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 Sixteen

(Southern Gondor Outpost)

Faramir surveyed his troops with a practiced air, carefully controlling his mount as he passed before them. "You are men of Gondor!" he began simply as he addressed them. "Today you will face our sworn enemy. They have attacked this outpost, which we regained only at great cost, and now they have taken your Captain-General through guile and deceit! No more!"

The men were silent. Faramir could hear the chirp of a lone cricket in the stillness. "We go today to reclaim what is ours! Our people, our lands, our honor!" He drew his blade and it flashed in the dawn sun. "For Gondor! For Boromir!"

He signaled them to move out and led them across the plain toward the Haradrim encampment. Only when it was clearly within sight and only slightly out of archery range did he allow them to halt. He nodded to the herald, who sounded a blast on his horn and moved forward a trifle. "My Lord Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, Captain of this Outpost and emissary of King Elessar, Faramir of the House of Hurin, demands that you yield your prisoners to us and depart from these lands!" he called stridently.

No answer came from the encampment. Pikemen gathered in ranks between the Gondorians and the tents, obviously there to keep them at bay. Silence grew until Faramir was certain he could hear the heartbeats of every man in his company, even those of the Haradrim. Finally he nodded. The herald stepped back, his face grim, and the horsemen moved forward to range themselves in a wedge with Faramir at its point. His sword cleared its scabbard with a ringing sound and he held it aloft once more.

Time seemed to slow, then stop. The golden light of the sun dimmed and went out and all was shrouded in darkness. Faramir couldn't move, couldn't draw a decent breath. Then one point of brilliant white light pierced the darkness and he began to tremble.

Boromir lay in state upon a bier of marble, his hands crossed over the hilt of his broadsword, his face composed. His armor lay beside him, burnished and gleaming, and all around him rose the wailing of women, though the language was that of the Haradrim.

His arm fell as daylight returned and he swayed slightly in the saddle, though he recovered quickly. "Hold your positions!" he thundered as he returned his blade to its sheath.

What had the vision meant? He must consider it. Would his brother die if they pressed the attack, or was he already dead? Why would the Haradrim mourn his loss?

Mithlan sidled his mount closer to Faramir, his eyes clearly showing his concern. "A vision, my lord?" he murmured. He had seen the signs before, and Faramir was clearly in distress. Sweat glistened on his face, and his eyes were wide, slightly unfocused.

Faramir nodded, his gaze still held by the enemy camp. "Something is wrong," he said slowly. "They have taken defensive positions, but nothing more. They mounted no attack on the garrison after the initial fight. They allowed us to reinforce it without any form of protest." He shifted his line of sight slightly, but didn't turn. "Why would they betray Boromir if there was no need? What are they up to?" His face grew hard and determined once more. "We will hold our position here. Keep the men at the ready."

Boromir stiffened when he heard the herald's cry. Faramir, his brother was here! "Alajahado," he began urgently. "This captain is not to be trifled with. He will raze this place to the ground if you do not agree." Would he? Faramir had always been the more level-headed of the two, the more diplomatic. Would he actually mount an assault? Did he have the men to make it a decisive battle? Thousands of questions assailed Boromir's military reasoning but he could not afford to be distracted, nor to appear weak.

Alajahado nodded crisply. "Your brother has come to fetch you home." The statement was totally without rancor, and Boromir stifled a smile. This man, this chieftain, he would be a valuable ally. If of course Faramir didn't simply slit his throat on general principles. "You will, of course, remain here." He departed without haste and Boromir stood, moving swiftly to Tanathel's side.

She had joined them moments before, under the support of some of the Haradrim women and moving very gingerly. She had spoken not a word, and her silence concerned him greatly. Tanathel was not given to introspective silence and he was well aware of the fact. He waited for the outburst he was certain would come.

She didn't disappoint him. Her words began as whispers, but they built quickly into something approaching a suppressed scream of rage. The sheer hatred in her dark eyes, though veiled quickly, gave him pause. He did not envy the man her fury was directed at.

Though he didn't understand the Haradrim language, he knew she was crucifying her attacker. The venom in her words was nearly tangible. He waited only until she ran out of breath to raise an eyebrow at her. She couldn't have taken any lasting harm. Her self-assurance seemed to be firmly in place. "Feel better?" he asked dryly.

She growled at him, her eyes hooded. "I will once we are away from this wretched place," she snarled. "And once I have that pohrahn's eyes for polishing." She winced as she shifted so she could see him clearly from the eye that wasn't swollen. "I am assuming you have a plan for our escape."

"Just a moment," Boromir hissed as he moved closer to the tent flap. He could hear Alajahado barking orders, but he couldn't understand them. Whatever he said, however, was not being well-accepted. "Tanathel, what does gahnizhkalan mean?" he asked tersely, his tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar phrase.

Tanathel gave him an incredulous stare. "You never heard that word here, sir," she replied, her voice heavy with confusion and suppressed pain. She was obviously taking refuge from both by reverting to her training. "It means, 'we surrender.'"

TBC