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AN: Thank you for the reviews! They were great encouragement to me. New chapter is finally up. Hope you enjoy!


Irony.

Before the sun had set he walked free among the tents, and before the sun rose again he was a prisoner; before the sun had set he could order the guards and soldiers strewn in the city, being their captain; before the sun rose again the same guards and soldiers watched him closely with hawk eyes and would not hesitate to run their sword through him should he prove troublesome. The idea came to Aragorn with such a persistent tenacity that he would find it humorous if not for his throbbing wrists. The taut rope was beginning to pain him considerably, and his mind was too occupied with shifting thoughts elsewhere to laugh at his miserable humour.

He shifted some more and stretched out his long legs before him, trying in vain to seat himself in a more comfortable fashion. His arms were tied behind him tightly, and a dull pain was slowly working its way in, searing muscles and penetrating bones. Again he tried to deter his thoughts from dwelling on the physical pain. He tried to ponder his current predicament. Idly he asked himself again if he was foolish to submit himself thus. He could have escaped the desert of Harad unscathed, if he did not throw away that sword in haste and instead left it resting beside the young Haradrim prince's neck.

Of course, he would shatter everything he worked for in the past few years. Long had he laboured silently in Harad, doing everything he could to limit and reduce conflicts between Harad and Gondor. He believed that he had almost succeeded, until now, when suddenly everything snapped explosively, and all the tentative, experimenting peace he had built was gone with the wind. Or perhaps, he was nowhere near success, he thought irately. He knew well the hatred the people of Harad felt towards Gondor, and Gondor returned the hatred with the same scorn and contempt. Such a feeling might express itself less and less, but it would never be truly gone or even diminished. At the least provocation it will flare and explode. Had he not witnessed it unfold before his very eyes? He had toiled for five long years in Harad, and he had accomplished nothing. Someone faraway threw down a spark and started a raging firestorm, exposing to him the absolute futility of his work.

What was he doing here? Why was he trying to untie an impossible knot from long ages past? Harad maintained enough ties with Mordor to prove an enemy of the free people of Middle-earth in almost everyone's eyes. Then why did he linger here as friend and teacher, helping this country untangle its ruffled wings so it may soar higher and farther?

"Harad is a ferocious falcon." A voice from the past echoed in his mind, the voice that belonged to wise Gandalf. "A pet-hunter of Sauron who kills blindly at its master's commands. But at least it is a crippled hunter, chained, blindfolded, with tangled wings. Take caution, my friend. You are slowly freeing the hunter from its chains and blindfold, and increasing its power many folds."

"Yet when it is free, it shall no longer serve a master." He had answered. "It will soar in the sky according its own will."

"Perhaps its own will is to continue serving Mordor, perhaps its own will is to bring the kingdom of Gondor to ruin. You underestimate the hatred bred with so many generations, Aragorn."

"The people of Harad do not only hate. They will learn to love once they can soar freely and see the truth with their own eyes, of that I am certain."

The reply had come with a sad smile. "I am afraid that you are too idealistic in every sense of the word, my friend."

Fanciful ideals, false promises, and fantastic romances. Are those truly what he had been fighting for? Perhaps Gandalf was right, as was King Hamun. He was too idealistic, too naïve, and despite of his hardened years and the numerous deaths he had to face he still could not grasp those underlying concepts of darkness.

Love not thy enemies.

They may be sculpted of the same flesh and bone that shaped you, they may rejoice and pain just as you do, and they may love and hate with the same heart that beats in your breast, yet still they remain your enemies.

Love not thy enemies.

For they shall not love you. And even if chances come by that they do love you, they shall still wish for your death. And they shall still celebrate at your grave. They remain your enemies.

Love not thy enemies.

And think nothing of turning them into your friends. For if they can become your friends, they would not have been your enemies.

The myriad thoughts whirled in his mind as if a storm. They echoed endlessly, warningly, tauntingly, mockingly, refusing to grant him any peace.

Love not thy enemies…

Love not thy enemies…

Love not thy enemies…

Suddenly someone entered the tent. A rush of morning desert air blew into the tent, cold and dry. The endless voices in his mind quieted and then ceased. Slowly Aragorn raised his head and looked to the newcomer. The young prince of Harad stood there before him, looking down with dark, wide eyes. Eyes filled with uncertain hatred and angry pity. Eyes that stirred him and drew him to the southern desert five long years ago. Eyes of Harad.

Love not thy enemies…

Somewhere in the deep recess of his mind a voice whispered. It was barely audible to him, and it was gone as quick as it came, vanished without a trace.

The young man sat himself down on the ground, and hugged his knees to his chest. He was still staring unblinkingly, dark eyes bewildered with only a faint undercurrent of rage. After a long, droning silence he at last asked, "Are you truly the famous Thorongil of Gondor?"

Aragorn nodded only once and answered quietly, "They called me Thorongil in Gondor."

"Then you must have killed the people of Harad before." The young man said. "The eagle-eyed wight of Gondor was a bane to Harad. He brought endless grieves and woes to our land and people, left children without fathers, mothers without son and wives without their lords! Do you deny that?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I do not deny it. I can not."

There was a ring of steel, and young Haradrim had stood up once more and unsheathed his sword. Anger flared again in him, and his dark eyes burned like simmering coal.

"You were an enemy, and you are still an enemy. You betrayed our trust and conspired against us. Death you have earned with your actions, and Harad shall bestow mercy upon you no longer!" The young man cried loudly, voice resounding in the small tent.

The bright sword now rested on Aragorn's breast, ready to pierce skin and flesh and bone. Aragorn did not stir. The tip of the sword bit into the skin with a sudden forceful thrust, drawing blood. Yet the sword could push no further, as the slender hand that held it began to tremble. At last the sword pulled free and was thrown aside. It landed with a contemptuous clang.

"This can not be!" The youth cried once more, the anger somewhat faded and replaced by more tormented confusion. "How can you be an enemy? You, our dear Taluya, who saved many from injuries and illness with your healing arts, myself included; you who helped us trade with people from the north; you who defended our people from Gondor and Rhun; you who taught us all that we know!"

"I am not an enemy, young one." Aragorn said wearily. "I am ever a friend of Harad, if you would only look on me with kind eyes."

"If you are not an enemy, then why all of this?" The young man asked, voice wretched. "Why release the prisoners against my father's will in the secrecy of the night? Why send conspiring words to our greatest foes? And why set a sword on my neck?"

Aragorn did not answer. His grey eyes were clouded with exhaustion and the resignation of one too tired to try just once more. Perhaps he had registered the fact that he would not be understood.

Receiving no reply Annem spoke again softly, "The Taluya I know would never commit such crimes against the people of Harad, but the cruel Thorongil of the north would. Who are you? Friend, or foe? Taluya? Or Thorongil? Will you not choose?"

There was a half smile on Aragorn's face once more, weary, sorrowful, yet still benevolent. "I can not choose, young one." He said simply. "Such a choice is too singular and too uncomplicated to be of any worth in our world. I can not choose, for I am neither, and I am both."

A long silence had settled, a wretched, miserable silence. When Annem spoke again he seemed infinitely sad, nearing the verge of tears. "Can you not choose, or will you not choose?" He said brokenly. "Is it too much to ask you to forsake a part of you that was long gone, and to become wholly our own Taluya?"

"That is too much to ask, Annem." Aragorn replied evenly. "I have sworn the same oath of fealty to Lord Steward Ecthelion of Gondor as that I have sworn to your father. They are of the same value, and I can not forsake one for another."

"But you can not stay true to both vows." The young prince of Harad said slowly, growing ever more troubled. "Harad and Gondor are enemies!"

Aragorn laughed, and said with the faintest touch of bitterness, "A reality I much desire to change, though it seems so far my effort was in vain."

"You always dream of the impossible." The young man said vehemently.

Aragorn looked at him keenly, grey eyes flashing with a moment of anger that was quickly gone. He said nothing, only turned his eyes away. The young man looked bitter and resentful. For a while it was silent again, at last Annem turned and quickly strode away. He only took a few steps before he turned back in a rush and knelt down before the pale northerner.

"I heard father speak with other lords. They were angry, Taluya." Annem said in a low and urgent voice, a sliver of fear in his eyes. "They would kill you and feed you to the carrions out of their rage."

Another smile was on Aragorn's face, this time amused, "It seems almost a befitting end for me, young one."

"Do not laugh, Taluya, there is no humour in that." Annem said pleadingly. "You would be fortunate if that is to be your fate, Taluya. But they would not kill you yet. They want information that will bring great victories over Gondor, and you are the only one who can provide such."

"I told you once, Annem, that I could not choose to betray Gondor." Aragorn said gently.

"But there is no choice for you now." The young man said sadly. "They will make you speak, Taluya. I do not want you to suffer. Please, save yourself."

"Even your father would press me thus?" Aragorn's voice was still even, devoid of all expressions.

Annem lowered his head and murmured, "He loves you still, Taluya, but that is not enough to placate him. He is feeling angry, and betrayed, and he is still the King of Harad."

Aragorn sighed, and said, "I think I understand now. My thanks for your worries, Annem." Yet more than that he would not say.

The young man stood up slowly and reluctantly, and ere before he stepped out of the tent he turned one last fearful look towards the raven-haired man.

"Please, Taluya." He murmured, and was gone.