She can still feel the chill of steel against her palm. Sidri reflexively opened and closed her hand, slightly wiggling her fingers by her side as if to ward the sensation away. It's not the first time she'd held a blade, that had happened years ago, but it's the first she's ever held a blade she can truly call her own. The weight felt alien, but exciting in its own strange, cold way. Halbarad had looked as solemn as he always had from the corner of her eye, grey gaze staring down in determination.

There were no more than six of them, for few were children of the Dunedain, and Sidri had only recognized one other than Halbarad. One of the boys had said he had come all the way from Annuminas to swear his oath, a man whom she supposed was his father standing proudly behind him. Sidri wondered briefly if his mother was dead too and felt her eyes sting before she could help it. Biting the inside of her lip so fiercely it nearly bled to stave off any further memories, she committed herself to focusing on the ranger before her.

No one had been surprised when Gaelenir had been asked to recite the vows, to welcome them into the brotherhood of their fathers and their forebearers. After all, Gaelenir was the among the most respected of all the Dunedain spread throughout the North and even in his age, was renowned for his knowledge and pride. If there was to be any leader in the absence of a chieftain, it would be him. Though her heart ached for the presence of her own parents, Sidri was glad to have him near her for the ceremony. He had pinned the new, dark cloak to her shoulders as they had arrived at the ruins, kneeling down to look her in the eyes. The past year had not been easy, but he had been always gentle and kind unto her, allowing her moments of anger and grief and accepting her waves of sorrow.

The library at Esteldin, foreign as it had once seemed, was very nearly a home to her now. Whereas the towering, dusty shelves had initially been cold and uninviting, seeming more like a tomb than anything else, she had slowly grown to feel at ease amongst them. That was Gaelenir's doing, his efforts at making her comfortable in her own time successful.

"Your parents would be proud of you," He had whispered with a smile, sweeping her thick black hair over her shoulder as the others gathered, "I know they had longed for this day."

She had smiled back then, a rare sight, and despite her aching heart had felt her spirits soar as she repeated the ancient vows that her parents had sworn, and their parents before them, and felt decidedly older as the sword was given to her. Yes, after today Sidri would allow herself to be a child no longer. She told herself she might look one still, but a girl in appearance and shape, yet she was a ranger now. She had sworn her oath to uphold and protect the Old Kingdom, the lands of her forefathers and the inheritance of her blood.

She was of the Dunedain and would now bear all that came with the blood of Numenor.

Sidri stirred then, a dull wave of pain cresting over her as the memories faded and she began to slip into consciousness once more.

Boromir sighed as he absently brushed off his hauberk, straightening his posture before giving a faint, awkward nod to the guardsman aside him. The guard, rightly, did not so much as flinch, but he had always felt some desire to at least acknowledge the silent wardens that guarded the upper levels of the Citadel. As a child he had been confused as to why none ever so much as regarded him, save to step aside whenever he appeared on the doorsteps of the vast hall to speak with his father. Denethor had assured him that was simply their duty, to stand and keep watch in silence, and even in his youth he was impressed by the thought.

But he was a child no longer and his duties were his own, and great, for that matter. He sighed beneath his breath, mentally steeling himself as the great marble doors swung open. The throne room remained as pure as ever, glittering beneath the afternoon light as it streamed in through high windows. His gaze flickered briefly to the statues lining the walls as he proceeded, feeling a surge of boldness in their presence.

"Forgive my delay, Father," He bowed his head in respect as he approached the steward, bending lightly at the waist, "I was training with some of the men. Your message took overlong to reach me." Boromir hoped the lie wasn't altogether obvious. While it was true the message did take most of the day to reach him, it had been because he had rather purposely decided to spend the afternoon in one of the city's less populated barracks. He had feigned surprise when the Steward's breathless servant had arrived, but the realization that he would undoubtedly be called to answer for Faramir's absence had all but robbed him of sleep the night prior.

However, and much to his surprise, Denethor did not appear even bothered by his delay, instead immediately rising to his feet. His noble face, for it remained noble even in age, regardless of what else might be said of his father, broke into a smile. "Why always is it that you must tarry when I have need of you, Boromir? Such seems a common occurrence."

Despite himself, Boromir laughed quietly and shrugged. "The city is large, Father, filled with too many places a lazy son might hide, I fear. It seems your men have finally grown to understand where all I hide."

Something in his father's eyes changed then, the brief glimmer of humor fading. "Yes, but at least you might be found, Boromir. That is more than can be said of others."

Boromir swallowed then, shifting his weight to his other foot. "Faramir is beholden to his duties, Father, and would follow them even before his own comfort. For that, he left as soon as he heard word from Ithilien. A lesser man might have cared to have yet another night of rest in his home, but Faramir cast thoughts of himself aside. There are few who might do the same without complaint."

His spirits sank all the further as his father appeared entirely unswayed and wholly unconvinced by the argument, instead opting to huff a breath of annoyance. "Always does he seem to be in Ithilien, alongside men who have dreamt far too long of former glories."

"They look to him as a leader, Father," Boromir offered gently, moving closer to the Steward, "An honor they grant rarely unto those who have not been raised alongside them, dwelt there as one of their own. You should be proud of him, that the Dunedain see him as both trusted ally and worthy captain."

Denethor's lips pursed into a thin line. "What business has he now amongst them? Dedicated to his duties he might have been, though he lacked the foresight to consider revealing his purpose in returning to Ithilien."

"He wanted to leave as swiftly as possible," Boromir ventured carefully, knowing full well any conversation involving Faramir could easily erupt, "He meant no slight by it."

"Know you then of what led him there? The guards report no news from forests, nor the roads to the south."

"I know little, I fear," He instantly regretted the statement as his father's sharp gaze landed upon him, a dark brow touched by grey arching.

"Then you know something, I take it?"

"I...I know little, save what Faramir could mention as he prepared to leave, Father. I would not wish to speak untrue in my ignorance."

"Share what it is you know, my son, and if it proves incorrect, then it proves incorrect." Denethor's lips pursed together tightly.

Boromir glanced at his boots in thought for a long moment and when he once more looked upwards, he was briefly startled to see his own features in his father's face. Yes, there was the sharp nose, the stern jaw reflected in Denethor's visage. It occurred to him that he was not immediately pleased to see the resemblance. It pained him, that realization. Should every son not be proud to see the mark of their father? "I know the Rangers have asked him to return because of trouble with the Haradrim."

"The Haradrim? We've received no word of them, no scouts have reported anything to cause concern."

"And that is where I fear I know little, Father," Boromir continued, gnawing the corner of his lip with a sigh, "The Dunedain have cause to believe that some are gathering, more than in just their usual tribes and beyond what they have seen before. Some even drew close to Haudh in Gwanur, they say, and sought to ford the Poros."

"So some of the Haradrim have found cause to grow bold," Denethor shrugged, moving to one of the wide windows overlooking the city, "We may be cautious, certainly, and there is no small wisdom in caution, but I see no reason for outright alarm."

"Nor do I," Boromir had to concede, watching his father closely, "But the Rangers had sought the counsel of their kin in the North. They had sent word to-"

Denethor's gaze snapped back to him sharply and Boromir spied something like anger in his eyes, "The North? They've sent word to the Dunedain there?"

Confused now, Boromir furrowed his brow. "I...from what I know, yes, but as to what and why I know not. Perhaps they-"

"Are we so incapable of protecting our own lands that we would seek the aid of those who know nothing what sieges our borders, what would lay waste unto all we hold dear?" Denethor growled now and Boromir very nearly took a step back, "What do the men of the North knows of Gondor, much less of the Southrons?"

Boromir remained silent, startled by the outburst, but quickly bowed his head in solemn acknowledgement. There was truth to that which he could not deny. "I know, Father. Faramir did not know what cause they had himself, that was in part why he left with such swiftness."

Denethor grew silent then. His hands absently ran over the hem of his sleeves, eyes fixed upon the city below. Boromir drew nearer, hoping to assuage his father's anger, even in part if he could, and offered up a faint smile. "Faramir loves this city, he would not so readily leave if he had any other choice. The Dunedain look to him, Father, they see him as a leader. His duties are great and they call him from his home."

His father's face grew gentler, thoughtful. "Is it not beautiful, Boromir? Minas Tirith? The City of Kings, they still call it, even the elves."

"And rightly so," Boromir nodded, a surge of pride rushing through him as he too looked upon the city. Far below, he could see her folk roaming through the glittering streets about their business, the high parapets stretching into the blue sky above and the crest of the White Tree floating in the breeze as countless banners adorned walls and balustrades alike. It was home, Minas Tirith, both a beacon and reminder of the strength and determination of men. Long were the misfortunes and many were the foes of Gondor, but still Minas Tirith, the wonder of the Race of Men, stood. "Nothing in the East, not even the craft of the first born, can match its wonders."

"Go to Ithilien," Denethor finally replied, "Find Faramir and seek what news you can of the Haradrim."

Boromir blinked. "Would you not rather have me here, Father? My men are here, there are rumors that orcs draw near-"

"Would you deny your Steward, Boromir?"

He instantly grew silent but Denethor's noble features softened then and he smiled, a hand raising to cup his Boromir's chin. "I worry for your brother and his men. Report to me what all you might learn so I can see to it they are given what aid they need. Always have they strived to keep unto themselves, the Rangers, but they need not be wholly alone in such as this."

A part of him longed desperately to believe in that, to assure himself that his father meant naught but good will in this, to truly support his younger brother in all that he did. He ached to believe it, but a stronger part of him worried there was hidden intent. Still, he bowed his head and smiled tightly, "Of course. I'll leave at first light."

Boromir turned to leave then, stomach churning, as Denethor added quietly, but with a determined solemness, "And see to it that whatever business they have with the Rangers of the North is ended."

"You have my apologies," Faramir offered quietly, "But we did what we must in our caution."

"It's not often I'm greeted by those I've been sent to help by being knocked in the back of the head and blindfolded," The woman replied icily. Her gaze bored into him then and Faramir found himself made uncomfortable by it, as if she could peel away the layers of his hauberk and see his worry. However, after a long moment, her features softened and she added, "But my own folk would have done the same, where our places reversed. I cannot blame you your caution."

Even at first glance, it was evident that the woman was of the Dunedain. She was pale with long, black hair that, despite its messied state, flowed over her shoulders. She looked terrible now, face smudged with dirt and dark shadows beneath her eyes from what he assumed was exhaustion, but she nonetheless remained striking. Above all, her gaze told her lineage. They were a stormy grey shot with blue, piercing like the rest of her kin.

"May I have your name?" He asked, taking a step closer to her. She had been kept away in one of the smaller rooms of Henneth Annun and he spied the blindfold she had so apparently loathed tossed aside on the stone floor. "I take you to be one of the North."

The woman paused then, brushing her tongue over her lower lip. "Sidri," She finally replied, as if unused to speaking her name, "And yes, I was sent by my chieftain and my captain. We received your message two months ago."

Mardil shifted behind him, stepping closer to Faramir's side. Faramir touched his hand to his chest, bowing his head in recognition, and gestured towards his lieutenant. "My name is Faramir, son of Denethor, and this is Mardil of the Rangers of Ithilien. We welcome you, though I admit we have not altogether expected your arrival."

Faramir had grown used to eyes widening at the announcement of his father's name, of his lineage, and found himself pleased when the Dunadeth did not react. "Well met to you both," She slowly stood, wincing and rubbing the back of her head, "I hail from Esteldin, though I suppose you've never heard of that." She arched a brow now, smoothing out her sullied hauberk. Faramir made mental note to see if new ones could be found for her. "Aye, my chieftain thought it wiser, safer if I were to offer what aid I might in person. We would not risk correspondence being intercepted, nor overlook that which is of importance to my own folk, as well. If what you sent is true, it will impact us all. For that, I was sent."

Mardil caught Faramir's gaze and he sighed, running a hand in thought over his chin. "If you mind not my asking, and know I mean no offence, why would your brethren send one of their own? Why-"

"Because I can read it," Sidri interrupted flatly, "There are few who can, save perhaps Elrond of Rivendell and Mithrandir, if you know of him. I should think most do, he has a habit of showing up where one least expects it when one might least expect it. One of our elders, Gaelenir of Esteldin, can as well, but he is aged and in poor health. My captain did not think him strong enough to make the journey. He taught me when I was but a girl to translate such and I was sent in his stead."

"You can read it?"

"Yes," Sidri nodded and swept a mass of dark hair over her shoulder. She leaned down, reaching into a worn saddle bag and retrieving a bit of parchment. She grasped it carefully, Faramir took notice, as if either hot or over cool to the touch. She laid it down upon a map table, slowly unrolling it. He instantly recognized the runes and swirls on it to be the same Mardil had showed him. "Long has it been since last any in the North saw this tongue. Your letter said it was found on one of the Haradrim, but you must also know this is not borne of them. At least, it is not native to them."

"Aye," Mardil stated solemnly, his jaw steeling, "None of us can translate it, but we recognized it. For that, we sought the counsel of you and your people. We had hoped one of you might be able to decipher it. I take it you have been able to?"

"I have," Sidri glanced upwards, fingers almost nervously drumming against the table, "Though I fear I do not understand it. It is a call, a message unto the Haradrim to remember. To remember what? I cannot say, but there is a name here I do not recognize."

"What is it?" Faramir murmured.

"Khoraton," Stated the woman quietly, pursing her lips together in thought.

"Khoraton?" Mardil pursed his brow together in thought, "It sounds an Easterling word, not of Harad."

"You know more of such than I," Admitted Sidri, swiftly folding the letter away and tucking it once more into his bag. It occurred to Faramir that she seemed to be nervous within its very presence. "But roughly, the message you found calls for those of Harad to prepare for Khoraton, to remember it, whatever it may be." Her face grew solemn, eyes rippling with worry and something perhaps akin to sadness. "My people had thought that tongue all but gone from Middle-earth, Faramir, son of Denethor, vanquished long ago or wasted away by time. We are worried to know it yet remains. If you find more, I can translate it as best I can. You have my word."

Faramir nodded slowly, mind searching for anything remotely familiar to Khoraton. "And we are grateful for your aid, unexpected as it may be. Once more, I am sorry that you were treated as foe, but Henneth Annun is a hidden place and has been for long. We would wish to keep it that way. I hope you understand."

"I do," Sidri replied, "Many are the secrets of the Rangers of the North. We put great value in caution."

"You should rest," Mardil interrupted gently, nodding towards a small cot in the corner of the room, "I will have my men find you new clothes. No doubt your journey was long and arduous. Rest while you can."

Faramir and Mardil left then, leaving the woman to regain her strength. As grateful, and surprised, as he was to have her here, his thankfulness was overtaken by a deep, churning worry.

Why were the Haradrim in possession of a message in the Black Speech?