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 no