Disclaimer- Guess what? I don't own the Lord of the Rings! Wow! So basically, if you recognize anything from the books or whatever, it's not mine. I did come up with most of the names in this chapter, though.

A/N- Hey, thanks to the people who left me some reviews, I really appreciate it. It makes me feel better that there are people out there who are just as nerdy as me, lol. Haha, that was not meant as an insult. Oh yeah, and a special thanks to Ande, for leaving me some awesome Constructive Crisium (you weirdo). Oh, and sorry about the delay in posting this…I was just busy—no, I was just lazy, lol.

Chapter III: The Making of Legends

Aralith trudged alongside the rickety wooden cart stocked with a variety of vegetables down the well-worn path to Minas Tirith. His father Aron was up ahead with the other cart, head held high and taking long strides, as if he were a High Lord with business to do instead of an old farmer taking vegetables to sell in the city. He half-turned his head and called, "Aralith! Hurry up! I want to sell these all before tomorrow night! The way you're goin', we'll get there tomorrow night!"

"All right, you don't need to scream," Aralith replied just as loudly. They had been walking all day in the hot sun, and they were both a bit testy. Aralith glowered over at the shaggy brown pony that was pulling the cart, wishing he were doing anything rather than putting up with this. Aralith reached out to tug on her harness. "Come on, Elaine," he murmured, "just a little longer."

Aralith lived with his mother and father on a small farm in the outskirts of Osgiliath. They brought their goods once a year to Minas Tirith, where they could get higher prices for the same amount of produce. He hated going to the city; his father took pride in being Gondorian, and somehow latched on to the belief that when he went to the City of Kings, he should act just as haughty as if he were one himself. In other words, he would be a total jerk. And there was the fact that Aron was obsessed with war, or at least fighting in one. He dreamed of war it seemed, just so he could die for his country. Minas Tirith brought that out, too.

Aralith shook his head with a frown on his face. He loved his father, but they just did not share the same dreams.

Aron was tall and broad shouldered, like Aralith, but his hair was mostly gray and his face was creased with worry lines. In his youth, he had had jet-black hair and frosty blue eyes, and a good physique, too. He remembered going to dances and being asked to dance by almost every girl in the place, and winning archery and swordsmanship contests every year. But those days were gone now, and it would do no good to spend his time reminiscing about the past. He had vegetables to sell.

He glanced back at his son, not little anymore; he was already almost 18 years of age. Aralith reminded him of himself, back in the good old days. His black hair and strong figure were proof enough, but the boy had his mother's eyes, sparkling green under the shock of hair that lay across his forehead.

Aron sighed. He had always dreamed of becoming a warrior, but in these times of peace there was no special need for them, and now here he was: just a tired old farmer. The closest he ever got to his old dreams was when he went to the city to sell his vegetables. Still, when he was a boy, a blacksmith named Gedor who lived in Osgiliath taught him to use a sword. In turn, he had taught Aralith the same in hopes that he might get to use the skill. He was set on giving Aralith the best of everything. He grinned. Gedor had had a special gift. He had no doubt the boy could match even the elite Fountain Guards in a sword fight.

Coming back to reality, Aron hurriedly wiped the grin off his face. He had vegetables to sell.

Father and son both stared down the long dusty road toward that great city of Minas Tirith. The city was visible in the distance, shining in the late afternoon sun. The old storytellers in Aralith's village had always told of a time when the city had not been so grand, when the army was weak and the city itself in sad disrepair. The Steward of that time had been driven insane by his pride: he had attempted to use one of the fabled Palantiri, which quickly turned his counsel to madness. Whatever the old storytellers might say, Aralith found it near inconceivable that the City of Kings had ever been anything remotely weak or less than grand. Now, as the pair gazed into the distance, the White Tower reflected the low sun's rays, an ancient symbol of the power of the Númenoreans.

A long way off, a quite different pair of eyes gazed at a quite different kind of tower. Dozens of towers, in fact. Dozens of war towers mounted on the backs of dozens of mumakil. The dark, scowling eyes were set in a dark, swarthy face painted with a fierce red war paint that marked him clearly as the leader of the immense army gathered around him. That is, it did if you failed to notice his crimson turban richly embroidered with gold designs or the elaborate ceremonial wooden fan mounted on his back first. His long black robes were also embroidered, and the weapons he carried were worked with even more gold. But the most obvious of all of these clear signs of rank was his traditionally ornate halberd, the staff adorned with gold bands and the blade inscribed with flowing elvish script. At the top of the staff near the blade a large ruby was set.

The ruby glinted in the sun, glaring in the dark man's eyes. He blinked, adjusted the staff so he could see, and scowled even more. The ruby had been an heirloom in his family for years. The legend went that one of his ancestors had taken it as a war prize from a High-elven King's fortress sometime in the First Age. Whatever the gem's importance may be, he only saw it as the most prestigious and valuable sign of his rank.

The man surveyed the vast army before him from his high vantage point. The huge mumakil lumbered amidst a sea of soldiers, tall war towers swaying majestically on their backs. The soldiers were arrayed in neat formations across the plain below him, all armed heavily with spears, swords, or bows. Many wore black veils that cover all but their eyes, making them impersonal and quite intimidating. The Haradrim were a people born and bred for war.

"My Lord Zarahir." A lesser soldier knelt on one knee by the man, one hand on the ground, the other at his sword hilt. Zarahir turned slowly, careful not to show he had been startled by the other man's sudden appearance.

"Rise, Captain." His voice was cold and flat, showing no emotion whatsoever. This was his strategy in leading an army; intimidation was key.

The captain stood and shifted nervously in a most satisfying manner. "The High Ar-Taravorn summons you to his camp, my Lord. He wishes to speak with you."

Zarahir did not reply, but instead scowled even more darkly than before. Ar-Taravorn, the new warlord who had come seeking aid overthrowing the alliance of the nations of Middle-Earth. The fool man with the fool name that made no sense, who came expecting absolute power straight away, and thinking he could order around the Haradrim forces as he wished. The most offensive was that he had come offering promises of power and glory beyond reckoning, as if that could sway the Haradrim leaders. The Haradrim were a stronger people than that, to be that desperate for power to plunge themselves into a large-scale war. Besides, the Haradrim's alliances were already set with Rohan and Gondor, the very nations Ar-Taravorn wanted to destroy.

For a brief second Zarahir's permanent scowl was broken by a bewildered blink. Then why am I here? What are we doing? As soon as the thought entered into his mind,it was quickly pushed aside by an overwhelming urge to follow Ar-Taravorn and make the Haradrim the greatest nation of war in this Age. The notion filled Zarahir to the point of bursting; he could hear it in his mind like a roaring in his ears. His scowl returned, and his face was painted with determination to obey his impulses. What was I just thinking? For some reason, he could remember vague emotions of confusion and anger. Deciding to ignore it, he turned his attention back to the Captain in front of him. "Tell him I will be there shortly, Captain."

"Yes, my Lord." The Captain turned sharply, and walked stiffly back the way he came in a proper military fashion.

Zarahir scowled, and his eyes shone with a dangerous light. He would make the Haradrim be the most renowned nation in Middle-Earth. Ar-Taravorn would lead them to glory, and Rohan and Gondor would kneel at their feet.