A/N: I am on a roll. With lettuce, tomato, chicken, and mustard.

To my new reviewer….

-Angelchick007: Yesssss! I am thrilled to see one of my old readers again. The review you left made me smile; you have no idea how much it means to me to hear about the excitement people feel over my stories. I also re-read The Cold Touch of Rain a lot, hoping that I'd someday get inspired to write a new fic. I'm glad you like this one. I think it's pretty nifty as well. Thanks for your comments!

So, I was all set to write my disclaimer about how none of Tolkien's characters are mine, which I know may come as a surprise to everyone, but then I saw a baby oliphaunt eating leaves in my backyard. Weird.

Chapter Six: A Treacherous Handshake

"Something smells wonderful!" Gailrin said, descending the stairs and entering the kitchen.

"I am preparing dinner," Coruwen responded. "Faeldor said that I can cook his fish. We will be having stew!"

"What?" her mother asked, surprised. "Where is your brother?"

"Right here," Faeldor said, appearing in the doorway. "What is it, Mother?"

"Did you ask your father if it was all right to cook the fish?" Gailrin asked sternly. Coruwen glanced up, regarding the exchange quietly.

"No," Faeldor answered casually, sounding quite unconcerned. He flopped down in a chair, putting his feet up on the kitchen table.

"Faeldor!" Gailrin scolded. "Your father will be furious when he hears of this! According to him, this was the biggest fish that either one of you has ever caught! Surely he would want to sell such a prize to northern Gondor!"

"Oh?" Faeldor's voice dripped with sarcasm. "With what boat, Mother?"

"Do not take that tone with me."

"Please," he groaned, rolling his eyes skyward, "I overheard your conversation with Father. I know what you think of this matter. I know you wish us to leave home."

"What?" Coruwen interjected. "Leave home? Mother, what is he talking about?"

"Nothing," Gailrin answered, her eyes never leaving her son. "You are not to speak of this in front of your sister," she instructed him in a soft voice.

"Oh, for pity's sake," Faeldor muttered. "She, too, knows of the current dangers. You and Father think you can hide anything from us!"

"That is quite enough, Faeldor," Gailrin snapped. "I do not want to hear another word about this from either of you, especially once your father comes inside. Have I made myself clear?"

Coruwen and Faeldor exchanged a look that was impossible to decipher. Gailrin sighed in annoyance.

"Have I made myself clear?" she asked again, her voice louder.

"Yes, Mother," Faeldor answered. Coruwen nodded her agreement.

"Very well then. I shall retire to my bedroom until supper. Try to stay out of trouble." Gailrin disappeared from the room without so much as a glance to either of them. Coruwen continued to stir her stew thoughtfully, while Faeldor drummed his fingers on the table in a rhythm of frustration and anger.

Aradhel carefully walked up the hill towards the fisherman. His gloved fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, and he half-heartedly considered stabbing the man quickly, abandoning Gwarth's plan. But he knew, deep down, that his friend might have struck upon something genius.

The debate between power of the sword and power of the mind was an argument that Aradhel and Gwarth had been having since they were boys. Aradhel remembered one day in particular when he had attempted to ride an oliphaunt for the very first time. The giant creature was extremely resistant, and refused to respond to any of his commands, not even when Aradhel whipped him squarely across the back. Gwarth had shown him his technique for gaining an oliphaunt's trust and respect. He would tease the animal, luring him with the temptation of food. Gwarth used to play with the baby oliphaunts that frolicked under the misty waterfalls by the River Harnen. As his mûmakil friends grew bigger, they would allow Gwarth to ride on their backs. They listened to him, obeyed him. Aradhel always admired Gwarth's patience and attempted to emulate his successful behavior.

In the end, it was Aradhel's sharp skill as a warrior and his ruthless violence that earned him the title of Chieftain of the Haradrim. Gwarth's cunning personality and devious ways gave him the job as Aradhel's advisor, and second-in-command. The two men fought constantly, but it was their long-lasting friendship and joint history that kept them from drawing swords on one another. Somewhere beneath their rough exteriors, they shared a deep brotherly love that would continue to be the underlying backbone to their friendship until the end of their days.

Their bond was the reason why Aradhel allowed Gwarth to convince him to wash away his face paint and remove his red cloak, only moments ago. He had caught a glimpse of his naked face in the water's reflection and felt startled. It had been so long since he had seen himself without the bright colors on his nose and cheeks; he had almost forgotten what he really looked like. He had glanced up at Gwarth for reassurance, and his friend simply nodded.

But now, as he continued up the hill, Aradhel wrestled with contrasting feelings of confidence and doubt. He could not deny that the warrior in him ridiculed this silly plan. He knew that he could destroy this town without exerting any energy – he could murder every family with his eyes closed.

But as Aradhel's hand brushed the hilt of his sword again, a flash of memory flickered in front of his eyes like a lightning bolt against the evening sky. He had a vision of Gwarth as a boy, surrounded by baby oliphaunts during a rain shower. He could also see himself standing off to the side, his whip hanging from his hand loosely. Aradhel nodded to himself, his hand sliding from his sword. He would let Gwarth write this story. At least for now.

Thurandír inhaled the last smoky breath of his pipe and turned, prepared to go inside for dinner. He stopped short upon seeing a strange man making his way up the hill. Thurandír furrowed his brow – this man looked vaguely familiar, as though he'd stepped out of an old drawing or book, but he could not put his finger on who he might be. The man was tall, with long tangled ebony hair, and dark skin. He wore a few gold earrings, and bore a long sword at his side.

"Pardon me," the man called, "but are you the master fisherman of these parts?"

"Yes," Thurandír answered, his curiosity piqued. "And who, pray tell, are you?"

"My name is Aradhel," he said, coming to a halt before him. "I am a seaman myself. I dwell in a small village on the shores of the River Harnen."

"The River Harnen?" Thurandír echoed, alarmed. "Do you mean to tell me that you live in the land of Harad?"

"My village lies on the outskirts of Far Harad," Aradhel answered smoothly. "That realm has been mostly deserted for months. It is in the land of Near Harad that the wicked men dwell. Though I do not dare to speak of them."

"I see," Thurandír agreed, thinking of the legendary Southrons, with their painted faces and red attire. He had never seen one up close of course, but had heard enough frightening tales to give him fear of ever meeting one of Sauron's wicked servants. "And what are you doing here?" he asked curiously.

"My people are struggling," Aradhel said, turning wide desperate eyes to him. "Not too long ago, we had a prosperous trading deal with the men of Khand. But trades have been scarce as of late. Ever since the dark shadow returned to the east, our attempts to maintain the glory of our town have failed. The people of Khand have either fled into the west or have succumbed to the spreading evil. I worry about the fate of my village."

Thurandír nodded, understanding this man's troubles, for they were the same as his own.

"Then I heard of your town," Aradhel continued. "I heard stories of a wondrous fisherman, and a sea captain. I knew I had to visit Ethir Anduin immediately. Your trades with northern Gondor, how do they fare?"

"Not well, I am afraid," Thurandír responded. He quickly filled Aradhel in on his own problems, including the disappearance of Nemír.

"It is as I expected then," Aradhel said gravely. "Do you ever think about leaving these shores?"

Thurandír sighed, looking at his small house, the familiar waters. He could not imagine living anywhere else.

"My wife wishes to leave," he admitted, surprise at the ease with which he spoke to this complete stranger. "I would want to stay. This is my home. I could never feel as happy as I do here."

"Then I must offer you a proposition," Aradhel said, taking a step closer. "Let us help one another. Let us not allow our villages to become swallowed by the eastern shadow."

"You want us to make a trading deal?" Thurandír questioned. "I suppose that sounds like a wise suggestion."

"Not just wise. I think it is imperative," Aradhel stated firmly. "Gondor has abandoned you; Khand has failed me. What other choice do we have?"

Thurandír considered his offer. Aradhel's words made perfect sense, and yet, there was the faint sound of warning bells ringing in his ears. Something wasn't right about this.

He glanced at Aradhel out of the corner of his eye, at his eager and hopeful gaze. Thurandír smiled in spite of himself – he was being quite foolish, he realized. This was a wonderful opportunity – the kind that did not come along very often.

Ignoring the nagging feeling inside his mind, Thurandír extended his hand.

"Very well then," he said. "Let us meet by the shore tomorrow morning to begin our trade."

Aradhel shook his hand firmly.

"Thank you," he said warmly. "You are truly a kind man."

Thurandír grinned.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be going. My family is expecting me for dinner."

"Of course," Aradhel said. "I shall see you tomorrow then."

"Tomorrow," Thurandír echoed, disappearing behind his front door. Once inside his house, he paused in the hallway. The exchange with Aradhel replayed itself in his mind, and try as he might, he could not shake the sensation that he had just done something terribly wrong. No matter how much he reasoned with himself, Thurandír was slightly convinced that somehow, he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Aradhel made his way down the hill steadily. The conversation with Thurandír had gone exactly as Gwarth said it would. He was right, he realized, in trusting him.

But that came as no surprise to Aradhel. What truly shocked him was that for the first time in his life, he truly enjoyed traveling down the road of cunning deceit. And on that day by the water, Aradhel learned that the clear sense of victory he acquired through mastery of the sword could also be obtained by simply spinning a dark web of lies.

A/N: These men of Harad are kind of sexy. Who's with me?