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 Fourteen

(Southern Gondor/Northern Harad)

Boromir fought not to flinch as the Haradrim troops surrounded them. Tanathel held the King's banner high, her pale face the only indication of her unease. Borlan also seemed outwardly composed and Boromir spared a moment's grim pride in their dedication.

"Why have you come?" the Haradrim leader snarled as he entered the loose circle that had formed around the Gondorians. His voice was thickly accented, but his speech was clear. "We could kill you without hesitation."

Boromir gave the man a direct gaze, holding his eyes to underscore his sincerity. "We came to negotiate a proper truce," he said simply. "Surely no more blood should be spilled over this worthless patch of ground."

"It may be worthless to you, Bo-ro-mir," the man drawled, his tone insulting. "Oh, yes, we know who you are. You and that mahlakh at your side. This ground, this is worth much to us; but you are worth far more." He barked an order in Haradrim and Tanathel went for her sword, only to have it wrested from her grip as Boromir and Borlan were disarmed as well. "You will be our price for this outpost's survival."

Tanathel spat on the ground at his feet. "You have no honor," she snarled. "We came under a flag of truce!"

You dare speak to me of honor? the Haradrim growled back as he struck her across the face. She went to the ground from the force of the blow and the guards dragged her back up, holding her arms tightly and gagging her securely as Boromir gave a wordless shout of fury at the betrayal. Borlan lunged forward only to go to his knees, an incredulous expression fading rapidly from his face as his hands grasped the dagger hilt protruding from his chest. You have no understanding of the word. He is but the first; another such outburst from either of you and you will follow him in death. Even animals such as yourselves should be able to understand that.

Boromir caught Tanathel's eye, rage in his own, but he gave her a tiny nod. He understood none of what was being spoken, but it was plain that a line had been crossed. It would serve no purpose for them to die now; perhaps, by submitting to their captor's demands they would be able to learn more of the enemy's plans. She subsided with poor grace, murderous fury in her dark eyes.

They were forced along at a great pace until finally they reached the Haradrim encampment. There, they were roughly thrust into a small pavilion and bound tightly, so tightly they could not hope to move. Their gags were replaced with stronger ones, made from leather so they couldn't possibly chew through them, and Boromir knew a moment's despair. He tried to catch Tanathel's eye, hoping to reassure her, though she remained turned from him. The tension in her slender frame suggested she might have an idea what awaited them, but he could not allow himself to lose hope.

The fear in her dark eyes gave him pause when she finally turned to him. He jerked his head forward, indicating that she should try to move closer, but the guards separated them roughly at the first sound of movement and tied them back to back. He settled for linking his fingers with hers, trying to show her his support in that fashion. She gave him a slight pressure in return and they waited in silence for the next move in this game of chess.

(Southern Gondor/Outpost)

Faramir reined in his horse, looking down from the slight rise into the garrison. All seemed quiet, but he had learned quickly that in war things usually weren't as they seemed. He gave a signal for the men to move forward and let his mount pick his careful way down toward the gates.

They encountered no resistance, though the enemy encampment was within sight, and it only served to sharpen Faramir's unease. Something was dreadfully wrong; he could feel it.

His worst suspicions were confirmed when Mithlan hurried forward and pulled him aside as the others filed in. "Welcome, my lord," he said simply as he gave a glance toward the south. "Lord Boromir has been captured," he explained softly and urgently. "He went out under a flag of truce and was betrayed. We could not even counterattack, as they were out of archery range."

"Even the longbows?" Faramir couldn't credit what he was hearing. Boromir wouldn't be so foolish as to meet where they couldn't escape. What had his brother been thinking? Unless it had been a sign of good faith…

"Even the longbows," Mithlan confirmed. "Not even you could have spanned the distance, Captain."

Faramir nodded curtly. "We will do what we can, Mithlan, never fear. Keep a constant guard on the surround, crews at the catapults, and sentries at the gate. Not even a mouse moves without being reported." He let his gaze be drawn south, wondering what was happening to his brother and tamping down the purely personal urge to simply go and find him. There were many things to be done, many preparations to be made, before he could mount a rescue mission. Resolutely, he turned his mind to the necessary tasks and forced himself to attend to them.

(Minas Tirith)

Aragorn tossed restlessly upon his chaise. He had forsaken the comfort of his bed once more, unable to rest in the room with the absence of Arwen. His dreams had become more and more dark since her death; this night, they threatened his very sanity.

Again and again, he relived that final, fateful temptation offered by Sauron. Again and again, he relived the bitterness of his betrayal as he refused Sauron's offer, refused the possibility of Arwen being returned to him in the flesh, whole and healthy. Again and again, he felt the pain of that final separation from his beloved, from the one woman he had loved, the one woman he would always love, the one woman he would forever remain faithful to.

He came awake with a start as he saw the blade descend toward her once more, heaving for breath in the dim predawn light. His eyes sought out every corner of the room, certain he would see attackers concealed in the shadows, but the room was empty save for himself. Slowly, he forced himself to relax again, but sleep eluded him. The weight of failure was heavy upon him. Arwen had forsaken the immortality of the Elves to remain by his side, and he had failed to keep her safe.

He wondered if his Ada knew, in the mists of Valinor, wondered if Elrond would forgive him this failure. Elrond had set him many tasks, many feats over the years he had been Aragorn's foster father before he would allow Aragorn to wed his daughter, and Aragorn had failed none of them until now. He had failed in perhaps the most important test of his life. He had failed miserably.

He groaned and rose, walking out onto the balcony and resting his hands upon the balustrade, gazing out over the city, a familiar feeling of unease building inside him. Something was building in the south; he had known it even before he had sent troops to reinforce the outpost. With news of the garrison's fall, it had intensified; and it got worse every day there had been no word from Faramir, who had been sent with the rest of Gondor's able-bodied men to assist his brother if necessary.

With his Steward and the Captain-General both out of the city, there was no one to take the burden of leadership from him, not even for a moment. He felt every one of his years this night, achingly aware of the differences between the Numenorean blood he bore and those of other descent. Not for the first time, he wished he could lay down his burdens and depart; but there was no other to take them up, and so, he remained.

The chill of the air gained his attention and he took a deep breath, wondering at it. Winter lay heavy on the land, but this chill simply didn't seem right. It was deeper than he'd felt before, seeming to strike to the very heart of him. He went in to sit before the fire, reaching out toward it in a vain attempt to return some warmth to his bones.

Finally he gave an enormous sigh and reached for his cup, intending to brew some tea. Perhaps that would help him return to sleep, though the sun was now rising and he had duties to attend. Very well, he could still have the tea. It would hopefully relax him enough that he could keep his mind on what must be done this day…

…and keep it off what might be happening in the desert to the south…

TBC