Across the street, a splash of color catches my eye.  In the front window of a tall house of stone, someone has built a box, filled it with soil, and planted flowers within.  The bright red and green stand out, incongruously cheerful among all the solemn white and gray stone.

As I watch, a little girl steps out of the house, a kerchief over her hair and a clay vessel in her hands.  Humming to herself, she tiptoes over to a barrel by the door and dips her little cup, filling it with water.  Still humming tunelessly, dodging deftly around the adults hurrying about their business, she steps close to the flower box and shakes her cup gently.  Water splashes out, dripping over her hand and over the flowers.  The child giggles as a particularly large drop lands on the upturned face of a flower and splashes everywhere.  A moment later, the cup is empty, the plants are dripping, and the girl is dancing away, her skirts twirling.

I can only stare.  It was such a casual thing, to the Gondorian girl.  A cup of water as payment, a bright patch of color as reward.  She has no idea that her small chore is a miracle in my eyes.

I think of my own daughter at that age—always in motion, always seeming to dance to some music only she could hear.  She twirled around our crumbling land, always searching for beauty.  And finding it.  The flowers of Harad bloom for only a brief season, but my daughter managed to find plenty of other treasures to delight her:  stones cut through with glittering veins, strange fossils like sea shells, bits of old metal worn smooth.  Time after time, she ran to me with her pockets full, wanting to know what each trinket might have been.

Time after time, I held scraps of metal in my hands and told her that they were arrowheads—the bones of wars long past.

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I sighted carefully down the arrow.  My right arm nearly trembled from the weight of the string, but I refused to let that distract me.  I breathed slowly—in and out, in and out, release.  My hand flew open.  The arrow leapt from the string and arced away . . . only to imbed itself in the scruffy grass with a soft phith. 

The unharmed scarecrow stared back at me from twenty paces away, its drawn-on grin seeming to mock me.

With a growl of frustration, I drew another arrow from the quiver at my feet and set it to the string.  I had always been hopeless at archery, but this evening’s practice was going especially poorly.  My arrows fell to the grass beside the target or blew past it to drive into the hillock behind it.  A few were even caught by the wind such that they flew over the ridge that separated my practice range from the house, likely landing in the barnyard beyond.

I drew once more, but both arms were shaking now.  I knew even as I released that the arrow would miss by several feet, and I was right.  I muttered a curse.

“A recurve can be a tricky weapon.”

I started and spun.  Though I had heard no one approach, a man stood behind me, his arms loosely folded, his expression thoughtful.  How he’d gotten behind me when the barnyard lay in the opposite direction, I’m not sure.

“Dakheel, I . . . what are you doing here?”

He held up a blunt-tipped arrow with a twinkle in his eyes.  “You made quite an impressive shot, if your intent was to send it through the upper rafters.  The mice were quite alarmed, and for a moment, I thought we were under attack.”

I flushed red with humiliation.  “I’m sorry.  It’s . . . I lost control of the string for a moment.”

“Peace, Hakim, it happens.  The path to mastery is littered with missed shots.”  He stepped close and dropped the arrow back in the quiver.  “Still, let us find you a safer range, lest we frighten the mice any more than we already have.”

I trailed behind him as he approached my pathetically undamaged target.  While Dakheel rotated the scarecrow a quarter turn around its post, I scurried back and forth, pulling arrows out of the dirt.  Dakheel finished his task long before I finished mine.  He helped me pull free the last few arrows free and led the way to a spot parallel to the hill, at right angles with my original position.  With a mumbled word of thanks, I put another arrow to the string.  A moment later, it dug a new hole in the side of the hill.  I suppressed frustration as best I could.

Dakheel smiled slightly.  “Here,” he came up behind me and rested his large hands lightly on my shoulders, “Adjust your stance just a bit.  Your feet should be even with one another.”  I shifted my feet.  “Good, now raise the bow and extend your shoulder a bit more.  No, don’t let your wrist turn in; the bow should be held straight and true as a tree.”  I stretched my arm a bit further.  “Now draw.  Keep your head high.  Bring the string to your chin, not your chin to the string.  And release.”  The empty bowstring twanged.  Dakheel nodded.  “Now, try it with an arrow, keeping everything just the same.”

I nocked an arrow and drew, trying to remember everything he had just told me.  Taking a deep breath, I released.  The arrow just grazed the side of the scarecrow—a miss, but a closer miss than I’d managed all day.  Dakheel clapped me on the back.  “Better.  That is your mark.  Release the next, changing nothing save where the very tip of the arrow points.”  I sighted up a little and to the side.  My next shot was a definite hit.  Dakheel smiled.  “Good.  Keep practicing.”

Dakheel stood back as I drew another arrow.  My eyes were focused on the target, but I could feel him watching me.  “That isn’t the sort of bow one uses to hunt game,” he said conversationally.

My next shot grazed the scarecrow’s thigh, scattering straw in the light breeze.  “It was my father’s.”  I shook the aches out of my fingers.  “He used it when he was in the army.”

“Ah.”  Dakheel lowered himself to sit on the hillside, long arms wrapped around his knees.  “I’m surprised he is not here to assist you.”

I shuffled my feet guiltily before remembering that I wasn’t supposed to change my stance.

“Unless, of course, he does not know you are here,” the man suggested shrewdly.

My next shot went wide.  “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”  I asked, trying to hide my concern and failing.

I could hear the smile in his voice.  “There’s no need for that, I think.  In the house where I grew up, there was an underground store room.  There, I slayed many an imaginary foe with my brothers’ blades.”

I scowled.  “It’s not like that.”  My arrow sliced into the scarecrow’s neck, a shot that would have been more impressive had I not been aiming for its chest.  “I need to be able to shoot for when I join the army.”

Dakheel sighed softly.  “The army, then,” he paused pensively, “And what does your father think of this ambition of yours?”

I shrugged one shoulder.  “Everyone joins eventually.  My father did.  Most of the boys my age from the village have already gone.”

“That’s not what I asked; I asked for your father’s opinion.”

My scowl deepened and my next shot missed by several feet.  “He doesn’t understand.”

“If he was a soldier himself, then perhaps he understands better than you think.”

“He just wants me around to herd his goats for the rest of my life,” I said scornfully, “I want to see the world.”  I cast a Dakheel a sideways look.  “Like you did.”

He smiled a bit wryly.  “Yes, I saw the world.  And now I sleep in a barn and eat the scraps from another man’s table.”  He didn’t sound self-pitying—just matter-of-fact.

“How old were you when you learned to shoot a bow?”

“Young,” he conceded, “I had little choice in the matter.  My home was constantly under attack, it seemed.”  He nodded in the direction of the house.  “You have a life of peace here.  Such things are easily taken for granted.”

For long moments, I cursed my foolishness in bringing up the army.  For a moment, I had forgotten that Dakheel’s people were at war with mine.  At last, I spoke.  “My mother lived in Harondor as a child.”  I wasn’t sure why I was telling him this.  Perhaps I just needed to defend myself.  “Her parents had a farm there until Gondor drove the settlers out.”  I released another arrow and lowered the bow, rolling my arms to rid them of aches.  “She told me the land there was so fertile that they could grow two hay crops a year.  She said they didn’t even need to irrigate—just cast seeds on the ground and let the rains take care of the rest.”  I looked around at the barren hills, the rocks still baking with heat although the sun was skimming the horizon.  “The Dark Lord promises us territories—maybe not all the earth, but enough to feed many a family.  There is much my people would do for that kind of prosperity.”

Behind me, Dakheel stood.  He removed the headdress I’d loaned him and ran a hand through sweat streaked hair.  After a moment, he pointed north.  “You see those mountains?”

The Mountains of Shadow were forbidding, even from such a distance.  I nodded apprehensively.

“I thought that the land beyond would be nothing but ash and stone, like in the tales my people tell, but I was wrong.”  The setting sun cast harsh shadows across his face as he stared out at the distant peaks.  “The air clears as the land sinks away from Orodruín.  Then come hills thick with sheep and cattle, sinking down to a green country, with field upon field of wheat and barley bordering a great inland sea.”  He looked at me at last, and his eyes seemed haunted.  “But the villages are thick with orcs.  Everywhere, their whips ring out and Men are broken to their will.  And when the wretches who tend the crops finally fall, their bodies are hewn to fertilize the fields and feed the overseers.”

I recoiled physically.  He’s lying, I tried to tell myself, everyone knows the Gondorim lie.  But, it took only one glance at his shadowed face to realize that he wasn’t.

He stepped close to me, his face grim as he placed a hand on my shoulder.  “That is the sort of prosperity Sauron would bring to the Haradrim.”  He turned and strode off in the direction of the barnyard.  Just before he rounded the hill, he looked back at me.  “When you fire that bow, keep your elbow up.  And take a moment to ask yourself why you need it.”

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After the evening meal, I headed down to the barn with a steaming bowl of stew in my hands, like always.  My heart was heavy, though, and my feet dragged.  I paused at the door for far too long, cursing myself for the sudden timidity that had crept back over me.  At last, I pushed the door open and stepped through.  The door to Dakheel’s quarters stood open, as usual, but when I stepped within, the gloomy space was empty.  I hesitated, wondering just how badly I’d offended him. 

“Dakheel?”  The word came out as scarcely a whisper.  I cleared my throat and tried again.  “Dakheel?”

For a moment, only silence answered me.  Then came a voice from somewhere behind me.  “I am here.”

I spun and scanned the shadows of the main barn, trying not to seem too startled.  Nothing.  I was about to reach for a candle when I happened to look up and spot a silhouette in the hayloft.  Dakheel had settled himself on a bale of hay near the main entrance, where the side of the barn stood open to the sky.  Balancing the bowl carefully, I clambered up the ladder to join him. 

He accepted the stew with an absent nod and offered me half of the bread, as he had every night since I had shared that first meal with him.  I nibbled on a crust and lowered myself to sit, somewhat anxiously, at his side.

“Those stars on the horizon,” his voice was distant and he stared out to the south, “I do not recognize the constellations.”

I followed his gaze.  I saw nothing out of the ordinary in the night sky—just a tiny sickle of a moon and the familiar spangling of stars.  His eyes, though, were trained on a handful of constellations hovering low over the southern horizon.  I pointed to the brightest such cluster.  “That one is called ‘The Keel.’  Or maybe ‘The Sail;’ I can’t remember Westron boat terms very well.  It rises for a brief season—never very high—and sets after only a few weeks.”  I settled back against the hay and allowed myself to relax a hair.  “Traders say that it rises higher and travels longer the further south you go.  They say that there are even more constellations beyond.”

He shook his head in incredulity.  “Even the stars . . . who would have thought . . .”  His voice was a murmur.  I suspected he hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

As I picked at my bread crust, I watched him out of the corner of my eye, but Dakheel did not speak again.  “I’m sorry about before,” I said with some caution.

He shook his head dismissively.  “It is I who should apologize.  Of course you wish to learn arms.  Every boy your age does.

I rolled a shoulder awkwardly.  “Still, I shouldn’t have gone on about Harondor like that.”

He held out his bowl and I eagerly dipped a hunk of bread in the spicy stew.  “It’s been hard for your family, hasn’t it?”  His tone was gently probing, like fingers around a wound.  “For a few years now, at least, you’ve . . . not had enough?”

I stared fixedly out the open window, trying to give the impression that my only concerns at the moment were astronomy and the bread crust.  “We manage.”  My voice was not quite as casual as I’d hoped.  Dakheel did not respond, but after a moment, I swallowed hard.  “It’s just that our grain yields are decreasing.  Father can’t really keep up the cisterns on his own, so we lose crops to the desert.  Some years, we barely have enough feed to get the goats through to the next harvest.  He has been . . . frustrated that he cannot provide for his family as his forefathers did.”

Dakheel sighed.  “I feared as much.  Hunger can be difficult to see in an adult, but it leaves its mark on children, if you know what to look for.”

“I could change all that if I joined the army.  Soldiers earn decent wages, even when we’re not at war.  I could make enough to . . . help them.”

Dakheel glanced at me, his eyes sympathetic and entirely too knowing.  “And if you died?  How then would you help them?”

I looked away, feeling a trace of the old surliness returning.  After a moment, Dakheel broke the tension by taking a larger-than-mannerly bite of stew.  “It may yet be your fate to bear arms, though it grieves me.”  He stared pensively out at the stars.  “Perhaps I’ve seen too much of war.”  He sounded so weary in that moment.  I wondered if he was older than we’d suspected.

I looked down, thinking about my pitiful attempts at archery.  “Did you want to go to war?” I asked quietly, “When you were young?”

His eyebrows lifted.  “Oh, yes,” he said drily, “I was going to be the hero who reshaped the world, or so I told myself when I was little older than you.”  Though his eyes were still fixed on the stars, I suspected he was seeing something visible only to him.  “For years I fought the fell creatures that infest the North.  Orcs and trolls.  Beasts and . . . worse.  Those lands are rarely threatened by armies of Men.  I thought I knew battle.”  He shook his head slowly.  “But war, it turned out, was another matter altogether.”

He went silent, then, staring off into space like Father used to when I would press him for old war stories.  Still, something about that statement was bothering me . . . “The north?”  I prompted.  “Gondor is a northern country as we reckon it, but Gondorians don’t seem to agree.”  Dakheel didn’t respond, but I felt as though pieces of a puzzle were finally clicking together.  His unusual garb, his strange accent, his inexplicable reluctance to give his name and parentage . . . “You’re not from Gondor, are you?”

Dakheel’s eyes flicked to mine.  He opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it just as quickly and looked away with a rueful smile.  “I’ll make you a deal, Hakim,” his voice was edged with false levity, “I’ll not tell your father of your adventures with his bow . . . so long as you do not tell him that I’ve no family on this side of the Misty Mountains.”

Though I’d half-suspected what he might say, my mouth fell open a little.  I vaguely remembered learning to recognize the Misty Mountains on an old map.  They were leagues and leagues away and supposedly impassable save for a few, treacherous paths.  “What drove you to journey so far?”  I asked when I could remember how to speak.

His smile widened a little, though it held no mirth.  “I wanted to see the world,” he said with all his earlier dryness.  “I suppose I did well enough.  The King of Rohan took me on as a sword-thain in his service.  The Steward of Gondor, too, welcomed me in time.  I learned much of the wars between Men—the nuances of politics and economics.  Of philosophy.  But, it was not enough.  It was not understanding.”

He stared fixedly at the southern sky.  “And then . . .”

He fell silent once more.  Though his face had grown quite bronze from long days under a punishing sun, at that moment he seemed quite pale.  Perhaps it was only a trick of the light.  “Ephel Dúath,” I supplied softly.  His eyes darted to me, as if he’d forgotten I was there.  After a moment, he nodded jerkily.

“It was folly to test my will against that . . . place.”  His jaw clenched.  Without seeming aware of it, he leaned forward, as if to hunker down against the dark peaks leagues behind our backs.  “It was folly to think I was ready.  But, the need was great.  Is great.”

I stared down at my interlocked hands, noting how the knuckles were turning white.  Nothing—not my curiosity about Dakheel or my usual hunger for war stories—could make me press him for details now.  Not when he used that voice, with its undercurrent of barely-concealed fear.

Instead, I changed the subject.  “He’ll find out sooner or later.  My father.  Or he’ll just give up on trying to find out who you are.  He’s already starting to suspect that there’s no one you can turn to for ransom.

He seemed to shake himself.  A moment later, he met my gaze easily.  “I’ve no doubt.  But suspecting is different from knowing.  So long as he thinks there might be a chance of reward, I have time.”

“Time for what?”

“To find another way.”  He took a sip of water and passed me the skin.  “Your family has been kind to me, Hakim.  I would repay you if I can.  But, you cannot reach my family, and no one in Gondor or Rohan will come forward.”

“What about the rulers?  The King, the Steward . . . they ransom Men in their service at times.”

He shook his head regretfully.  “Those bridges are felled.  I left King Thengel’s service years ago.  Ecthelion might aid me, but when I left Gondor, age was beginning to take its toll on him.  He confided in me, that he’d soon be forced to let his son take over much of his duties, and his heir bears little love for me.”

“And you can’t send word across the mountains?”

“Not soon enough to satisfy your father, to be certain.  I could direct a messenger to my homeland, but if any but I approached, they would find only empty wastes and abandoned cottages.”

I knew I ought to be worried about Dakheel and the likelihood of another clash between him and my father, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from glinting when he mentioned his mysterious homeland.  “They can just disappear?  How do they do that?”

He laughed warmly.  “Less dramatically than you’re picturing, I’m sure.  But, come, I’ve said more than I ought about my adventures.  Tell me something of your people.  It’s a beautiful night for storytelling.”

I was reluctant, but with some prodding, he convinced me to repeat the tale of Shahnaz, the great warlord who first brought several tribes together to settle this land centuries ago.  When I finished, he repaid me by telling how his forbearers had fled great evil in the far North to settle in wild lands thick with trees.  When that tale was told, he drew from me a story of the old lords of Umbar and responded with a story of Men and Elves and an invasion of Orcs.  The night was growing late when I at last remembered myself and returned to the silent house.

This was the first of many nights spent trading stories with Dakheel.  He told me much of the history of western Men, mixed in with stranger tales, many of which seemed far too fantastical to be true.  The story of evil spirits in ancient burial mounds made my hair stand on end.  I made a mental note to retell that one when my cousins came to stay in a year’s time; the boy closest to me in age had always loved a good ghost story.  The story of thirteen dwarves, three trolls, and a wizard, on the other hand, was far too ridiculous for any but small children.  I related it to Kali with some embellishments.  Night after night, he told of glorious battles, but nearly as often the tales were tragedies of Men or Elves rising against their kinsmen.  I wasn’t sure what to think of those, but I hung on to every word. 

I treasured those stories for the vivid images they painted of great deeds and distant lands.  In return, I freely shared the history and mythology of my own people.  It was only years later that I finally saw those evenings for what they were:  a series of exceptionally polite interrogations.  Plied with grand epics and lyrical love tales, I was only too eager to respond with every half-remembered story I’d heard told by the fireside.  From these, Dakheel gently teased out details of Haradric history and culture, of our systems of rule from tribal leaders to distant lords, of our relationships with Khand and with Mordor.

Even decades later, I still wonder; had I realized then that his curiosity was not merely casual, would I have been more closed-lipped?

Somehow, I don’t think so.

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I leaned against the wall of the house, whetstone in hand as the evening breeze cooled my neck.  The goats were settled for the night, and dinner was still an hour off, giving us a rare moment of leisure.  The sun was low in the sky and the day was so pleasant that none of us wanted to be inside just yet.  I sharpened my dagger with lazy strokes.  In the garden behind me, Mother puttered around, tending her herbs.  Father wandered the grounds, looking for something to repair.

A few yards away, Kalima was showing Dakheel how to dig for witchety grubs.  His face was confused as he helped her unearth the roots of a particular kind of bush, and that confusion only grew when she began to pluck the slimy, white larvae from the damp root and collect them in a corner of her shawl.  When Kali picked up a fat grub and popped it in her mouth with delight, Dakheel turned slightly green.  I laughed softly.  Foreigners had such strange ideas about food.

“I don’t like it.”

I started.  I hadn’t heard Father come up beside me.

“I did not want her around him to begin with.”

I frowned.  “You think he’ll harm her?”

He snorted.  “Not if he values his own life.  But, that’s not what I meant.  She’s getting altogether too attached to the Gondorian.”  He glanced at me.  “And she’s not the only one.”

Kali was now generously offering her grubs to Dakheel, who politely resisted as best he could.

“I don’t think he means any harm.  If he were going to hurt us or steal from us, he’s had ample opportunity already.”  I stole a glance at my father.  “You should give him a chance.”

“Hakim, have you even been listening to me?”  He sounded exasperated.  “My own feelings do not enter into it.  Kali might imagine that he can stay here forever, but you should know better.”

I looked away.  “It’s like you said; sooner or later, he’ll tell us who his family is.  He goes home and we get rich, what could be simpler?”

“We’re running short of ‘laters.’  If he will not help himself, Rashid’s ilk may be our only alternative.”

I bit my lip.  “He’s terrified of Mordor,” I said quietly, knowing that Dakheel was too proud ever plead for himself, “Surely you can see that.”

“I have seen that.  And that should tell you something about his character.”

I thought of dark glances and dark tales.  “Perhaps it does,” I muttered.

Kali had finally cajoled the foreigner into trying a grub.  As he bit down on the worm, he made a valiant effort to conceal a grimace as my sister erupted in giggles.  Dakheel managed a smile.  He made faces at Kali until she relented and passed him a water skin.  All the while, he had no idea that my father and I were quietly discussing his doom.

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But, perhaps Dakheel was not quite as oblivious as he’d seemed.  As we ate together that night, his gaze was distant.  “The slavers spoke of Umbar,” he said in a measured tone of voice, “They’ve been taking many of my kind there?”  I nodded, a little reluctant even to discuss it.  “More lately?” He prompted, “More than usual?”

Again, I nodded and wetted my lips.  “They suffered some sort of disaster.”

“And they’re rebuilding,” he said, almost to himself.  “Have you heard what sort of disaster?”

I shrugged.  “Rashid said something about a storm—a ‘mighty tempest,’ he called it.  Supposedly, it sank all the ships in harbor.  Must have been some storm; that’s supposed to be the safest harbor in the world.”

He snorted.  “Some storm, indeed,” he murmured.  “And they’re taking slaves there . . . what, as shipwrights?”

I nodded.  “And to replace what they’ve lost.”  He stared at me, uncomprehending.  “The Corsair ships were galleys,” I explained, “With fifty oars apiece.”  Still, his face was blank.  I looked away.  “They were rowed by galley slaves,” I said at last, “They have to live on the ships.  Not all of the time, but the captains keep at least a skeleton crew.  Chained in the hold.  If the ships sank . . .”

He recoiled suddenly, as if I had struck him.  “They would be trapped,” he finished for me.  All color seemed to drain out of his face in an instant.  He set his plate aside and stared at his hands, his jaw clenched.  “The rowers were slaves?  You’re sure of this?”  His voice was harsh and strained.

I blinked.  While I could certainly understand Dakheel’s concern, this reaction seemed extreme for a man who claimed to have seen the interior of Mordor and lived to tell the tale.  “That’s what people say, at least.”

He sat frozen, like a graven statue.  Only his hands moved, slowly curling into fists. 

“I’m sure it won’t come to that for you,” I lied, trying not to dwell on the conversation with my father, “Like you said the other night, you have time to find another way.  My father will be reasonable.”

He glanced up, startled, as if he’d completely forgotten my presence in those few seconds of silent tension.  After a moment, he nodded and waved a hand absently, as if my half-hearted reassurances were utterly trivial.

But, he would say no more that night.

A/N:  Aragorn’s archery tips are taken from a college phys ed class on recurve bows.  Viggo and Orlando manage to violate each and every one of them over the course of the Peter Jackson movies.

Harondor, or “South Gondor,” is a semi-arid land between the river Poros and the river Harnen.  Though historically part of Gondor, it was the site of numerous border disputes between Gondor and Harad (aided and abetted by the Corsairs).

At the time of this story, Bilbo Baggins still lived, relatively quietly, in the Shire.  It is therefore likely that Aragorn heard the story of trolls attacking Thorin’s company not from Bilbo but from Gandalf.  Out of respect for the secrecy of the Shire, Aragorn has edited the hobbit out of this tale, a fact that certainly would not have pleased Bilbo.

The stories of Harad are of my own invention.

A full account of the disaster at Umbar can be found in Appendix A of RotK in a section detailing the ruling stewards of Gondor.

Reviews and concrit are much appreciated!