard that Khera had 
fallen."

"The messenger, Ghed, could not say. He thinks he might live still, but cannot 
be certain."

"Does Beregond know?"

"This is his off-shift," Faramir replied and gave a soft sigh. "I shall speak 
with him presently. In the mean time, go nowhere alone. I like not the feel of 
this city — like tinder awaiting the spark, and already, blood lies like oil on 
the pyre. Emotion runs high, and I would not be caught in the conflagration. 
Until later tonight, gentlemen." With that, Faramir beckoned his guards and 
left, presumably to go and speak with Beregond, who would doubtless be 
devastated. Legolas did not envy him the task, for even were Bergil alive, 
captivity might prove a worse fate than death in the South. Children pulling 
stones... I fear I may have told less than all the truth, Faramir, for the 
stones are already pulled, and the tower is falling. Bergil is simply the first 
to be caught in the ruins. Who among us is next?

 

***

Nharadh woke with a start from troubled dreams, heart pounding, and he waited 
for pain, for the Variags to notice him. But nothing happened, and, feeling 
utterly drained, he shivered. And then shivered again, and realized, with a sort 
of shock, that he was chilled. As he curled about himself, he swiftly realized 
the reason for it: he had only his thin undertunic on and his trousers, and he 
could feel every individual stone pressing into his flesh. Opening his eyes to 
find a stone wall a bare foot away, he reached automatically to shield his eyes 
from the light that emanated from somewhere beyond him, and was greeted with a 
third realization — he could move his hands. The rattle of chain on stone and 
the painful weight on his wrists told the rest of the tale, and he let out a 
shaky sigh that was almost a sob. I am in Khera, he thought. For a time, he 
simply lay still, shivering, trying to ignore the knot of dread in his stomach. 
Are you frightened? Bergil's voice echoed in his mind. You do not know the half 
of it, Bergil! he thought, wishing vainly that honor were less difficult to 
satisfy. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggled for composure, for resignation at 
the least. I am in Khera. I am where I belong. This is my place, he told 
himself. I belong here — so I swore when I took up my duties, to stand ever with 
my men, and they with me, to live and die together. I am not alone in this 
promise — there are six other captains in the Midlands Line. This is how it has 
always been, ever since there were hradari; this is what I have always wanted, 
since I was old enough to earn my braids. So he repeated, over and over to 
bolster his resolution.

After awhile, when still nothing happened, fear either eased somewhat or else 
got the better of him, and he made an effort to sit up, hissing as a 
multiplicity of pains and aches assailed him. Left shoulder, right thigh, 
wrists, arms, my head — Sauron's bones, I feel weak! he thought, gritting his 
teeth as he twisted about to put his back to the wall. Having something solid 
behind him seemed to help order his thoughts a bit more, and he quickly took 
stock of his surroundings. Bare walls, with a single brazier set at roughly 
shoulder height to one side of the door, and a small hole in one corner to serve 
as a latrine. The light glinted off a few rings set into the walls, and 
following his chains with his eyes, he found that they led to a ring set into 
the floor. He might possibly have just enough slack to stand, although he would 
be unable, then, to raise his arms; and even though the room itself was small, 
he did not think he would be able to reach the door.

What day is it? he wondered then. How long have I been here? His last memory was 
a vague, fleeting recollection of pain and the taste of blood and vomit, and 
then... then there was nothing. Try as he might, Nharadh could not remember a 
thing else, though he thought much time had passed since the making of those 
hazy memories. Oddly, that disturbed him, for however unpleasant they might have 
been, he could at least have drawn comfort from the fact that that journey and 
its hardships were in the past. He had survived it, and he clung to that fact, 
and to the fact of Bergil's freedom in the face of a future he feared to meet. 
But it might have meant more if he could have recalled what precisely he had 
endured, given that uncertainty enough lay before him.

As if in response to his very thoughts, the lock rattled, and then the door 
opened to admit (barely) three men. Two of them marched swiftly forward to grasp 
his arms. They hauled him to his feet, thrusting him hard against the wall, and 
Nharadh was not particularly pleased to note that he had been right about the 
length of the chain. The two guards held him tightly, and he knew very well that 
at the slightest sign of resistance, they would break bone. The third man stood 
before him, in the doorway, one hand on his hip, the other caressing the hilt of 
a dagger, as if by habit. Red serpents coiled about each other on his robes, and 
Nharadh, glancing to either side of him, growled low in his throat. "Snagat!" he 
spat scornfully at the guards, and felt their grips tighten further. The Variag 
smiled slightly at that.

"Your tongue has suffered no hurt, I see," he said, his speech grating on 
Nharadh's ears in an instant. "I had begun to wonder whether the healers were 
mistaken or not to say that you would soon wake. Between their potions and 
Vahn's treatment of you, I have expected you to remain unconscious another day. 
You were feverish for many days, for the wound to your leg had festered, and you 
were weakened already from heat sickness. It may interest you to know that the 
captain disciplined Vahn, that he has damaged you as he has done. The captain 
had hoped to have words with you ere he left for Mahnit." Mahnit! Nharadh felt 
his stomach clench. If they take that city, then they control the southern 
routes. But surely they cannot.... Except that he did not believe for an instant 
that the Variags, wary as they were, would have allied themselves with the rebel 
southern lords had they not believed they had the strength to take and hold 
Mahnit along with the line of forts. I should have listened to Bergil about the 
heralds, and tradition be damned! I suppose I shall have many a chance to atone 
for that mistake, he acknowledged, bracing himself inwardly.

"He finds you interesting, the captain does," his captor continued then, one 
finger tapping the hilt of the dagger. "Myself, I find you simply unfortunate. 
Your companion, whose retreat you have so... enthusiastically... protected may 
very well reach safety with his message. Valiant, but futile — summer is upon 
us, and by the time your messenger reaches the Council, we shall be entrenched. 
We are already. The Midlands Line has fallen, and Mahnit is ours — word has come 
back already by hawk. The city fell within hours." Hours? Nharadh sucked in a 
breath. Even if the rebels had used those blasting sticks, the city should still 
have lasted the night at least! They must have had help from within. Which 
thought left a sour taste in his mouth, and he bit back a curse. "I do not know, 
therefore, what help you may be to us, though the captain wishes you alive for a 
time. Perhaps he merely finds you refreshing."

Steel scraped against leather as the dagger was drawn at last, and the Variag 
strode forward a few paces. The point of the weapon was drawn lightly up 
Nharadh's cheek in an unwelcome caress, and then it paused against his scalp as 
the Variag reached out and caught hold of one braid. Nharadh could feel his skin 
prickle under the pressure, and he gritted his teeth. The Variag raised a brow 
at him. "You hradari are so fratricidal, that we have had difficulty to capture 
prisoners, but we have a collection of hradari soldiers nevertheless," he said, 
conversationally. "Do you know how many of the Midlands captains we have?" A 
pause. "Come now, Nharadh, surely you have a guess. No?" The hradari gasped as, 
with a flick of his wrist, the Variag sheered off the braid, leaving a thin cut 
behind as well. Then the dagger was repositioned, another braid seized, and the 
Variag gave him a questioning look. "No guess?" And when Nharadh still did not 
answer, another lock of hair dropped to the floor, and then another in quick 
succession. "Each time I must ask, I take another. A ridiculous game, but then, 
you hradari are so very fond of your hair — the vanity of your kind, I suppose. 
How many?"

"What matters it to me?" Nharadh demanded, trying to worm out of an answer while 
sparing himself the humiliation.

"Sita," the Variag sighed, and one of the guards, without warning, jabbed stiff 
knuckles into Nharadh's solar plexus. The hradari cried out, doubling over 
reflexively, and he felt the blade slide hot against his scalp. A few more 
braids joined the others on the floor; then he was shoved back up against the 
wall hard enough to make his vision darken a moment. And all the while, the 
Variag continued to speak. "It is a curious custom to me, to put so much pride 
in a few locks of hair." Another quick movement, and another braid fell. "I 
suppose it does take time to grow them." Another flick of the blade; Nharadh 
could feel blood trickling down his face now as he panted raggedly, struggling 
not to flinch. "It takes time to plait them — " snip! " — time to earn them — " 
snip! " — even blood to earn them, for you must prove yourself to earn the 
beads, I think. This is so? I have asked you a question!" The knife flashed 
twice at the edge of Nharadh's vision, and he shut his eyes, willing himself not 
to answer, not to think at all. "Stubborn. But perhaps I now see why it is that 
you care for them so — " snip! snip! " — and why you shave those you condemn. A 
lowering, yes? To be like gallows-fodder? This is the term, I think." A pause. 
"How many of your captains have we?"

"I do not know," Nharadh ground out from between clenched teeth, shivering 
slightly at the sensation of blood tickling as it slid against his skin. Snip!

"Another guess."

"No!"

"I begin to run short of braids, Nharadh. I must speak firmly with Vahn about 
that. I wonder, does this mean you become less a man? Less a warrior?" came the 
mild response, and this time, Nharadh hissed through his teeth as the blade dug 
painfully into his flesh ere flicking out again to sever another two braids. 
"You consider yourself a man of tradition, I am sure, else you would not have 
turned back when you have known that you would be brought home alive. You hold 
your word worth something, and so return to your men. My captain finds that 
admirable." Snip! "For the last time. How many more hradari captains have we?"

"Six," Nharadh replied after a heartbeat, and glared at his captor. If it was 
the last question, then it would do no harm to guess and guess wrong, for surely 
some must have died. Snip!

"None."

"What?!" Nharadh demanded, shocked, unable to silence the outburst.

"None," the Variag confirmed, and began ticking the numbers off by touching the 
bloodied point of the dagger lightly against each fingertip. "Three were slain 
in battle. Three, we captured. Of those three, one ran himself onto the blade of 
one of his captors immediately. Another had too long a chain and so strangled 
himself. The last kept poison on himself that we did not find in time. Thus did 
all of them escape. I note also that most of the hradari prisoners in those 
other forts did not quickly follow their captains in death, as custom demands. 
You are 'out of style,' as they say, 'backwards' — clearly in these days, a 
captain's oath is not meant to bind you to stand last of all your people, to the 
very bitter end. Perhaps it is the influence of the West that destroys the honor 
of your calling, or your generation is weak and fearful, and does not deserve 
the reputation of your forefathers. But one thing is clear to me: Hradar 
changes, and the old ways are swept away. You might have spared yourself much 
trouble, Nharadh, for I think that Hradar does not deserve your honor," the 
scarred man said, voice grown suddenly soft. "And it is too late for those who 
might have merited it: your men have died cursing your name that you had 
deserted them the day you have arrived. There is nothing at all that you can 
do."

"That is a lie. A lie! I do not believe you!" Nharadh grated, even as the 
Variag's uncompromising tone sank in like poison. His captor shook his head 
slowly, and something akin to amused pity crept over his face.

"You should not wish to die deceived," the man said softly. "'Tis not fitting." 
And then, while Nharadh searched in vain for some protest, the Variag turned his 
attention to the guards, his tone growing brisk and casual once again. "Strip 
him, search him, shave him, and mind your hands. He bites."

Nharadh lunged in a last, futile gesture of defiance, and pain flared in his 
right arm as bone snapped. But as his tormentor had noted, there was nothing at 
all that he could do. He was forced down onto his back and pinned, and one of 
his captors reached for his hair with an obscene smile on his face....

*****

Khur'tarakh — 'stranger,' politely put.

Snagat — Insulting Khandish borrowing of Orkish "slave."

I don't know the name of the tributary river along which Henneth Annûn lies. The 
maps don't name it, and Faramir was understandably discreet in TTT when he told 
Frodo about how the refuge was made. So it's just going to be nameless for a 
time. It does cut Ithilien in two, however, and you can see it on the larger 
maps that focus in on Gondor and Mordor.



~~~~~~




Chapter Eleven
Appendix of Names and Places




You all owe Anglachel many thanks for telling me that I must write a list of 
characters and places, in order to lessen confusion since this is coming out in 
installments.

Cast of Characters--Canonicals marked as such, OCs noted at first mention

Aragorn--King of Gondor (LoTR)

Arendil--a Gondorrim under Bergil in Khera fortress, chapter 4

Arwen--Queen of Gondor (FoTR, RoTK)

Azhon--lord of Mharosh, city at the crossings of Harnen, chapter 5

Beregond--captain of the White Guard at Emyn Arnen (RoTK)

Bergil--son of Beregond, captain of a small group of Gondorrim in Khera, Harad 
(RoTK)

Bharag--disinherited son of Kirdali, took up service in Khand, chapter 3

Damrod--captain of North Ithilien Rangers (TTT, RoTK)

Dharu--lord of Ya'dyahnhir House, one of the Houses Major on the Haradrim 
Council, chapter 2

Dírthandar--lord on Gondor's council, known for his incompetence. Son of Lord 
Mírhal, chapter 1

Dorothil--Elf left in charge of Legolas' forces at home in South Ithilien. 
Originally featured in "Roots", chapter 2

Eilith--Halareth's nurse, chapter 8

Éowyn--Lady of Emyn Arnen, Princess of Ithilien (TTT, RoTK)

Etun--Variag captain, son of Lhat, grandson of Bharag, great-grandson of 
Kirdali, chapter 7

Faramir--Steward of Gondor (TTT, RoTK)

Ghed--a scout at Khera, chapter 4

Gwithrin--a herald of Dol Amroth, chapter 1

Halareth--younger daughter of Aragorn and Arwen, 6 years old, chapter 1

Hetkahrat--Indirkan's escort captain, originally featured in "Where the Stars 
are Strange," chapter 2

Hrenat--Haradrim lieutenant, rebel partisan, serving under Etun, chapter 7

Húrin--lord of Gondor (RoTK), chapter 1

Indirkan--ambassador of Harad, lord of Rhanion House in Dargalt. Originally 
featured in "Where the Stars Are Strange", chapter 1

Intahr--lord of Urudai House, one of the Houses Major on the Haradrim Council, 
leader of the largest faction on the council, chapter 6

Irin--one of Kirdali's handmaidens, chapter 3

Khet--Indirkan's diplomatic second in command at Minas Tirith, chapter 6

Kirdali--sister of Indirkan, calligrapher, first mentioned in "Where the Stars 
are Strange", chapter 1

Lhat--Etun's father, chapter 7

Lhinya--one of Kirdali's handmaidens, chapter 3

Líriel--older daughter of Aragorn and Arwen, heir apparent to the throne, 12 
years old, chapter 1

Legolas--Prince of South Ithilien and Mirkwood (LoTR)

Léof--Éowyn and Faramir's second son, chapter 2

Mablung--Ranger of Ithilien (TTT)

Mhinad--lord of Bhor'tarat House, one of the Houses Major on the Haradrim 
Council, chapter 6

Nharadh--Captain of Khera fortress in Harad, chapter 4

Reda--Variag lieutenant. Etun's second in command, chapter 7

Rhadam--steward of Rhanion House, warden of Dargalt under Indirkan, chapter 10

Rhist--lord of Ghoradi House, he broke with the Council of Eight and is now a 
rebel, chapter 8

Tarathil--Faramir and Éowyn's older son, 14 years old, heir to the Principality 
of Ithilien, chapter 2

Vahn--Variag horseman, chapter 9

Varwyn--Faramir and Éowyn's daughter, chapter 2

List of Places That Aren't Well-known/Aren't Canonical

Baro'kan--one of seven forts that lie along the southern trade routes in Harad

Bhedar canyon, the--a large formation that divides Harad nearly in half, and is 
used as a trade route, having several outlets which are guarded by the Midlands 
forts (not canonical)

Dargalt--backwater provincial town, home of Indirkan and Kirdali, east of Khera

Emyn Arnen--seat of governance in Ithilien (RoTK)

Ghoradi city--home of lord Rhist, center of rebellion

Harad--land south of Gondor, home to the Haradrim or Southrons (TTT, RoTK). 
Called "Hradar" by its denizens (not canonical).

Harnen--river that once marked the southern boundary of the disputed land of 
South Gondor (RoTK)

Khand--land hazily marked as lying behind Mordor, between Rhûn and Harad (RoTK, 
see maps of Mordor inset)

Kharish--a city south of Khera

Khera--one of seven forts that lie along the southern trade routes in Harad

Mahnit--city at the juncture of the southern trade routes

Mharosh--city guarding the crossings of Harnen

Midlands Line--the seven forts that lie along the southern trade routes in an 
east-west line, marking the approximate middle of Harad.

Rhath-Ihnfar--capital of Harad, three days south of Mharosh

Rhûn--land East of Gondor, home of the Easterlings (RoTK)

Zhari--a town north of Khera