The waving green leaves glistened in the bright summer sun as they danced above the wide trodden road that wound its meandering way through Ithilien. The day had passed its zenith and was moving into early afternoon. Here and there in the dense leafy underbrush, insects buzzed and zoomed in and out of the shadows, barely stirring the warm humid air with their passing. Overhead, birds sang and darted, seeking food and companionship while the weather was yet fair, and taking scant notice of the line of finely clad and armored riders wending along the flat, grassy path.

The delegation had been riding for some time, and the soft murmur of idle conversation between the soldiers mingled with the soft clopping of the horses' hooves as the column moved down the Harad Road.

At the head, Faramir and Irolas guided their mounts along, watching the path ahead with the expectation of setting their eyes at any moment upon the negotiation party from Harad. Faramir appeared quite calm, enjoying the warm summer day, while Irolas had spent nearly the entire ride nervously scrutinizing every tree and bush.

"Can you not relax and enjoy the day for five minutes, my friend?" Faramir was saying quietly to the Captain. "I am pleased you are so ably performing your duty, but I fear you may exhaust yourself before we meet the delegation."

Irolas glanced at the Steward, and answered his query with a slightly embarrassed smile. "You must forgive me, Lord Faramir," he replied. "Old habits die hard, I suppose, and I find it nearly impossible to relax when meeting a group of Haradrim, even if it is voluntarily."

Faramir laughed a little and shook his head as he turned his eyes back to the road before him. "No need for apologies, Irolas, I understand," he said. "This will take some time for us all to adjust to." He looked behind him, then leaned in towards the Captain slightly. "Tell me, how stands the disposition of the men today? Has there been any change?"

In response, Irolas' eyes flicked back to assure that none nearby could hear them, then said in a soft, confidential tone, "None that I could discern, I'm afraid. The fourteen soldiers who resigned over this have not returned, and most of the rest of the men are highly skeptical, particularly the ones who have born arms against the Haradrim."

Faramir's lips pressed together, and he nodded and sat back up in the saddle. "As I suspected," he sighed quietly, a whisper of sadness in his tone.

The other man looked out to the road ahead, his voice still too low for any but Faramir to hear. "Perhaps it is too soon," he suggested. "They still recall seeing our comrades cut down with blade and arrow, and crushed beneath the feet of the mumakil. They - we have all - seen the men of the South only as the enemy. Lord Denethor would never..."

Suddenly Irolas bit off his words, and cast an abashed look at Faramir. "Forgive me, my Lord," he stammered, ducking his head in a gesture of apology.

But Faramir only smiled. "No need for shame, Irolas. I was thinking the same thing this morning," he said in a reassuring tone. "If my father knew we were about to sign the first peace treaty with the Haradrim, our ancient enemies whom he fought against as Steward for so long..." He shook his head and looked back at his comrade. "You are right, he never would have accepted this."

Irolas was gazing at him steadily. "I meant no disrespect to his memory," he said fervently. "Lord Denethor was a great man."

Now Faramir's countenance clouded a little. "Yes," he muttered, his eyes on the road before them but seeing something else entirely, "before the constant threat of Mordor and the evil of Sauron took his mind, my father cared for Gondor as no other man living, and would have brooked no quarter with its enemies."

Then Faramir drew a deep breath and lifted his head, regarding Irolas with a proud gaze. "But the duties of Steward are mine now, and I will welcome any chance of peace that comes, taking all proper caution that it is true and lasting. Gondor will extend its hand to the Haradrim in forgiveness and friendship, and can only hope they will do the same."

Irolas seemed less than convinced as he urged his horse forward. "Well, we shall know of their sincerity soon enough, I suppose."

Faramir looked up into the sky, squinting at the sun. "Yes," he muttered. "Sooner than this, I would have thought. Should we not have met their delegation by this time?"

The other man glanced up himself. "I too would have said so," he answered, before dropping his gaze back to the ground. "But they may have met all manner of delays."

Faramir was frowning, his blue eyes now more alert as he looked around. "They know we are to meet them upon this road, and escort them to the City," he said. "Their last dispatch placed them at the Crossings of Poros some two days ago. We have ridden well past the point where our paths should have crossed. Should-"

He stopped speaking, his head turning to face the road, his every feature tense. Faintly upon the hot afternoon air came a thrumming sound, increasing in volume and distinction with every passing second.

"A horseman approaches," declared Irolas, sitting up in his saddle. From the leafy depths of light and darkness came the sound of hoofbeats, signaling a rider coming upon them at a furious speed.

At once the soldiers drew their swords, four of them riding forward quickly to fan out around the Steward. Faramir had unsheathed his own weapon, and was regarding the sheltered pathway ahead with keen apprehension.

"Could it be a trap?" Irolas said sharply.

Faramir said nothing, still staring at the road, a light in his eyes denoting his unwillingness to yet assign such a dark meaning to the urgency of the rider's approach.

Then the rider appeared, flashing through the shade and sunlight, his horse's hooves pounding down the grass with every stride. He grew more visible with each second, and when he drew up before them, they saw a young man in wildly disheveled clothes of a deep red hue, his long black hair free and wild, his swarthy skin denoting his Haradrim descent.

He was covered in blood.

At the sight of the delegation, he skidded to a halt, his mount continuing to buck and rear. "Are you from Gondor?" he cried, in a thickly accented voice.

Faramir swiftly rode forward, his heart pounding with dread. "I am Faramir, Steward of Gondor," he said quickly. "What has happened?"

In reply, the young man waved one blood-spattered arm behind him. "I am Kidar, of the Seventh Tribe," he said. "We are down the road - some three miles - please help us at once, we are being attacked!"

Without waiting for an answer, he sawed his horse around charged away in a cloud of sunlit dust.

At once, a thrill of excited activity ran through the entire squadron of soldiers.

"Let us follow him at once, Captain," urged Faramir, turning quickly to Irolas.

The slightest light of hesitation was in the Captain's gray eyes. "Sir, if it is a trap-"

"Then the skills we have gained in the war will tell us so, and our dealings with Harad will be swift and terrible indeed," was the Steward's quick reply. "But if it is not, we are losing lives with every moment we stay here."

With that, Faramir spurred his horse after the bloodied Haradrim rider. Irolas barked an order for the men to follow, and they obeyed, some far more willingly than others, and soon the entire Gondor escort was pounding down the road to the fray, all thoughts of propriety and decorum forgotten as they prepared themselves, once more, for battle.

---------------

As they tore along, Faramir bent low over the neck of his mount, preparing himself for whatever they found at the end of their journey. The possibility that he had been wrong all along and they were riding to their doom presented itself, but he firmly pushed it aside, determined not to let old prejudices cloud his current judgment. Trained at recognizing a trap, Faramir felt confident he could withdraw his men in time, and then it would be woe to Harad for betraying their trust. But there would be time in the future for such things; he strove to keep his mind in the moment, and deal with the reality of the present.

The noise of battle reached his ears; somewhere ahead there came the clanging of metal on metal, the twang of bowstrings, the screams and cries of men engaged in struggle. Mingled among the shouts were the grunts and roars of Orcs, and Faramir felt his heart clench in his chest. How came Orcs to be involved in this?

A figure lay by the side of the road, but the Harad rider whom Faramir was following drove straight past it in his flight. As he neared it, Faramir saw the fallen form of a dead Haradrim, an Orc arrow protruding from his back. he had just enough time to see this Haradrim's horse prancing, loose and panicked, in the forests beyond the road.

"Another rider, also sent to find us," he thought quickly. This one had not completed his mission.

Not far behind the Haradrim lay the body of a dead Orc archer, its throat cut. As he raced past the corpse, Faramir noted a strange symbol painted in red upon the brute's cheek, resembling a backwards S with a line through the center. Never had Faramir known the Orcs to thus adorn themselves for battle, but he had little time to dwell on this curiosity, for he and the others had crested a small rise, and could now behold the chaos on the road before them.

The dirt road divided the warring parties, with brutal hand-to-hand combat spilling back and forth between. To their right, a host of Haradrim soldiers had taken shelter behind the rocks and trees of a large clearing, shooting arrows across the divide. On the left of the road, a band of Orcs of indeterminate number were also hunkering down behind the rocks and trees, firing their bows and howling their guttural war-cries. Among the foul creatures, to Faramir's surprise, stood a small number of Haradrim, clearly acting in concert with the beasts. All of the Orcs and their Haradrim comrades on the left side of the road bore the same curious symbol upon their faces.

Most of the Orcs and Haradrim appeared to be involved in the hand-to-hand struggle; there were flashes and clanging as swords met, shrieks and groans as their sharp blades found their target. Bodies of the fallen, some yet moving lay at the feet of the combatants, who paid them no mind in their efforts to claim victory.

Of those fighting, one warrior stood out, a tall, young Haradrim clad in red and black garments far richer than those around him, gold flashing from his throat and fingers. The black scarf that traditionally cloaked the Haradrim's face was gone, his long, thick, black hair flying well past his shoulders as he fought. He was almost covered in blood, most of it black, and his swordwork as he cut and slashed at the Orcs opposing him immediately revealed a soldier of considerable skill and deadliness.

Faramir saw all of this with one sweep of his eyes, and he immediately drew his sword and turned to Irolas. "To the aid of the Haradrim!" he cried, and rode forward, plunging ahead on his horse towards the battle.

"Never thought I'd be given those orders," Henvain muttered, before joining his fellow soldiers in following the Steward. A few of the Gondorians hesitated for a few moments, but in the end, every soldier of Minas Tirith did his duty and threw himself into the fray. Half of them remained on horseback, charging into the Orcs and slashing with their swords, while the other half dismounted and hurled themselves at the beasts churning back and forth across the road in their struggles against the men of Harad.

The fight quickly turned even more fierce, the Orcs screeching in anger and dismay at the newly arrived reinforcements. If any of the Haradrim or Gondorians felt any discomfort at fighting side by side, their efforts betrayed no sign of it; all aggression found full vent against the Orcs. There would be time for discomfort later.

As Faramir plied his blade against the Orcs, he soon perceived that the foul creatures were expending most of their energy towards a single objective: a pile of large boulders some twenty feet away from the road on the Haradrim side. Most of the flying Orc arrows were aimed there; any Orc who managed to cross the road aimed his steps for that region, and there were more Haradrim clustered there than anywhere else on the small battlefield.

When he had a rare moment to study the cluster of rocks, Faramir was surprised to see someone suddenly appear from among them, aiming a bow and firing its arrow before disappearing once more. From his swift perception, he saw that it was an older Haradrim man with long, gray hair, clad in garments of white and shining gold.

But as quickly as the elderly Haradrim archer came into view, he was gone, and Faramir turned once more to routing the Orcs.

With the unforeseen appearance of the Gondorians, the Orcs found themselves outnumbered, and the road and clearings were swiftly littered with their dead and dying. After a short period of strenuous battle, most of the Orcs lay dead, and those who attempted to flee were cut down as they ran or quickly pursued.

By the end of the struggle, Faramir had dismounted, and now stood panting from the exertion as the victors began to gather themselves, seeing to each other and the wounded. His formal velvets were now hopelessly ruined, his sword and garments splattering heavily with Orc blood.

He quickly scanned the clearing, estimating the damage to his men. The majority appeared to have emerged with minor wounds at worst; the unhurt were simply taking stock of the situation as they regained their breath. A few were on the ground, being tended, but of these, all were awake and talking. An encouraging sign, at least.

The Haradrim were seeing to their men as well, speaking to each other in their tongue as they did so. The two armies each saw exclusively to their own, apparently unwilling to mingle quite yet. As Faramir wiped his sword clean and sheathed it, he felt little surprise at this separation, understanding that despite having shed blood together, there were some matters that would still take time for the men of both sides to resolve.

Irolas came forward, his armor and fine velvet cape smeared with Orc blood, his long blonde hair straggling and lank with sweat.

"I see you were not idle, my friend," said Faramir in greeting.

Irolas shook his head. "These Orcs fought better than any I ever faced in the War," was the weary answer as he surveyed the scene, a puzzled light in his gray eyes. "We have many wounds, mostly minor, but it was a much closer thing than I would have thought. And did you mark the strange symbol on their faces?"

Faramir nodded, glancing about. "I did, but I fear we have little time for mysteries now," he said before directing his gaze back at the Captain. "Dispatch a rider at once to Minas Tirith and alert the King to this. We must have wagons for the wounded who cannot ride and healers to tend the injured."

Irolas nodded and went to obey the order, and the Steward turned now to the Haradrim. There were two new men moving among the wounded men of the South now, clad in scarlet and silver robes. Faramir recognized at once that they were healers, and watched for a few moments as they examined wounds and administered potions. Their practice did not seem so different than that of the healers of Gondor.

Someone was approaching him now, and Faramir looked up to see the tall, richly garbed young Haradrim nearing the place where he stood. This figure was quite tall, and now that they were closer, Faramir could see his face, a countenance distinguished by high, wide cheekbones, large black eyes, a mouth denoted by a distinctly full lower lip, and a sharp nose. Gold glinted at his throat and on his fingers through the thick black Orc blood that largely covered his frame.

"Your arrival was most timely, man of Gondor," said the Haradrim warrior in perfect Westron. "I was beginning to fear that you may have come under attack as well."

Faramir shook his head, still gasping a bit. "They sought only to strike down one of our parties, it would seem," he replied, before drawing himself up to a more formal stance. "I am Faramir, Steward of Gondor."

"Jadim, Prince of the Seventh Tribe," the other man said in response, executing a small bow. "I am pleased your King heeded my advice for a fully armed escort."

"As am I," another Haradrim voice chimed in, "though I would say I could have held them off for even longer, at least in my prime."

Faramir and Jadim both turned to see the elderly Haradrim archer now walking down the gently sloping hill towards them, surrounded by three other archers, all much younger. He was a powerfully built warrior, broad-shouldered even in his advanced age. For the most part, his swarthy face appeared youthful; only the wrinkles around his eyes, the gray hairs mixing with the black upon his bearded chin, and the full head of waving gray hair that flowed down his back betrayed his age. His nose was larger and rounder than Jadim's, his face wider, but there was enough of a similar air around the mouth and keen dark eyes to mark them as father and son. There was an aspect of kindliness about him, contrasted by the hard glimmer of cunning in the black depths of his eyes, a shrewdness any fellow warrior would recognize.

Faramir set himself to an even more formal stance and bowed slightly. "Have I the honor of addressing Mahrid Adir?"

The older man eyed him carefully. "You ought to know, Faramir, son of Denethor; we have met before," he said in a light tone. "At the time, however, we were separated by the field of battle, and doing our best to kill each other, so you are not to blame for failing to know my face." He returned the bow very gracefully. "Mahrid Adir, Chieftain of the Seventh Tribe of Harad."

Faramir nodded, a small smile of recollection crossing his sweat-soaked face. "I recall well the many engagements I had with you and your men," he said. "For the sake of us all, I am pleased that we have both lived to see the day when the shedding of blood between us might end."

One of the Harad archers at Adir's side then spoke something in his own tongue, his black eyes flashing. Despite the foreign words, there was no mistaking the anger and bitterness in the man's voice.

The warrior's remark appeared to pain both Jadim and Adir. A look of displeasure crossed Adir's face, and he muttered something in a reproving tone, again in Haradraic. In response, the erring soldier ducked his head, but said nothing more.

Faramir frowned; his skill in the tongue of Harad was far greater with the written language, as he had not heard it spoken very often.

In answer to his puzzled gaze, Adir sighed, the anger in his eyes softening to sadness. "Fear not, Steward of Gondor, the words were not against you," he said softly. "He says the fighting will not cease until the blood of one more is shed - he who sent the Orcs against us today."

"Do you know who that may be?" inquired Faramir, wondering at the grief in the elderly soldier's eyes.

Adir's face twisted even more in sorrow, and he nodded. They began to walk back across the road now, to where the fallen Orcs lay, their grotesque bodies twisted in death. Faramir, Jadim, and the bodyguards followed.

"After the fall of Sauron, the Orcs roamed leaderless," said Adir as they moved among the corpses; some of the unwounded Gondorians were already piling them up to be burned. "They banded in packs and harassed all who ventured along the borders of Mordor, including my own tribe."

"Yes," sighed Faramir, looking at the dead creatures with little pity. "We have fought them in Gondor as well, in the eastern forests of Ithilien and along the Morgul Road. Far more than we had imagined survived the end of the Dark Lord."

"As we also discovered," said Adir with a nod, stopping at one large, ugly carcass and studying it with loathing. "They hid in Mordor where we could not find them, like packs of wild dogs, seemingly few in number but in truth-" he peered at Faramir intently- "enough to build an army."

"It would not surprise me to know the Orcs resolved to join forces against us," said Faramir, as he stood beside Adir gazing at the dead Orc. "Yet a force of large size would be difficult for them to manage. From what we have learned of them, they are brutal, disorganized, without discipline, unless driven by the lash or the sword."

"Yes, by their masters, and the masters died with Sauron," replied Adir, and it seemed to Faramir as if the old man's voice became even more weighted with anguish. "But a new master has come to them now, and they have come together under his name. That symbol - " He indicated the red mark painted on every dead Orc's face, a backwards S with a slanting line drawn through the middle - "is his mark. In our language it is the same as your word 'scorpion', the deadliest creature of the desert, who waits hidden and strikes to kill."

"So their leader is of Harad," observed Faramir in a grim voice, glancing over at the few dead men of Harad who lay among the Orc corpses, their presence now explained.

"Many of our people felt as the Orcs did," Jadim offered, his voice sharp with bitterness. Adir, it appeared, had become too grieved to speak. "They would not accept Sauron's defeat, and some sought out the Orcs to become their leader and continue the war in the name of the Dark Lord. All failed to win the Orcs' allegiance and were killed, until one man went to them who could unite and lead their accursed race. Now he is their chief, and sends both Orcs and those Haradrim who have joined his ranks to take our lives." His black eyes became hard. "A willing army of untold numbers is a tempting prize for one of high ambition, a thirst for blood, and no regard for honor."

"Jadim!" said Adir sharply, and Faramir was surprised at the tone of rebuke in the Chieftain's voice.

The son, however, did not appear contrite. "There is no shame in stating the truth, Father," he said, rage creeping into his expression. "He sought your blood on his hands today, we have no ties to him now. It is a crime we should not forgive-"

Now Adir's eyes flashed as he faced his heir. "It is for me to say who shall be forgiven among us," he replied, with more strength than Faramir had seen him display yet, "and I am not yet ready to cast him out into the darkness."

Faramir could not help noticing the faint tone of tenderness coloring the Chieftain's last words. "You have remarkable mercy for this man, Mahrid Adir," he said in an impressed voice, "who has allied with the Orcs and sought to slay you."

Adir drew a heavy sigh and looked into the young Steward's eyes, the years suddenly evident in every aspect of his being.

"I fear I will always feel mercy towards him, though it may be my hand that ends his life," was the Chieftain's sorrowful answer. "He is my youngest son, Karil."

------------------

Lord Beleg hurried along the streets of Minas Tirith, weary and panting in the warm afternoon sun. It was a long run, but he was determined to make it. If what he had heard was true - and he knew it was - there was no time to waste.

All around him, in every crowd of citizens he passed at the shops and market stalls along the streets, he heard the same words whispered, gasped, shouted, until he felt he could piece together an entire conversation simply from the snatches he was picking up. They were all discussing the identical topic.

"-the Haradrim were attacked-"

"-both parties were entirely wiped out, that's what I heard-"

"No, no, the Haradrim attacked Faramir's party-Lord Faramir's been killed, and the Haradrim are now riding for the City!"

"Lord Beleg!"

The dark-haired nobleman turned to see Lord Tuornen running towards him, lifting his rich robes out of the dust as he hustled across the wide market square. Beleg briefly marveled at the fact that, despite the older man's anxious state, Tuornen's long white hair was as immaculate as ever.

"Have you heard the news?" Tuornen asked as he came to Beleg's side. They both continued to stride towards the upper level.

"Heard it?" snorted the younger man. "I saw the healer's wagons leave the City myself to tend to the wounded, guarded by a troop of soldiers."

"This is exactly what I feared," moaned Tuornen, shaking his head as they moved along. "I have heard the slaughter was horrendous, and Lord Faramir fallen. How could the King have been so deaf as to turn aside our counsel and invite such a calamity!"

Beleg frowned. "I believe Lord Faramir is yet alive, at least as I have been told," he said. "But I agree that this would not have happened had the King heeded our words. I am going to see him myself this very hour."

Tuornen glanced at him, surprised. "That was my plan as well!" he exclaimed. "Perhaps if we go together, we may convince him to end this foolish notion of peace with those barbarians before further blood is shed."

"I would be pleased to have you accompany me, my Lord," said Beleg with a smile. "Though if our King is at all as wise as they claim, he is already planning to march upon Harad and avenge the blood of Gondor!"

At last they entered the upper level, and saw the King standing beside the White Tree, in the midst of a large crowd of nobles, advisors, and aides. Beside him stood King Eomer, Prince Imrahil, that Elf Legolas, and the dwarf Gimli, all looking most grave, and a sweaty-faced soldier in armor stained with Orc blood who had apparently brought the news of the fray. Aragorn had shed the armor and the crown, and as the two noblemen drew nearer, they could hear him speaking swiftly in his strong, clear voice to a scribe who was recording his every order upon a parchment.

"-and there must be a space cleared away in the meeting place for the Haradrim's wounded," Aragorn was saying, "and a supply of medicines from the Houses sent down as well. I and the delegation will be there shortly."

"Yes, sire," said the scribe, who finished writing down the instructions and hurried away.

"I shall take some of my men and ride to the scene of battle, my Liege," Imrahil announced. "We shall aid my nephew in organization and gathering the wounded, and provide escort the rest of the way to the City."

"Excellent, my friend; do so at once, with my thanks," Aragorn said. Imrahil bowed hastily and hurried away.

At once a hubbub of voices rose around the King, but Beleg and Tuornen were determined to be heard, particularly after hurrying up several levels for the opportunity. Pushing his way to the front of the crowd with Beleg just behind, Tuornen drew himself up, cleared his throat, and announced his presence in a volume that could not be ignored.

"Your Majesty!"

Those who had been interrupted stopped speaking and looked at the nobleman, surprised. Aragorn turned his patient gaze to the two newcomers and bowed slightly.

"Lord Tuornen, Lord Beleg," he said in a polite though strained manner, as if he knew exactly what was coming, "I trust you have heard what has happened?"

"It is the talk of the City!" replied Beleg firmly.

"Is it true that Lord Faramir has fallen?" inquired Tuornen quickly.

"No, sir, that's false, beggin' you pardon, my Lord," said the soldier, who upon closer study was a pale-eyed young man of unremarkable features. "Most of the dead were Orcs." He smiled a little. "Once we arrived, our men and the Haradrim gave them a pretty sound thrashin', sir."

The King seemed gently amused at this, and indicated the soldier to the two Council members. "My Lords, you may refer all of your questions to soldier Henvain here, who witnessed all that befell us this day. I believe you will find the truth not half as dire as the popular accounts would have it."

Beleg appeared slightly confused. "Then-the escort was not destroyed?"

Henvain blinked. "No, sir, my Lord, not at all. It was the Haradrim who was bein' attacked, by Orcs, and we went to help them."

"Orcs attacking Haradrim?" muttered Tuornen in disbelieving tones. "But they were allies once, against Gondor! Clearly that must have been a trap."

"That's what a lot of us thought, sir," relied Henvain respectfully. "But we were ordered to fight with the Haradrim against the Orcs, and so we did. They weren't like any Orcs I'd ever come across before, my Lord-they wore odd markings on their faces, and fought better than I'd ever seen any Orc fight. And the Haradrim fought with us, sir. Never would have believed it if I wasn't there, myself, but it's true, and so we won the day."

There was a silence as the two Lords absorbed these new thoughts.

"Now, Lord Faramir is alive and well," Aragorn patiently assured them, "and we have lost none of our own. The wounded will be cared for, and when all is settled, the negotiations for peace will begin."

Lord Tuornen appeared to come back to himself at those words. "But-Sire, surely we cannot continue with those talks, after this!" he said urgently. "We still are not certain it was not a trap."

Henvain cleared his throat. "Pardon me, my Lord, but - thinking back on it, I don't think it was. We were warned."

Tuornen scowled. "Warned?"

"Yes, sir," said Henvain with a nod. "That Haradrim we talked to, Jadim, warned us to bring extra soldiers with the escort because he thought we might be attacked. If it was a trap, I don't think he'd have warned us. He would have wanted the escort unprotected, sir, so they could get the lot of us." He shifted uncomfortably, as if suddenly thinking that perhaps he had overstepped his bounds. "I apologize if it's out of place of me to say so, sir, but as I was there I thought you'd want to know."

"And Lord Faramir's a smart young lad," offered Gimli, leaning on his ornate ceremonial axe. "He'd not lead his soldiers into anything that smelled foul."

"That may be," said Eomer in his deep voice, his handsome face dark with concern, "but I fear my opinion lies with the two noble Lords. Clearly this endeavor will be far more dangerous than we bargained for." He turned to the King of Gondor. "If you are determined to proceed, Aragorn, I would ask that you do so with profound caution. I must say with the King's pardon that if we were in Rohan, the Haradrim would be sent back on the road to their land, to settle whatever quarrels they may have with the Orcs before bringing such danger to our doorstep."

There was a moment of silence, before Aragorn looked at his fellow monarch, a pensive expression on his face.

"It is so noted, Eomer King," replied Aragorn with a bow, before looking to Beleg and Tuornen. "Be assured, I hear all of you, and understand your feeling. Yet I will risk going forward, until such time as I am also convinced it is futile - a time that I hope shall never come."

A murmuring went through the small crowd. Tuornen and Beleg glanced at each other, aware that the discussion was concluded. For now.

"We shall ride for the meeting place and receive the Haradrim Chieftain and those of his men who have survived," said Aragorn with determination, walking away with Eomer, Legolas and Gimli. The small crowd followed, Beleg, Tuornen and Henvain at their head. "There is far more to learn about this matter, my friends, and I intend to know all before any dealings of peace will be made. I promise the Council will be informed when there is any information to be delivered. Good day to you all."

Beleg and Tuornen stood aside, watching Aragorn and the rest depart. Neither of them looked especially satisfied.

"So it seems we are once again ignored," sighed Beleg.

"At least the King of Rohan agrees with us," offered Tuornen, placing his hands upon his costly belt and drumming his fingers in contemplation. "And there are others in the Council on our side, too. For now, it appears we must wait, and hope there are no more unpleasant occurrences before the King comes to his senses."