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.

Special Note: Evendim, ask and ye shall receive LOL It's so good to see you back again! Drop me a line sometime when you have a moment; I've misplaced your new addy…

Chapter Seventeen

Faramir held his men in position, the wedge still facing into the Haradrim encampment, their faces hard and set. The enemy pikemen moved not so much as a hair, and Faramir forced himself to remain still as well, though the force of his vision still held him firmly. What had it meant? Boromir, mourned by the Haradrim? He supposed all things were possible but it made no sense to him.

Mithlan drew his attention to a small band of men just behind the pikemen. This group was different; they watched the Men of Gondor with hard eyes, tension in every inch of their bodies. They had a more ruthless look than the pikers and Faramir forced his expression to remain calm.

"They are merely satisfying their curiosity," he said finally without turning. "We have a smaller force than theirs. Perhaps they are trying to decide if they can win."

But when the white banner appeared, no one could have been more surprised than Faramir. Boromir had been taken while under a white flag; did they mean to try the same again? "Hold your ground and your fire," he ordered as the small knot of men approached them. He watched them come, his eyes narrowed under his helm, his agile mind considering and discarding hundreds of possibilities before they moved into archery range and he could see they were not obviously bearing arms.

"That's close enough," Faramir said clearly, and the three men stopped where they stood, still well within range but not so close they could safely attack. "State your purpose here."

The older one, the obvious leader, bowed low to the ground and then stood facing the assembled company with dignity. "I am Alajahado," he stated simply. "I lead these people in this place. I have come to speak of our countries' futures."

"Your future can be measured in mere moments if your prisoners are not released immediately," Faramir stated bluntly. Behind him, he heard the restless movements of the horses as his men tensed for battle. "There will be no argument. Release them, or pay the penalty with your lives." His voice was cold, steady, and implacable. He would not hesitate; at the first sign of treachery, at the first sign of refusal, he would burn this place from the face of Middle Earth.

"I do not ask for your trust, for it would not be given," came the calm reply. "I ask only that you have speech with me before they are returned to you."

"No." The single word sounded as harsh as a whipcrack in the silence that followed, but Faramir would not be swayed. If he responded to even one of the Haradrim demands, they would have the upper hand and he would not allow that. He must continue to control this meeting. "This is not a negotiation. Return them, or we will destroy your camp, down to the last man. What is your answer?"

One moment ticked by, then two. Then Alajahado bowed low once more and gave a gesture to his second before returning his calm countenance back to the Steward. "A tree that will not bend to the wind will be broken," he said softly. "Manzhanesh has gone to fetch them. Once you see that they still live, we will treat, you and I. There is much to discuss."

Boromir concealed a start of surprise as Alajahado's second stepped into the tent. He watched his companion from the corner of his eye; Tanathel had every excuse she would ever need to gut the man where he stood, but he couldn't allow that to happen just yet. Events were in motion now that were bigger than the two of them, he could feel it.

Manzhanesh motioned them to follow and Boromir went, still keeping a cautious eye on the Ranger at his side. They were shown to a larger tent, obviously an armory. "Your weapons and armor are in there," Manzhanesh said slowly and carefully. "They are returned to you. I come back for you when you are ready."

Boromir held in his shock quite well; no more than a raised eyebrow as he held the flap for Tanathel to enter. He was beginning to wonder about her; she had been silent through the exchange, and it was unlike her not to voice an opinion of some sort. Particularly when she held the man in question in contempt.

She did not disappoint him. Once they were alone in the armory, another spate of vile language erupted and she banged her fist off the table. Then she grabbed her armor and began to put it on, muttering under her breath and generally looking furious. Boromir began to pull on his own, knowing that she would need assistance before long. Buckling into your armor could be, and most times was, a two-man job. He normally had a squire to help him; who did she have?

The question pounced on him unaware and refused to be shoved aside. Not good, especially when he needed his wits about him. Later, he promised himself firmly.

She managed creditably on her own, and he stifled a totally unexpected surge of disappointment. He saw the question in her eyes as he straightened, his own armor in place. "Alajahado says we are honored guests," he remarked acidly. "Either he is going to release us, or he wants us armed before he kills us. Which makes no sense, either."

"Nothing about this makes sense." Her words were flat, angry. "Nothing. I was raised a Haradrim, but I'll never understand them. My father taught me everything he knew about them, but I'll never be able to think like them."

Boromir would have replied, but Manzhanesh had returned. He turned his attention to the Haradrim second, still watching Tanathel. There was no question in his voice. "You are releasing us." What could they possibly gain?

Manzhanesh nodded curtly. "Come. I take you to your people. We go now."

TBC