Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.

Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.

Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.

To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.

Chapter Six

Tanathel had spent three days in the Infirmary, which had given her far too much time to think. Unerringly, her thoughts had returned to the past, to her father.

"I teach you these skills to protect you, should we ever be forced to return to Harad. You have never seen the desert, child; it is a harsh, unforgiving place, which makes its people harsh and unforgiving also. Only after great hardship and pain was I was able to make my way to Gondor, and freedom."

Her father had taught her the ways of the Haradrim, but forbidden her to use them in any save the direst need. She had never understood why.

He had drilled her and drilled her and worked her still more, until her entire body had learned the ways of warfare. She was a living weapon; capable of killing with her bare hands if need be. Oh, most could, in a crude, unrefined breaking of the neck. But she was capable of great stealth, great strength, and knew all the places in a man's body that would drop him like a stone.

For instance, a blow just behind the ear would render a man senseless, long enough for a deliberate cutting of his throat. A perfectly aimed strike to the bridge of the nose would kill a man instantly by driving the bones into his brain. A thin wire looped about the throat would do a fine job of decapitation.

So many ways to kill a man.

Her thoughts shied away from the subject again. She would never use those skills, not while she had free will. She was no assassin, to take joy in the silent and stealthy death of others. She was a soldier true, and would do her killing openly on the battlefield.

Another memory tugged at her and she smiled slightly. She moved to the window seat, for Calas would not yet allow her much use of the leg, though the pain had long since ceased to be insistent.

The view was magnificent, though it failed to hold her attention. She walked once more in her memory, her father's voice sharp.

"You continue to practice while I find out what brings our lord to visit, Tanathel." The sound of harness had interrupted a session with her sword, and as her father strode away, she continued the dance of death that she had been trying to master.

Long moments passed; she paid them no heed until she heard Faramir at the entrance. "Your father tells me you would make a good soldier," he began conversationally. "Let me see your blade."

She passed it over, still wondering what had brought him here. She watched as he tested it, giving it a close look and a few practice swings. "A good sword. Show me that you know how to use it." She took it back and ran a few passes with it, then settled into one of the practice sets her father had drilled into her.

It was almost a dance; she could count the moves as easily as the steps of the dances her mother had taught her. "Grace and speed are as important as strength," her father had insisted constantly, and with this dance, she finally understood what he had meant. Move after move came easily to her now, and when her father surprised her by bringing down his own blade toward her from behind, she was able to counter it easily. She came to a halt, barely winded, and watched them both warily.

"Well done, Tanathel," Faramir said quietly as he held out a hand to her father. "You told me true, Aeglan. Is she as good an archer as she is with a sword?"

"She is, my lord."

"Then I will finish her training and she will be one of my Rangers. I have need of people I can trust at my back. Tanathel, report to me on the morrow in the City." Faramir gave them a proper bow and withdrew, leaving them alone. Tanathel turned to her father.

"I don't understand," she said quietly. "If you could, you would serve, but it was forbidden by Steward Denethor. How then am I able to serve? They say women do not fight here."

"When I came here from Harad, Lord Denethor asked an oath of me, that I would bear no arms, save in defense of my home, and that my firstborn would serve in Gondor's Army when the time came. You are my only child, Tanathel, and to that end I have trained you as I would have my son. My oath will be fulfilled."

"But if women do not serve ---"

"Have you turned a deaf ear to all news, girl? Not for nothing is the Lady Eowyn called 'Wraithbane.' 'Twas she who slew the Witch-king. You will have a place with Lord Faramir's men. And you will not disgrace me; I have faith that you will do what must be done."

She had learned of her father's death just two short months after she had gone to Henneth Annun; a messenger had brought her word, along with a final letter from him. He had indeed been proud of her.

She pulled her thoughts back to the present with a start when she heard Calas enter. "May I leave this place yet?" she asked plaintively. "I grow bored with waiting, and would be about my duties."

Calas examined the wound once more and smiled. "Healing nicely, as it should have done before. You are free to go, but you must return if there is any swelling or discharge. Otherwise, continue as I have instructed you and I will be most pleased with your recovery."

Tanathel grinned at him and snatched up the jar of salve, and then fled from the Infirmary.