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 Thirteen

(South Gondor)

Eat, sleep, watch. The cycle was beginning to get under Boromir's skin, and he knew his men were no better off. It gnawed at him, the uncertainty of Gondor's position. As long as they held the fortress, the Haradrim could not advance; but the fact that the enemy hadn't even attempted a strike was more than unusual. It was absolutely unbelievable, which added another goad to his already raw nerves.

The infantry had arrived the night before, and proceeded to into the garrison without so much as a sneeze from the Haradrim. Boromir had been more than pleased to see them, no mistake about that, but what was the enemy up to? The waiting was about to drive him mad!

Tanathel dropped heavily across from him at the table, her expression composed, but Boromir could see the strain around her eyes as well. "This isn't right," she said softly. "The men are getting more nervous by the hour. It's not normal." Concern lurked beneath the surface of her dark eyes; Boromir saw it as clearly as if she had stated it aloud.

"Lack of confidence isn't a typical Haradrim failing," he responded drily and was gratified to see a small smile from her. But the worry overshadowed the moment of humor and he went into command persona immediately. "They're waiting for something in particular," he said succinctly. "By all rights, the walls should have been breached and the fortress fallen long before now. Tenacity is too mild a word for them. They should have kept at us during that first assault, kept at it until every last one of us was dead. Why did they break off? Why did they let us into the garrison? Why?"

"Because they are being just as cautious as we are," she replied evenly. She took a deep breath. "Sometimes it's hard for me to remember my father's teachings. He was determined I would be raised as Haradrim, though I was to serve Gondor. He made absolutely certain I would understand their ways, their tactics, everything." She couldn't meet his eye, unsure of how he would react to her disclosure. "My father was a warrior of Harad, a Captain in their army before he fled to Gondor."

Boromir simply nodded. He had known much of her history from his discussions with Faramir; but to have her confirm his brother's words gave him an extra measure of confidence in her. "You said he taught you everything," he began slowly, his gaze direct, though mischief lurked in the green eyes. "Did he teach you the language as well, or just the curses?"

She grinned for a moment and Boromir's spirits lifted; it had been days since he had seen her truly smile. "I curse with far more assurance than I speak," she laughed softly. "But I do speak it."

He rose from the table. "Come with me. Perhaps a few days in our stockade will have convinced the captives that we mean them no harm."

"This is going to be difficult," Tanathel remarked acidly as she placed a restraining hand on Boromir's breastplate. She wouldn't translate what the soldier had said to her, but the tone had been enough to make her color deepen and rouse Boromir's ire. She spat a string of Haradrim back at the man and was gratified to see him stiffen.

"Find out what his name is, first," Boromir growled. He knew it put men more at ease when you addressed them by name, enemy or not.

She gave him another spate of rapid speech, then listened as he answered, some of the anger leaving her face. "His name is Nathethon," she reported, "and he refuses to say anything else. He says you might as well kill him now because he is already dead." Another exchange, this one considerably less heated. "He says he is proud to die protecting his home and his family from the butchers of Gondor." Her voice was tinged with disgust.

Boromir concealed his fury masterfully. Butchers? What right did this creature have to label him as a butcher? It wasn't the men of Gondor who had slaughtered the innocent during the Ring War! "Tell him he isn't going to die, not today. Tell him we will send him home to his family."

Tanathel fought down the urge to growl at Nathethon as he answered almost before Boromir had finished speaking. "He says he understands you but he doesn't believe you. And he won't dishonor himself further by lowering himself to speak your language. Ask your questions, he will say nothing more to you since he is already as the dead." She forced herself to keep her voice even. "His own people will kill him on sight, now, because he will be seen as a betrayer," she continued. "The same fate awaits all who betray their birthright, their people, their honor. He has been in our company, he has been spoken to by our people, tended by our people, he will no longer be trusted among his own."

Boromir grasped at that one tiny flaw in Nathethon's argument. "If you are already dead," he began, addressing his remark directly to the prisoner, "then what have you to lose by answering?" He kept his voice reasonable and unconcerned. Honor would be the sticking point; if Nathethon had any, this trick wouldn't work. "At worst, it would give you a few more days of life." Honor in a Haradrim? The thought was a sobering one; he had thought of them as nothing more than an enemy to be destroyed for all of his life. And Tanathel, though she was Haradrim by heritage, certainly didn't fit in that mold; she had more honor in her littlest finger than most grown men he knew. He must keep that firmly in mind. They were not all of a piece.

Tanathel's voice was rough as she translated, sparing nothing so that Boromir would understand this was most likely a hopeless endeavor. "You are as the sand of the desert, ever shifting and changing, always seeking to cover everything in its path, never creating, only destroying. Your words are as harsh as the sun, burning everything it touches. You will not take our lands, nor our people. We will die to the last child before we will grovel at your feet. We are already slaves of the desert; we will not be slaves of men."

Boromir felt his eyes widen slightly in shock and motioned for Tanathel to accompany him out of the stockade. He waited only until they were safely out of earshot before turning on her, his mind already working feverishly. "Why would they think such a thing?" he demanded harshly. "Never has Gondor sought to enslave them. We have only fought to keep them from enslaving us!"

Tanathel gave it a moment's thought, trying to see the situation from the Haradrim perspective. "They were slaves of Mordor for a very long time," she said slowly. "They could not choose their battles. They went where ordered, fought as ordered, even died as ordered. They had no free will."

Boromir quickly began to issue orders. "Mithlan, ready the archers to provide covering fire. Nallis, get everyone else to work fletching arrows, reinforcing what can be reinforced and set a guard on everything else. Tanathel, Borlan, come with me." He handed Tanathel the King's Banner and a standard bearing a white flag went to Borlan. "I don't think they wanted this fight any more than we do. We're going to talk to them."