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 Fifteen

(Northern Harad)

Boromir struggled not to cry out from the pain, but the feel of the lash against a back already raw defeated him. Scream after scream forced its way from his throat and he was reduced to deep sobbing breaths when he heard the order to stop. Dimly, he heard Tanathel's cries from a distance and tried to focus on them, but his own pain was too great.

He tried to force up his courage, but it, too, was flagging. Dully he realized that if his tormentors continued, there would be a fresh grave by the morning.

"Tell me the strength in your White City, Bo-ro-mir, and they will give you a quick death." The Haradrim general had been present during most of the torture, though he had said little. A speculative gleam lit his eyes, however, when he saw Boromir paying close attention to the screams from without the structure. "The mahlakh means something to you, does she?" he crooned as he tipped up the captive's face.

"No more than any other of my men," Boromir managed to grate out furiously. Eru, but her cries were piercing! He controlled a shudder of dread, but only just.

Bring her, the general demanded as he gave Boromir an absent slap. If he knows nothing, then he is worthless to us. And the mahlakh will pay the price.

Tanathel was dragged in and unceremoniously dumped on the floor before Boromir and he gave no hint of his fury at the sight of her. She had been stripped of her armor, her tunic and leggings were in rags, and she gave mute evidence of a dreadful beating with both whip and fist. Her dark eyes found his and he saw the fear in them, fear coupled with a fury that knew no bounds. He would not like to have that rage directed toward him! He held her gaze, willing her to understand he had no choices. He could not yield to the enemy, no matter what it meant for either of them. Mutely he asked her forgiveness; he feared they would both be dead before sunrise.

"Does she truly mean nothing to you?" came the low question as one of the inquisitor's hands twined into her hair, forcing her head back painfully and baring her throat. Vile speech poured from her lips in a cracked and ragged voice until another man hit her hard enough to send her sprawling again. The general flicked a hand dismissively and one of the men threw her over his shoulder, laughing as he carried her from the tent.

Duty warred with emotion and Boromir lowered his head until he regained control. The general moved around behind him and spoke again, and Boromir heard the unmistakable sizzle of hot iron meeting water. He swallowed convulsively.

"You know this sound, do you not?" the general whispered in his ear. "And you fear it. Tell me your army's strength and I will not use it." Boromir could hear him moving around, but still could not see him.

A heart-rending scream tore the night and Boromir whipped his head around, his eyes blazing in fury. Haradrim soldiers untied his arms and he fought with all his flagging strength, but the effort was futile. He was wrestled to the ground, his arm outstretched before him, his frame pinned so firmly beneath his captors that he could barely draw breath. The general stepped into his sight again and Boromir struggled harder, and just as fruitlessly. The iron was in his vision, glowing red from the fire, though it had been cooled slightly by the water, and he fought to keep from cringing. Curses poured from him, ending in a ragged scream as the iron came down on his forearm, searing the flesh in the shape of a broken sword.

The soldier who had carried Tanathel out appeared in the tunnel of sight left to him and he wondered dully at what was said. The general frowned at something the man told him, but Boromir just couldn't bring himself to puzzle it out. His entire being was focused on the glowing iron that was coming dangerously close to his arm once more.

The general nodded sharply and motioned to his men, and Boromir was released. He pulled his arm close and glared at the Haradrim leader, death in his gaze. No words left his lips; yet the weight of that raging stare had been known to send seasoned soldiers in search of cover. His fury knew no bounds.

"I will tell you not to leave this tent," the Haradrim said slowly and carefully. Then he took his leave and Boromir merely cradled his injured arm to his body, his injuries making themselves felt until he was one massive, throbbing ache. And underneath that ache, there was a small, persistent feeling of triumph; he had not been broken.

One more thought came to him as he lost consciousness. What of Tanathel? Was she still alive?

Boromir woke to find that his injuries had been tended carefully and he had been placed on a cot, covered warmly. His armor and weapons were nowhere to be found; but clothing had been left for him just the same, a simple tunic and leggings.

His arm throbbed painfully as he dressed himself, wondering at the sudden apparent change in his status. Could he leave the tent? What had brought about this drastic change? Was it simply another trick of the enemy?

He spun when the flap lifted, automatically reaching for his sword and grasping empty air. The Haradrim general gave him a chilly smile and gestured for him to sit on one of the many cushions that had been thrown about. "We must talk, you and I," the man said slowly and carefully.

Boromir sat gingerly, outwardly calm, inwardly seething and more than a little curious beneath the anger. "If you mean for me to betray my people, the answer is no," he said firmly. "I think you know I would die first." He was desperate to know what had happened to Tanathel, but he curbed the impulse to simply ask. He forced himself to be civilized, since his captor was obviously also making an effort to do so.

"I do not mean betrayal, Bo-ro-mir," was the stiff reply. "I am Alajahado. I have been told that things are not as they seem; would you care to explain to me the difference?"

Boromir rubbed absently at his forearm and stifled a hiss of pain. This was no time to be coy; perhaps he could learn a few things to Gondor's benefit by playing along. "I don't understand," he replied quietly.

Alajahado motioned and a woman came to Boromir's side, offering him a cup of what appeared to be wine. He waved her away, his confusion deepening. Something was quite wrong here. Alajahado took one of the cups, sipped generously, and then held it out to Boromir. "You see, I have not poisoned it." He smiled again as Boromir took the cup from him. "I have not the words to explain this to you rightly, though I understand your Westron speech well. A man came to me, several nights ago, at the turning of the moon."

Boromir raised an eyebrow. The timing was right for it to have been Cirin. "Was this man a soldier?" he asked directly, his eyes never leaving Alajahado's face.

The Haradrim shook his head. "No. This man was well-fed, well-dressed. He cared much for his appearance. I did not like him." He allowed his gaze to wander slightly and then drew his attention back to Boromir. "I listened to his tale, of being turned out of his home. He had been exiled, he said, he had lost everything because of a witch. She had cast a spell, it seemed, to make men blind to her plans and he saw through them."

Boromir nodded, his thoughts already leaping ahead. Alajahado continued, his words slow and deliberate. "This witch was of mixed blood, of my people and yours. She was unnatural, she had no heart. She had bespelled the most powerful men in your White City." He gave Boromir a piercing glance. "Including you. He told us she had gained the ear of your king and persuaded him that we would make good slaves."

"I give you my word, that was never our intent," Boromir began evenly. He wished for a moment Faramir was with him, for he had no talent with words. He was a soldier, not a statesman. "We came to reinforce the garrison here because your forces were massing along the border."

"Then we have both been pawns in this man's game, though he will play us no longer against one another," the Haradrim spoke firmly. "I know she is no witch, that you both have honor. You see that you have been well-tended. You are prisoners no longer. You are my guests, though I insist you do not wander unattended, and that for now, you may not leave this encampment. You will not be harmed, unless you attempt to escape."

Boromir seized on the word like a lifeline. "Escape? If we are guests, then we should have no need to escape," he mocked lightly. He held up a hand. "I will agree to your terms if you will tell me why you have decided in our favor."

Alajahado sighed heavily. "For this, you may wish me harm; I will not stop you. Your woman, the warrior," he said slowly, obviously having difficulty finding the correct words. "I made a gift of her to my second when you would not speak. I had meant to punish you, to take your woman and make a slave of her, for as the rich man told me, she was already a whore to your soldiers. I know now that this was not true, and it cast the rich man's entire story into doubt."

Boromir's fury rose quickly and he launched himself across the intervening space, his hands going around the Haradrim's throat and beginning to squeeze. It was only with a supreme effort that he was able to restrain himself from committing outright murder. The man made no move to stop him or fight him off, and Boromir felt his rage slowly begin to ebb. He released Alajahado with a shove that sent the other man sprawling.

The Haradrim righted himself slowly and allowed a grim smile to cross his face. "This above all proves that you speak the truth. If you had no honor, you would not have stopped until I lay dead at your feet." He went to the flap and said something in his own language, and then seated himself again on the cushions. "Come, sit. I have sent for her, she will join us now. We will talk of our future, your people's and mine."