A/N:  Thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, and followed this story so far!  Since I’ve neglected to mention this so far, I’d like to point out that I don’t own Tolkien’s world (though I’m not sure who does these days).  This was written purely for my own enjoyment and for love of the canon.  If I ever try to get a book deal out of a fanfic, please come to my house and slap some sense into me.

We are a strange and reviled attraction for the people of the city.  As word spreads of our arrival, the crowds grow.  They all make a show of having business on this street; women carry baskets of vegetables and men admire the wares of the neighboring market in loud voices.  Again and again, though, their eyes stray to us, and their muttered curses carry.

I stand still and try to let the sounds simply wash over me, like wind around a rock.  Again and again, I remind myself, that all they hurl at us is words.

Only words.

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In retrospect, I suppose it’s surprising how quickly our family fell back into its everyday rhythms.  Kalima and I took the goats out the next morning, like we always do, but instead of returning to find one man doing chores in the barnyard, we found two.  For the first few days, the foreigner was weak from his illness and could only perform easier tasks like carding fleece or repairing small tools.  Before long, though, he was laboring as long and hard as the rest of us.  At first, Father privately speculated that a professional warrior would likely be little use around the farm.  By the fifth day after the man’s recovery, he wasn’t saying anything of the sort.  I didn’t know, yet, what kind of warrior the Gondorian was, but he quickly proved himself a more than competent farm hand.  Still, it never ceased to be strange to see him fold those long legs to milk a goat or bend that regal-looking head to sharpen a trowel.

Though Father had warned the stranger to stay far away from my sister, that proved to be beyond the control of either of them.  Kalima has the stubbornness to match a whole team of donkeys, and once she decided she was going to befriend the Man, nothing could dissuade her.  Kalima spoke no Westron and the foreigner, it quickly became clear, spoke no Haradric.  This was a source of great frustration for him, but not for her.  Several times, in those first few days, I was witness to their one-sided conversations.

“Child, you should not be here.”  A voice striving for gentleness, but tinged with exasperation.

“My name is Kalima, but you can call me Kali.  Do you want to see my goats?  Well, they’re my father’s goats, but he says if I’m good I’ll get to name the next one that gets born.”

“I mean it, little one, oughtn’t you go help your mother?”  He pointed in the direction of the house.

“My parents said you’re from Gondor.  Is it true they don’t have goats in Gondor?  Hakim says they don’t, but I heard they have goats as big as camels!  That’s what my friend Nazli said, at least, and she knows a lot.”

“Off to the house with you!  Go!”

Kali was immune to both the warning in his voice and the stern set of his face.  “But, maybe Nazli was lying.  She does that sometimes.  Thinks she can get away with it ‘cause she’s a merchant’s daughter.  I’ll see her at the festivals at harvest time.  Then I’ll make her tell the truth.”

The man’s shoulders slumped a little in defeat.  “Your ada will be so pleased with me,” he muttered.

“You talk funny.  That’s a funny word, ada, but I like it ‘cause it sounds like ‘Abba.’  My abba is the best goat herder in the Haradwaith, and he’s going to let me name one of the kids.  What should I name it?”

And on and on it went.  After the fifth time Father had to scold her for sneaking down to the barn, he, too, threw up his hands in surrender and simply told the northerner that if he ever lifted his hand against her, his life would be forfeit.  And that was how our reluctant guest acquired a very talkative shadow.  As he went about, helping with evening chores, she would trot after him, chattering away in our native tongue.  His face suggested that he understood not a word but was rather amused by her antics.

If only his relationships with all my family members could have been so warm.  After the first few days, Mother no longer veiled herself in his presence, but any time he was in view she kept a watchful eye on him, like a cat skirting around a chained dog—knowing it is safe but wary nonetheless.  True to my father’s word, the warrior never entered the house.  In the mornings, Mother would pass him a bowl of millet mush out the kitchen window, and in the evenings she would fix a small plate of food for me to take down to the barn.  These meals were always paltry offerings—times were harsh, and his rations were leaner than any of ours—but were accepted with a gracious word of thanks.

If my father shared his wife’s fear of the Gondorian warrior, he gave no sign.  Still, though he spent more time with the foreigner than any of us, he seemed to understand him no better than I did.  A tense sort of peace seemed to develop between them as they labored side by side to repair and maintain our cistern.  In the other man’s presence, my father’s eyes began to flash rather than twinkle.  He took to giving orders, his voice curt but carefully restrained, like it was taking all his energy to avoid being rude.  The stranger always responded with a soft “Of course, malik,” accompanied by a nod—a respectful dip of the head that was always slightly more than polite without ever suggesting subservience.  I sensed, rather than saw, the developing battle of wills between them.  In my presence, they both maintained a show of mutual respect.  Several times, though, I came upon them unawares only to find the two men locked in a heated but hushed debate.  Father would punctuate his arguments by gesticulating wildly—even poking the Northerner in the chest with an accusatory finger.  The other man would simply fold his arms and shake his head, his face resolute.  Father’s anger always boiled closer to the surface after these encounters.  Though I never heard the words they exchanged, the subject was not difficult to guess:  the stranger still refused to tell us his name, and Father’s hopes for a hefty ransom were beginning to wane.  We continued to refer to him as dakheel—the foreigner—and the name seemed to stick.

Dakheel had an almost preternatural ability to escape notice when he wished.  It wasn’t that he hid himself or snuck around like a thief; rather, he would go about his work quietly and with a focused determination and before long you might forget he was there.  When he had first awoken in our barn, he had a strange sort of energy about him—an aura, my superstitious aunts might have called it.  It was that inner light that made him seem so lordly.  In the beaten dust of the barnyard, though, that light was carefully hidden, like a lantern shuttered against the wind.  I knew it still burned, though; twice while my father was haranguing Dakheel, I saw him finally lose his patience and draw himself up to his full and impressive height.  His eyes flashed with that unmistakable authority, and though I never heard what he told my father, I imagined his voice becoming as hard and stern as his face.  At those times, my father quailed and stormed off in a put-on show of exasperation.

For the most part, though, Dakheel remained the picture of civility and restraint.  Perhaps that is why none of us saw the conflict coming.  His simmering battle of wills with Father was bound to explode, but none of us realized it until it was too late.

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The conflict came to a head on the day of rest, almost three weeks after we found Dakheel.  Like always, my family assembled in front of the house at first light.  My father and I had scrubbed our faces and wore our cleanest tunics.  Mother was elegant in her green dress and trailing scarf.  For once, even Kalima was not a ragged jumble of flapping clothes and wild curls; she transformed into a “proper young lady” for the Morning Service, her hair tucked carefully under a headscarf, her hands folded primly in front of her unrumpled skirts.

We waited in silence as Father erected the Offertory Sieve.  The sieve was simple enough—just a black clay pan riddled with holes and suspended by a short tripod.  Its only decoration was a rough etching:  a narrow diamond within a circle surrounded by a triangle—the Great Eye.

One by one, we each poured clear water from a stone jug into our earthen cups.  Father recited the ritual prayers with the ease of long practice.  I have no idea what was said in the invocations; they are spoken in a strange tongue that sounds a bit like Westron, but somehow harsher and sharper.

When I was a child, barely older than Kali, my mother told me the history of our Offerings.  Long ago, she told me—in hushed tones lest my father overhear—my ancestors used sieves and altars to offer sacrifices to the sun.  Clean water and fine wine were poured into the earth while grain and carefully selected livestock were burned, sending their smoke and fragrance up to the sky to thank the shining, golden “Eye” which is both creator and destroyer of all our bounty.  Then, not so long ago, a great darkness suddenly fell over Ephel Dúath to the north.  Rumor grew of a fiery, all-seeing eye in Mordor, come to be our lord and to raise our people over all other Men.  The priests on their traveling circuits began to proclaim that the Eye of Mordor was in fact a manifestation of the Eye we had long worshipped as provider.  While the holy men preached and frothed, the lords and provincial governors nodded their heads solemnly, and offered extravagant burnt offerings to “the All-Seeing Eye.”  Commoners like my family quickly saw which way the wind was blowing.  New etchings were made on altars and sieves from here to Khand, changing the simple circle that represented the sun into an ominous lidless eye with a cat-like pupil.  Ask a Man of Harad today, and he will tell you that we have always worshipped the Lord Sauron.  Those who know better are too fearful to speak.

Kalima, of course, does not know better.  All she knows is that Offering is important to Mother and Father and that it’s fun to dress up once a week and put on a solemn face.  At my father’s beckoning, she stepped up to the sieve, her face the picture of dignity as she slowly upended her cup.  Water flowed forth, clear and sparkling, splashing into the clay pan which scattered it to fall to the sand in a gentle rain.  The earth soaked up the precious offering, and in moments there was only damp soil where her sacrifice had been.

As Kali turned away, her eyes lit on a figure around by the side of the house.  I followed her gaze and saw Dakheel leaning against the wall, his curiosity written across his face.  I shrugged mentally.  As none of us worked on the day of rest, Dakheel was free to go where he would.  Father considered himself quite magnanimous for not locking the Northerner in the barn for the length of the day, but in truth there was nowhere to go, and probably nothing more interesting than a family’s religious rites to hold his attention.  Seeing her newfound friend, Kali’s face suddenly brightened, the solemn mask slipping away.  As Father recited the next line of the ceremony, she trotted over to the stone jug, refilled her cup, and strolled towards the Northerner.  On my other side, I could almost feel Mother roll her eyes.

Father beckoned to me, then.  I stepped up to cast my offering, but watched Kali and Dakheel out of the corner of my eye.  Reaching the Northerner, Kalima held out the cup.  The man took it, his face inquisitive.  He swirled it and sniffed its contents.  After a moment, he lifted it to his lips as if to sip it, but Kali jumped up and caught his wrist before he could commit such a faux pas.  Tugging on his sleeve and pointing, she ushered him towards the Offertory Sieve.

Apprehension began to cloud the man’s face, but he followed Kali all the same.  He managed to catch my father’s eye and shrugged helplessly.  Father scowled, but jerked his head in assent.  As he drew closer, Father took up the chant again in that strange tongue.  Perhaps it was not so strange to Dakheel; his face suddenly darkened.  Still, he did not react further until he came close enough to see the etching on the sieve and suddenly stopped short.  Mother was just stepping forward to pour out her cup.  For a moment, the only sound was the splash and trickle of Mother’s offering.  Then came a soft thud. 

I looked back at Dakheel and my eyes suddenly widened.  His cup was lying in the dirt, having fallen from nerveless fingers.  The man took no note of it; he was staring at the simple etching with an intensity I’d never seen.  And the water—the precious sacred water that Kalima had drawn for him—it was sinking into the sandy soil, a rapidly growing brown stain.  In an instant every eye was on him, wide and horrified.  Kali actually clapped her hand over her mouth.  We had both been taught almost since infancy that it was sacrilege to spill the Offertory water on unconsecrated ground.  Our parents had warned us in stern voices that to spill even one drop outside of the sieve was to invoke the wrath of the Eye, and His judgment would be terrible.

Dakheel couldn’t have known it, but to cast a full cup of sacred water onto profane soil was the worst kind of insult.

Yet, if he noticed our scandalized looks, Dakheel gave no sign.  His gaze was fixed on the sieve until, quite suddenly, he spun and strode away towards the barn.

For a moment, the four of us just stood frozen.  My breath sounded loud in my ears.  I glanced instinctively at Father’s face.  His expression of shock was quickly fading.  It was replaced by rage.

“That fool,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet, “He would bring the Eye’s wrath on us all.  That arrogant, ungrateful Tark.”

I winced.  Tark was an ugly word—an orcish pejorative for the Men of Gondor and Rohan.  Slavers used that word.  Soldiers used it at times.  I had never heard my father use it.

Dakheel had almost reached the barn.  Kali quietly picked up the dropped cup.  For just a moment, I thought we would continue on as if nothing had happened.  Then, Father’s face set, and he carefully handed his cup to my mother.  He stepped away from the sieve slowly and respectfully, but then broke into a run, racing after Dakheel.  Kali’s eyes widened.  “Abba?  Abba!”  She made to follow him, but Mother caught her with a firm hand on her shoulder.  She didn’t stop me, though, and I stumbled after my father on legs that might as well have been made of wood.

My father caught up with Dakheel when he was only a few paces from the barn door.  Grabbing the stranger by the back of his tunic, Father spun him around and gave him a shove, trying to knock him off balance.  Dakheel was ready for it, though, and sprang back lightly.  I was still too far away to hear clearly, but suddenly I didn’t want to come any closer.  Father strode up to the foreigner, his face red, his voice raised.  He shoved an accusing finger right in Dakheel’s face.  The other man’s face hardened.  He stood tall and that elusive spark shone from his eyes, brighter than I had ever seen it.  His answer was far too quiet for me to hear, but my father stiffened.

For a split second, I saw Father waver.  Every instinct in his body told him to retreat before this ragged, grim-eyed lord and make peace.  But, his fear of Mordor was greater.

Father has always carried his tanning knife at his belt.  It is long and sharp, but clearly a farmer’s tool and not a weapon.  So, when he drew the blade and pressed its tip none-too-gently into the middle of the Northerner’s chest, I jumped about a foot.

Dakheel froze.  For a moment, only his eyes moved.  I saw them dart from the knife to Father’s face.  They wandered to alight on me, Mother and Kali, our humble house, before snapping back to focus on my father’s eyes.  And in that terrible moment, I knew what he had probably known from the start:  he could kill my father.  He could do it easily.  Knife or no knife, a gray-bearded goat herder stood no chance against this hard-eyed warrior.  I wanted to run towards them, but my legs felt rooted to the spot.  Dakheel was searching my father’s face, his fierce expression fading into one that seemed troubled and conflicted.  The dagger shook in my father’s hand.

Then Dakheel made his decision.  Quite suddenly, he seemed almost to fold in on himself, his shoulders losing their military straightness, his head bowing ever so slightly.  I could almost see the shutters sliding closed, that spark dwindling until it was no more than a memory of hidden fire.  A moment later, Father faced only a dark-haired man in a torn tunic wearing a controlled, resigned expression.  Dakheel said something far too soft for me to hear, and for an instant, the knife trembled violently in Father’s hand.  Then, he sheathed it with a sudden, decisive motion.  Dakheel spoke again without meeting Father’s gaze.  Father hesitated for just one moment more.  He threw a glance over his shoulder, his face angry and fearful and resolute all at once.  Then, he planted his hand on Dakheel’s chest and shoved him backwards.  Casting a longing glance of his own at the empty desert beyond, Dakheel let himself be shoved into the comparative darkness of the barn.  The door slammed shut behind them.

My legs trembling, I made my way forward and stopped, staring at the closed door.  I knew I could not go in.  Instead, I knelt beside the barn and pressed an ear against the cool mudbrick.

The first thing I heard was my father’s angry voice.  He was releasing a steady stream of recrimination and invective, but since he spoke now in Haradric, the specifics were probably lost on Dakheel.  But, there was no mistaking the dull thud of a fist striking flesh, nor the stifled groan that followed it.  I jerked my head away and stared at the wall as if it had burned me.  I wanted to leave.  I knew I couldn’t.  Slowly, as if compelled, I pressed my ear against the wall once more.

Father’s stream of curses had only intensified.  Another thud rang out.  Then another.  And another.  With each strike, the accompanying grunt of pain grew louder, but Dakheel said nothing.  I wanted to pull away, but somehow I knew I had to stay.  I had to witness this, if only indirectly.  I didn’t understand.  Couldn’t understand.  Wouldn’t understand.  I knew that wealthy landowners sometimes beat their slaves and bondsmen, but Dakheel wasn’t a slave, was he?  As for my father, I’d never seen him strike a person in my life.  He’d never even raised his hand to me or Kali. 

I waited for Dakheel to act.  Any moment, I was sure, he would grow tired of such treatment.  That strange light would burst forth, perhaps bright enough to shine right through the walls, and it would be my father cowering in fear.

I waited for Dakheel to act.  He never did.

Instead, after what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a few minutes, the sound of blows slowed and then stopped.  Father’s stream of invective trailed off until the only sound was harsh breathing.  After long moments, Father spoke in Westron at last.  “Such is the punishment,” he intoned, trying for stern solemnity and failing horribly, “For those who disrespect the Dark Lord.”

“So be it,” Dakheel responded, his voice strong and very cold.

From within the barn, I heard a door slam.  I pictured Father throwing the deadbolt, locking Dakheel into his small corner of the structure.  Remembering myself, I stood quickly and scrambled around the side of the barn, out of sight as Father stumbled out the front.  I needn’t have bothered; Father scarcely seemed to know where he was.  For long moments, he just stood there, staring at nothing, his face stricken.

Something dripped from his hands onto the sand.

Then, he seemed to shake himself.  With a slow but purposeful stride, he made his way back to the sieve.  Mother had long since spirited Kali back into the house, but the stone jar still stood where she had left it.  Reaching the sacred place, he raised his hands over the sieve and cried out a prayer in a harsh, croaking voice that was almost a scream.  Then, he did something very strange.  Taking a ladle of consecrated water from the jar, he poured it over his outstretched hand and into the sieve.  A moment later, he repeated the motion, bathing the other hand.  Water tinged with red trickled down to the earth.

And then, I remembered.

Father had once told me, in hushed nervous tones, that there was one offering that would always mollify the Great Eye.

The blood of an enemy.

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After supper that night, Mother held me back with a hand on my elbow. 

“Hakim.  A moment, my son.”  She waited until my father had stepped outside to check on the fold.  Once he was out of sight, she pulled out a simple wooden tray and piled it high with skillet bread and smoked goat.  “Take this to the Gondorian,” she said, handing me the tray and turning to pour juice into a wooden cup.  I suppressed mild surprise.  This was much more food than she’d ever given Dakheel before—more, indeed, than I had on my own plate for all but the most special occasions.  Before I could do anything foolish, like comment on her sudden generosity, she added the cup to the tray and waved me off with a shooing motion, like I was a chicken hovering near her ankles.  “Off with you.  And not a word to your father.”

I chewed on my lip.  “Yes ma’am.”  But, as I turned to go, a thin hand on my shoulder stopped me again.  Mother wordlessly added a few damp cloths and two small dates to the tray and shooed me out the door.

As she’d no doubt expected, Father was already out of sight around the other side of the house.  I made my way down to the barn with no small amount of trepidation.  Father had been so angry—irrationally angry.  He had come back to the house, his hands torn and cut at the knuckles, and refused to speak to anyone.  I had never seen him like that before.  A small, scared part of me wondered if the barn door would open on Dakheel’s corpse.

All was silent in the outer barn.  Dust swirled in the slight breeze.  I hesitantly made my way to the back partition and struggled to unlock the door while balancing the tray on my knee.  Finally, I released the bolt, and the door swung open with barely a whisper; someone had greased the hinges, and recently.

Dakheel was sitting on his battered pallet, the side of his face leaning against the wall behind him.  He turned at my approach and I swallowed a gasp.  I realized immediately why he sat so awkwardly to press his face against the cool mudbrick.  His left eye was swollen almost completely shut.  Livid red bruises were rising around the eye and across his cheekbone.  Sticky, half-dried blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow down towards his jaw.  When he saw me, he stood, and I did not miss the slight wince that flashed across his features, nor the way his left arm curled protectively over his abdomen.

I cleared my throat.  “I brought you some food,” I said slowly, stumbling just a little over the Westron pronunciations, “And . . . and cloths.”  The little tray, even overflowing as it was, suddenly seemed a very poor offering of recompense in light of what my father had done.

But Dakheel managed a slight smile.  His voice, far from betraying the pain of his wounds, was as light and refined as ever.  “I thank you, Hakim.”  He took the tray, but when he looked down, his brow furrowed slightly.  “I cannot take this from you; it is too much.”

I shrugged awkwardly.  “My mother sent it.  I suppose she realized you haven’t had enough in weeks.  I find it simpler not to argue with her.”

Another smile flashed across his face, this one motivated by pure amusement rather than polite gratitude.  Still, he hesitated.  “Come eat with me,” he said at last.  He glanced at my face and added, “I couldn’t possibly finish this alone.”

I shuffled my feet.  “’Tis not necessary,” I muttered, trying to look anywhere but at the two ripe dates on Dakheel’s tray, “I have already had my night’s meal.”

“Come,” he said once more, and I sensed a note almost of command in his voice, “I would be glad of the company.”  He strode toward one of the side walls, where the light coming in from the high windows was a little stronger, and fashioned a table and two chairs out of a barrel and some overturned crates.  He sat slowly, as if his bruised body resisted such a contortion.  I followed suit with some trepidation.

For a moment, I just watched him.  The man took a long drink from the juice and then lifted one of the damp rags to his battered eye.  He scrubbed lightly at the dried blood, and mostly concealed a wince.  His hands, I noticed, bore none of the scrapes and bruises that I’d noticed on Father’s knuckles, though they were very dirty from the omnipresent dust.  I couldn’t ponder that for long, though, because my gaze was drawn, quite against my will, down to the two dates.

The faintest smile tugged at the uninjured side of Dakheel’s face.  Setting the cloth aside, he picked up the fruits and popped one in his mouth before offering the other to me.  I accepted it and mumbled a half-remembered Westron word for gratitude.

As I savored the date, I noted with mild surprise and no small amount of relief that Dakheel’s courtly mannerisms did not extend to table manners.  The wet cloth had left rivulets of moisture tracking through the grime on his fingers, but he took no note of it as he shredded skillet bread and ripped off chunks of goat meat with his teeth.  I could hardly imagine some great noble eating like that, so, reassured that I was probably not dining with the High Lord of Grand Castle Something-Or-Other, I took a piece of bread and ate a few bites.

“Can I ask something?” I said as I watched him dip his bread in juice to soften it.  He made a vague noise of assent, his mouth full.  I took another bite myself and collected my thoughts.  “I’ve seen you work,” I said at last, “You’re stronger than my father by far.”  He glanced at my face, but waited politely for the question.  I chewed slowly.  “You’re a soldier—you said so yourself.  My father says a soldier in the field is . . . well, that there’s nothing tougher.”  He made an indistinct hemming noise around a mouthful of goat.  “So . . . I guess I was just wondering why . . . you know, why . . .”  I trailed off, suddenly realizing how insensitive my question must seem.

He swallowed with some difficulty.  “You are wondering why I look as beaten as an old carpet?” he suggested drily.

I flushed and ducked my head.  “That’s not . . . I only meant . . .”  I glanced left and right at the blank walls and lowered my voice.  “It wasn’t fair,” I said, feeling like a horrible son but at the same time sensing the rightness of my words, “Even Mother knows it wasn’t.  Father’s not even that religious—he only started doing the old rituals because it’s expected.  I only mean . . . If you’d stopped him, everyone would have understood.”

“I suspect your father wouldn’t,” he said with the same dryness.  He took a smaller bite of bread and chewed thoughtfully.  “But, alright, I have your blessing to turn the tables on your father and beat him senseless if necessary.  Is that the right of it?”  Hesitantly, I nodded.  He took another bite.  “Very well.  And then?”

I blinked.  “’And then’ what?”

“You tell me.”  He took a sip from the simple cup.  “What happens after I have won my glorious victory?  Do I kill your father?  Ransack the house and vanish into the Haradwaith?  Ought I to take you and your entire family hostage until the rainy season comes?”

I recoiled.  “I . . . no, I mean . . . I guess I hadn’t thought about it.”

“A common folly of the young,” he said in a gentler tone, “Or so a friend often reminds me.  Remember, though, that when you lift your hand against another, there is always an ‘and then.’  ‘And then you kill’ or ‘and then you die’ or ‘and then you start a war.’  Retaliation creates enemies, no matter how justified it feels.”  The cut above his eye had reopened.  A new trickle of blood crept down his face.

I nibbled again at my bread.  “It just seems a high price to pay,” I said, “Just to placate Father.”

He nodded absently.  “Not so high as you might think, for one such as I.”  I suspected he’d seen much worse injuries in his lifetime, but though I longed to ask, I felt I’d used up my allotment of impertinent questions.  “Your father saved my life,” Dakheel reminded me, “He took me in and has not handed me over to my Enemy.  I suspect this is costing him more than he lets on; his fear of Mordor runs deep.”  He chewed a bit of goat meat, a thoughtful expression crossing his bloodied face.  “It was fear that drove his hand,” he added, “And anger, certainly, and wounded pride, but only fear can make a man rise to violence so quickly.  He is deeply afraid of something.  I simply wish I knew what it was.”

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When I finally left Dakheel to his rest, I found myself still utterly restless.  Not yet ready to face the confines of the house, I wandered aimlessly, thinking on Dakheel’s words.  I didn’t realize I’d set a course for the fold until I was nearly upon it and the sight of a crumpled figure by the entrance snapped me out of my reverie.

I would have expected him to return to the house long ago, but my father sat slumped against the stone wall in the gathering dusk.  A mostly empty bottle of brandy sat beside him and he was tossing his tanning knife from hand to hand and muttering to himself.  The dog who guards our herd by night sat at attention a few yards away.  When she saw me, the pup wagged her tail and whined.  She glanced from my face to my father’s, almost human in her anxiety.  I hesitated.  “Abba?” I called out tentatively.  His only response was to mutter a little louder and toss the knife a little higher.  I approached and crouched beside him.  “Maybe you should put the knife down, Abba,” I murmured in Haradric.  I could smell the liquor on his breath even from several feet away.  He scowled viciously and sent the knife through a hair-raising, spinning arc.  Slowly, I stood and turned, thinking to go get Mother.

“’You can put the knife down.’”  I stopped, equally startled by the harshness of his voice and the Westron words.  “’You can put the knife down, malik, there is no need for it.’  I was sure he would try to gut me with it.”  I turned back to face him.  He dropped the knife in the dirt and picked up the bottle.  “He didn’t though.  He just stood there.”  He took a long drink.  “I just don’t understand why he would just stand there.”

I opened my mouth, perhaps to say something about retaliation and enemies, but closed it again, still silent.  Could I really pretend to understand Dakheel’s actions?  I couldn’t even understand my father’s.

He took another drink.  “Doesn’t matter, I suppose,” he muttered, “So long as the Eye is pleased.”

I blinked, genuinely surprised.  “You think He was watching what happened with Dakheel?”

Father gave me a twisted sort of smile.  “The Eye sees all.”

A/N:  A few words on languages:  Azzam and Hakim are nearly bilingual in Haradric and Westron (though Hakim often doubts his language abilities).  Kalima speaks no Westron, and Asima speaks only a few words.  Aragorn, of course, speaks quite a few languages, but none of them are Haradric.  Unless otherwise specified, my Haradric OCs can be assumed to be speaking in Haradric when talking to each other, while Azzam and Hakim speak Westron to Aragorn.  Whenever this is relevant to the plot, I will strive to make it clear in narration, but please point it out to me if it becomes unclear.

The next chapter should be posted before the end of the week.  Reviews and concrit are very much appreciated.