A/N:  Thanks to everybody who has reviewed so far!  This story will probably be about 12 chapters long when finished, and I’ll probably post about twice a week.  It’s mostly written, but I’m tweaking and polishing as I go.  I hope you enjoy!  Once again, big thanks to Cairistiona, whose advice pushed me to flesh out this chapter a lot more.

It was my nephew Tawil, Kalima’s eldest, who told me of the fate of my son.  Born only three months apart, the two boys were inseparable for most of their childhood.  They learned to walk together on the same flagstone floors, chased each other up and down the same hills, spent their days herding the same goats.  It was only natural that when Tawil enlisted in the Lord’s Grand Army at twenty-five years of age, that my Ayman would plead and cajole until I gave him leave to join as well.  I didn’t want to let him go—I didn’t want to let either of them go—but the Dark Lord had commanded that every able-bodied young man was to serve, and his eyes were everywhere.  I dared not hold onto them any longer.

I may never know how Tawil traversed the countless leagues between the Pelennor and the Haradwaith with an arrow sticking out of his side.  Eventually, he was picked up by a sympathetic caravan, and so returned to us.  After he staggered across our doorstep, we nursed him for days before he was lucid enough to tell of our family’s full tragedy.

Tawil and Ayman marched together in the same battalion under the banner of the Black Serpent.  They were among the reserve infantry in the assault on Minas Tirith.  All was going well; the Gondorians were surrounded and under siege by the time my kinsmen entered the field of battle.  The army had placed scouts and watchmen all around their perimeter, allowing the soldiers to focus their attention forward on the city.  This proved their undoing. 

Ayman’s company was changing positions—marching along the outskirts of the field—when a strange horn echoed across the plain.  A great army of horsemen—the Rohirrim—were assembled on the plain at their flank.  How thousands of riders had made their way past the sentries without detection, Tawil did not know.  Awkwardly placed at the leading edge of the new frontline, Tawil and Ayman scarcely had time to lower pikes before the riders were among them, scattering the company as the wind scatters chaff.    Miraculously, the two survived the first assault.  They rallied with a mixed company of Haradrim and Variags by the shores of the Anduin.  The army was reeling, but recovering quickly and moving to strike against the Rohirrim.  Then, by some cruel twist of fate, the battle lines shifted once more, pitting my son against another fresh assault.

The Umbari ships were supposed to bring reinforcements.  Tawil and Ayman looked to them for their salvation.  The vessels were nearly upon them before they could make out the banner of Gondor at the prow.  The Rohirrim, doubtless also expecting ships full of Southrons, rallied to meet them.  His company in complete disarray, my son was caught with the hooves and spears of the Rohirrim on one side and the armor and swords of the Gondorim on the other.

Tawil was wounded and cut off from the main army.  As the Gondorian infantry prepared for battle against the still formidable Grand Army of Sauron, they did not notice one bleeding soldier fleeing in their wake.  Tawil made it across the Anduin and into Ithilien.  His last glimpse of my son was of Ayman and three of his countrymen being forced to kneel in a ring of armored men.

I run my hand over my sweat-drenched face.  I am still somewhat in shock that this should happen to my son—to a boy whose name means “lucky and blessed.”  And yet, I ask myself:  What right does my family have to blessing?  What right indeed.

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I stepped through the door nervously, a mug of tea steaming in my hand.  Father sat on an overturned bucket at the foreigner’s side.  “How is he?”

Father ran a tired hand through his hair and accepted the tea with a quiet word of thanks.  “He sleeps for now.  He will recover from the dehydration, but as for the Mordor fever . . . only time will tell.”

A small pile of coconut shells lined the floor.  I swallowed.  Coconuts had to be purchased from traders who carted them all the way from the coastline.  Father had used almost our entire emergency supply.

I crouched at his side.  “Has he said anything?”

My father raised and lowered one shoulder.  “He rambles—sometimes in Westron, sometimes in other stranger tongues.  Who he is, where he comes from, I cannot say for sure.”

I stared at the foreigner for long moments.  Father had recovered the man’s ragged cloak and draped it over him.  The stranger continued to sweat and tremble simultaneously.  His eyes flicked and twitched under closed lids as if in fear of some unseen foe.  A worn leather pouch had fallen to the ground by his side.  I picked it up and unlaced the top.

“What’s this?”  From the pouch, I drew a few dried leaves.  I crushed a leaf and sniffed it curiously.  It gave off a subtle yet pleasant odor—like the earth after a great rainstorm.  “Some kind of herb?”  I’d half raised the crumbled leaf to my lips to taste it when Father glanced in my direction.

“Hakim!  Put that down.  Has your mother taught you nothing?”

I dropped the pouch, shamefaced as I remembered my mother’s lectures on the dangers of unknown plants.  My father continued his tirade unappeased.

“You don’t know whether he carries that weed to flavor his tea or to cure the plague or to poison his enemies!  Even medicinal herbs can kill if not properly prepared.  By the Eye, Hakim, I thought you were wiser than that.”

I hung my head.  “Was there anything else you needed, Father?”

He harrumphed.  “The tea will do for now.  Go get your sister.  You and Kalima will have to take the goats out by yourselves today.”

“Yes, Father.”  I hurried from the barn, leaving the foreigner in my father’s care.

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The doe delivered her kids that day and the excitement drove the foreigner temporarily out of my mind.  At nightfall, my sister and I returned triumphant with two new girl-kids in tow.  When I told my father, he merely grunted, his mind clearly on other things.  Then he ordered me to take a cup of tea to my mother, who was tending the injured warrior.

I entered the ramshackle quarters and saw a replay of that morning’s scene save that now it was my mother, tall and imperious in her black robe, who stood over the feverish man.  I spoke not a word, but she heard my approach.

“This cannot continue as it has.”  Her voice was strangely solemn.  She stared down at the bedridden Gondorim.  “In this state he drinks enough for three men.”  She pointed to the growing pile of drained coconuts.  “He has consumed nearly all . . .”  She paused.  “He must recover soon, or . . .”  Instead of finishing the statement, she glanced over her shoulder and seemed to see me for the first time.  I didn’t like the hard glint in her eyes.  I passed her the tea in silence, but her expression didn’t change.

“Hakim, my son, pass me that leather pouch.”

I looked where she pointed and spotted the herb packet that Father had chided me for inspecting that morning.  When I handed her the pouch, she hesitated for only an instant before loosening the ties and drawing out a leaf.  With practiced fingers, she crumbled the strange substance into the steaming tea.

I stifled a gasp, remembering Father’s warning.  Still, I held my tongue.  Mother knew more herbalism than Father and I combined.  It was possible that she recognized this weed and knew how to administer it.  Possible . . . yes, that must be it.  My mother would never use an unknown substance from a Gondorian’s pouch; not when there was a chance it might be poison.  Surely . . .

Mother approached the man tentatively.  “This cannot continue as it has,” she said again.  I swallowed.  She lifted his head, eliciting an unintelligible groan from her patient.  His lids cracked, briefly revealing those unsettling eyes.  Mother lifted the cup and splashed a bit of warm liquid over his lips.  The man’s chest stuttered up and down once, twice and then . . . the strangest scent filled the air.  Even now, I have not the words to describe it.  It was like that of the leaf I’d crushed in my fingers, but strong—a hundred fold stronger.  If the dried leaf in my hands had recalled the freshness of a rainstorm, then this held the potency of every rainy season I’d experienced in my seventeen years.

The effect on the stricken man was immediate.  His face relaxed.  His breaths grew deeper and more even.  My mother nodded at these encouraging signs.  For good measure, she tried to force about half of the tea down his throat.  Still in the clutches of delirium, the stranger struggled and flailed and spat most of the concoction back out.  After a moment, Mother relented and placed the mug on the ground beside him.

Stepping back, Mother just stood and watched the stranger.  With every breath more of the gray pallor faded from his sunburned face.  Within moments, the man lapsed from half-consciousness into a deep, restful sleep.  Mother touched his forehead and nodded.  “He will recover.”

I’m sure I imagined the touch of disappointment in her voice.

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That night we feasted on beans and bread studded with coconut shavings—a rare treat.  Mother was determined that the coconuts used to save the foreigner would not go completely to waste.

Her plate clean, Kalima looked up as a bit of bean juice dribbled down her chin.  “What’s going to happen to the foreigner with the pretty eyes?”

Mother dabbed her daughter’s face with a linen napkin.  “I told you, child; he will get better.”

Kali cocked her head.  “And then what?  Can we keep him?”

Mother sighed.  “You know better, Kalima.  One does not simply keep a Man.”  She looked to my father for support.

Father put his knife down and frowned thoughtfully.  “Normally,” he began slowly, “Your mother would be absolutely right.  That is, if he were a fellow man of Harad or was from one of the nations we have good relations with.”

Though there were beans still on my plate, I suddenly had no appetite.  I swallowed.  “But?”

Father shrugged.  “But he’s a Gondorian.”  He looked at my little sister.  “Wherever he came from, he was up to no good.  So, we can’t just let him go, but we might be able to ransom him.”

Kalima mopped up some bean juice with a piece of skillet bread.  “Ransom?”

My mother jumped in again, perhaps worried that my father’s forthrightness would carry too far.  “We send a letter to his family in Gondor and they come to get him.  Then he swears an oath saying that he will never fight against or spy on our people again.  Then his family gives us a little bit of coin to thank us for taking care of him and he goes home.”

I returned to my meal.  I knew from conversations with my father that Mother’s version was rather edited.  The oath of nonviolence was largely a formality, as neither side expected ransomed soldiers to give up their cause.  Father’s motivation likely had more to do with the not inconsiderable sums often associated with the return of prisoners—particularly officers and nobles as this man seemed to be.

Kalima looked disappointed.  She tried again.  “But what if his family doesn’t want him back?  Can he stay then?”

My father’s face tightened, but he kept his voice light.  “And why, Kali, would a family—even a Gondorian family—not want their son back?”

She stuck her chin out defensively.  “They might not.  Or . . . or he might not have a family.  And he might think that Harad is nice and want to stay, and if he does can he stay with us, please?”

Father shook his head, a bit amused at her plea.  “I’m afraid not, pet.  He is too dangerous to stay here.  He probably fought in the wars to the north, after all.”

Kali pouted.  “So?”

Mother smacked the child’s hand with the back of a wooden spoon.  “For shame, Kalima!  Your uncle died in that war.”

My sister sucked on the back of her hand, her eyes sulky but unrepentant.

Father sighed.  “If we cannot ransom him, we will have to send him away from here—away down south, maybe.”

Now it was my father who was editing for appearances sake.  Everyone knew of the traveling merchants who bought captured Gondorim and sold them for the galleys in Umbar or the mines in Mordor.

My appetite was gone again.  I put my spoon down and did not pick it back up.

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The next morning when it was time to lead the goats out, Mother went with Kalima, leaving the washing for another day.  Father told me to stay behind.  He seemed unusually edgy, and I thought I knew why.

“How is your Westron?” he asked once my mother and sister were gone.

I swallowed.  “Passable, I suppose.  I have not practiced in some time.”

“Well, you may soon have the opportunity.  Come with me, but do not speak if you can avoid it.”

Fighting my rising trepidation, I followed my father down to the barn. Yesterday the foreigner had been at death’s door.  Mother said he would recover, but surely not so quickly?

Not for the last time, the strange man confounded my expectations.  When Father unlocked the large padlock and pushed open the door to the slave quarters, the foreigner was sitting upright on his mattress with the woebegotten cloak draped over his legs.  Despite the grime that covered him, the humble surroundings, and the ashen cast of his skin, he looked for all the world like a lordling who had just woken up in his palace rather than a man just arisen from a near fatal stupor.

Father was clearly taken aback.  For a moment, we both just watched the man.  It was the stranger who finally broke the silence.

“I am in your debt, friend.”  He spoke in the Common tongue with a lilting, almost musical accent that made his words a bit hard to follow—at least to my ears.  Nonetheless, his tone was genial, though he must have noticed that his weapons were gone and he was housed in what was essentially a poor man’s prison cell.  “Without your aid I would certainly have perished in the desert.”  Still, Father did not speak.  The man paused.  “Do you speak Common?”

Father’s eyes narrowed.  “Yes,” he said finally, dragging out the word as if the stranger had forced it from him.

The man did not lose his composure.  “Then know that I greatly appreciate your intervention.  If there is any way I can repay you for your effort and expense, I will do my best.”

Father’s narrowed eyes morphed into an open scowl.  “Then answer me this:  how did you come to walk the Haradwaith?”

The foreigner’s friendly expression did not fade, but for the first time I detected the edge of wariness in his face.  “The story is not very glorious, I’m afraid.  I was hunting a wolf near the edges of Ithilien—a real beast that had been terrorizing a nearby settlement—when I was overcome by an entire pack of the brutes.  I was driven away and south and by the time I regained my bearings I was hopelessly lost.”  I sensed, even then, that this was a rehearsed tale.  I’m not sure what he hoped to accomplish by it, but Father was not fooled.

My father’s eyes were flinty.  “You are many, many leagues from Ithilien.  One does not stumble into Harad by chance.”

The stranger shrugged.  “What can I say?  I am unfamiliar with these regions and before I could find my way home I fell ill.  Who knows how far I wandered in my delirium?”

Father’s expression did not change.  “One does not simply ‘fall ill’ as you did without cause.”

The foreigner similarly retained his friendly demeanor, though the steely edge beneath it was now apparent.  “If you know some cause of that fever, please share it so that I may tell my kinsmen in Gondor.  It is a pernicious malady that has plagued us for some time.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Father muttered under his breath.  “Very well, stranger.  I think you fell ill because you strayed where you ought not to have gone.  I think you are a soldier here to spy on Harad and . . . and our allies.  Allies that deserve your respect.”

In the face of my father’s hostility, the foreigner maintained his carefully neutral expression.  “I speak the truth when I tell you that I mean you no ill.  I am here by mere chance.  And if by ‘allies’ you refer to . . . the region to the north of here, I can assure you that the men of Gondor have not walked there since the time of Isildur.”  My father did not respond, so the man continued.  “And as you accuse me of being a soldier . . . well, in these times you would be hard pressed to find a man of Gondor who has never taken up arms.  What is it to you?”

I knew instantly that this was the wrong thing to say.  My uncle—Father’s younger brother—had perished in a border dispute with Gondor not two years past.  I saw the anger in Father’s face, but he restrained himself carefully.  This Gondorian was still an unknown quantity.  “What is your name, stranger?” he asked at last.

The man’s lips pressed into a hard line.  “Why should I tell you my name?  So you can slander my family with false accusations of spying?  My gratitude does not extend that far.”

Father and I were both slightly taken aback.  The custom of ransom had long been practiced by our people and his.  Surely he knew what Father was asking . . .

My father’s head came up.  He mimicked the stranger’s earlier tone.  “Then I am afraid you may not see your family for some time.”

The stranger’s expression barely changed, but I thought I detected resignation in the slight dip of his shoulders.  He did not seem angry at my father’s words—just regretful that his brief charade of civility was destined to crumble.  “Am I your prisoner, then?”

Father did not speak for a moment.  Then, he abruptly turned.  “Come with me.”

For once, it was the stranger who was taken aback.  He stood slowly on legs that were slightly shaky.  I hovered by the door, wondering if he needed assistance, but when my father swept out of the barn, I hurried to follow.  The stranger followed at a slower pace and emerged, squinting into the morning sun.  Father pointed away to the West.  “There is your home.  Forty leagues of empty desert lie between here and there—more distance than any man, much less a delirious one, could cover on foot.  There will be no passage West until the rainy season, and that is still three months away.  I am not your captor, stranger; the Haradwaith is.  So, however much we both may wish differently, you are stuck here for the time being and completely dependent on our charity.”

The man stood stock still for a moment, staring across the barren wastes.  He was even taller than we had guessed, standing nearly a foot above Father.  “I understand,” he said finally.

“Then understand this,” my father’s voice took on a hard edge, “You may refer to me as malik.  My son is Hakim.  You will not refuse an order by either of us or we may choose to be less charitable.  You will not speak to my wife or my daughter nor enter our home or we will find a way to further reduce our losses.”  I wondered at the strange, steely-voiced man my father had suddenly become.  Was this what he was like back when he was a soldier himself?  “Until you tell us your name, we will refer to you as ‘Dakheel.’  But, you will tell us your name and the location of your family, or traders from Umbar will make a stop here when the rains come.”

Though the man’s face didn’t change, he paled almost imperceptibly.  “I understand, malik.”  He used the title easily, even though this noble warrior must have suspected its meaning.  “I am weary from my illness.  May I return to my rest?”

Father studied him for a moment, perhaps trying to gauge whether his words were meant to convey true deference or merely common courtesy.  Finally, he nodded.  “Very well, Dakheel.”

As the Gondorian stepped back into the shadow of the barn, my father leaned towards me and addressed me in Haradric.  “Follow him,” he said, “And lock the door behind him.”

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“I don’t understand.  He wouldn’t tell you his name?  Why not?”

“Who knows, Asima?  The Gondorian seems to be quite mad.”

“But, he must know what options that leaves us.”

“I’m sure he does.  But I suspect pride binds his tongue.  He will get over it soon enough when the rainy season draws near and this time next year we will all rest comfortable on this lordling’s ransom.”

“And if he does not, as you say, ‘get over it’?  What if there is no ransom to be had?  Will you do what needs to be done?”

“You know I will, my wife.”

“And without hesitation?  Without misplaced concern for our daughter’s innocence?  Will you place this family before that stranger?”

“Trust me, Asima; that will not be a problem.”

A/N:  Thanks for reading!  Reviews and concrit are very much appreciated.