A/N:  My beta, Cairistiona, deserves much praise and adoration.

Dakheel—no, Elessar, I remind myself, he is Elessar, their king—should be old and wizened by now, yet somehow he’s retained far more youth and vigor than I can claim.  His hands are scarred.  I wonder how many more scars he bears under his fine garb.  His face is set in hard lines—an effect magnified by his bright, steady gaze.  The shuttered light that I’d glimpsed on rare occasions now shines forth, uncovered and undimmed—an aura of nobility, as the superstitious might say.

With an open hand, he indicates the blade now resting at my feet.

“Pick up the sword.”  Even his voice is different; though he retains that melodious accent, his voice now is not pitched low for conversation with a boy, but clear and ringing, meant to be heard by all the hall.

I glance uneasily at the solemn guards stationed at each corner of the throne room.

“Pick up the sword.”  He speaks again, this time in fluent Haradric, his voice still as hard as tempered steel.

Has time created bitterness where once there was none?  Now that the mantle of power and rests on his shoulders, does my old friend mean, at last, to hold me accountable?

I meet his gaze once more.  It all but burns with resolute authority.  Beneath that, though, I think I glimpse something else—something softer and more familiar.  Something that murmurs ‘Peace, my friend.  It will be alright.’  It seems impossible that I can look into the eyes of this terrible lord and find Dakheel once more.  Perhaps it is only my imagination.

Nonetheless, I bend and lift the sword with steady fingers.

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In the week after Dakheel’s escape attempt, I had little time to worry about his fate.  The rains had finally softened our fields enough that they could be tilled.  This backbreaking chore had to be accomplished by hand; we’d not had the money to hire a team of mules since I was a small child and the camels had already been returned.  Day after day, I labored in the rain, pulling the handheld plow with my father, while mother steered from behind and Kali cleared away stones as best she could.

For the most part we labored in silence—too weary for much conversation.  Though our work would have been greatly sped by a fifth pair of hands, neither of my parents suggested we bring Dakheel to help.  Did they fear that desperation would drive him to flee once more, I wondered?  Or were they simply reluctant to derive anymore profit from his captivity on our lands, however insubstantial it might seem?  I do not know their reasoning.  All I know is that day after day, we labored and day after day the foreigner waited, locked in the barn, now with chains at wrists and ankles both.  I still went down to talk with him each evening, but plowing left me so weary that I was in danger of falling asleep even without herbs to ply me. 

And besides, neither of us had much to say.  I had long since run short of reassurances, and Dakheel had already drawn from me everything I knew about Umbar.  As for the foreigner, a great stillness seemed to fall over him, day by day.  It reminded me, strangely, of the moment before a great cat leaps—how it will freeze for an instant or a minute, every muscle coiled, its eyes fixed on its goal.  I got the sense that Dakheel was gathering himself for something, though I knew not what.  Every morning and evening, I half expected to find the barn empty and had to fight off the sinking feeling of disappointment when I found him still waiting for me—still caged.

The days passed in a haze of blisters and backaches until, the night before the day of rest, I was abruptly dragged back to reality.  Late in the evening, once I had returned from the barn and Kali was already slumbering in her bed, Father rose abruptly from his desk, fetched a pitcher and washbasin, and left the house without a word.

I looked up from a book and my brow furrowed.  “Where is he going?” I asked Mother.

She did not meet my gaze, keeping her eyes instead on the shirt she was mending.  “He goes to Dakheel, to let him wash if he wishes, and to talk to him.”  Her lips pursed, but her face was otherwise expressionless.  “Tomorrow, you and your father are going to town, to the markets.  You’re taking Dakheel.”

My eyes snapped up to stare at her.  I opened my mouth to speak . . . and closed it again.  I stared down at my lap and swallowed against the lump in my throat.

It wasn’t as if I hadn’t seen this coming.

“You’ll leave early in the morning,” Mother continued, her voice wooden, “We decided it’s best not to tell Kalima until afterwards.  You know she’d make a fuss.  She’d only make it more difficult for everyone.”

“It’s not fair.”  It was quiet—my objection.  I told myself that all the important words had already been said.

“No,” Mother agreed, “It’s not.  Get to bed, my son.  You need your rest.”

But, my bed held no comfort for me.  I tossed and turned, but all I could see was Dakheel’s face. 

There was Dakheel, trapped in delirium.

Here was Dakheel, fierce and defiant as holy water sank into the ground.

Dakheel, his face solemn as he told me a tale of doomed lovers.

Dakheel, his face full of laughter at some joke.

Dakheel, tender and full of concern as he watched over Kali.

He was a stranger—a foreigner from a land he would not even name.  I did not even know his true name.

He was a friend—my closest confidant.  With him, as with no other before him, I had been candid about my hopes and fears.

My parents, for all their gruffness and cold demeanors, genuinely liked him—cared about him even—but were willing to sacrifice him for a greater good called “family.”  They did it for me; for my sake and in my name, they laid aside their honor and took on this sin.

Could I?  To save myself, to save my sister, to save this tyrannical, nebulous concept of “family,” could I stand by and watch as a good man was sent to his doom?

By the time I heard the front door creak open and caught snatches of my father’s voice, I had my answer.

So, I waited.

I lay awake, staring at the dark ceiling, until the sounds of low conversation faded and I heard my parent’s door click shut.  Then, I waited another hour for good measure.  Hazy moonlight was drifting through my window and the only sound was my own heartbeat by the time I dared to rise.  On bare, silent feet, I ghosted to the kitchen.  Good.  Mother had already baked tomorrow’s bread and laid out cheese and dried meat for the trip to town.  I took it all and bundled it up in an old tablecloth.  Waterskins were easy, too; they hung by the door on a neat rack.  I took three and filled them from the rainwater barrel outside the front door.  The hardest part was finding the key to Dakheel’s shackles.  I searched the hearth and my father’s study in vain and was just beginning to fear that Father had hidden it in his bedchamber when I came upon a scrap of iron in one of his desk drawers.

I did not run down to the barn.  The last thing I needed was for a parent to wake, glance out the window, and see my darting form.  Instead, I crept from shadow to shadow until I reached the door.  The bolt to Dakheel’s cell slid open silently and easily.

Somehow, Dakheel was asleep.  His face was almost peaceful in the dim light.  But, his hands were curled awkwardly atop his body, prevented by the manacles from separating more than a foot.

The floorboards creaked at my steps, and he woke at once.  “Hakim?”  He sat up and ran his hands over his face.

I snatched his leather pack from the corner and began to stuff it with food.  “You have to leave.  Now.”  The last loaf had to be squashed a little to get it to fit.  I wrestled the ties shut and tossed the pack to Dakheel.  “If you set out now, you’ll have hours before Father realizes you’ve gone.  The rainy season will last a few weeks longer.  It is dangerous, but if you keep to the rocky heights and watch for flooding, you can make it.  Father will be reluctant to follow on foot.”

“Hakim . . .”

“There’s some food.  Maybe a week’s worth if you’re careful.  This time of year, there are plenty of flowing streams for when the water runs out.”

“Listen to me . . .”

“You’ll have to stay away from settlements.  That won’t be difficult—they are few between here and Gondor.”

I pulled out the key and reached for his shackles, but he stopped me with a firm hand on my wrist.

“Let me show you something.”  From the ragged hem of his tunic, he pulled a scrap of wire, bent and hammered flat.  Deftly, he inserted it into the keyhole of one of his shackles and twisted.  A moment later, the iron sprang open and fell away from his wrist.  He flexed his hand slowly.  His wrist was bruised and scraped from the manacle.  “I found the pick the last time I was free,” he said softly, “A precaution.  Since then, I’ve had little to do but practice.  I could have freed myself at any time in these last few days.”

I stared.  “Then, why didn’t you?”

He met my gaze squarely.  “Because I must go to Umbar.”  While I gaped, he looked down at his half-shackled hands.  “I thank you for what you’re trying to do, Hakim.  Truly, it means more than you know.  But I must walk a different path, for now.”

I scowled, suddenly furious.  “Not you, too.”  He blinked in confusion.  “I know what this is about, alright?  My parents think that by selling you, they can make enough money to keep us from losing our land . . . and keep me out of the army.  Maybe they’ve convinced you, somehow, because you think you owe us.  But, I can’t let that happen, don’t you see?  I couldn’t live with myself.  So, maybe there is another way, and maybe there isn’t.  Maybe I have to join, but it’s better to go and still have my honor than to just stay here and watch.”

I ran out of words.  For a moment, he just stared at me.  Then he sighed.  “Yes, Hakim, it’s better to go with honor.  And my honor demands I go to Umbar.  Not for your sake, or . . . not just for your sake.”

I sank down to sit, suddenly deflated.  “Then, why?”

“Because there are too many others like me—prisoners of war or captives carried away.”  He looked away, staring at the bars of moonlight where they filtered down from the rafters.  “It was foolish, trying to leave as I did.  I knew, already, that I would have to take a more difficult road.  But, the task seemed so daunting and home seemed so close . . .”  He trailed off and closed his eyes.  “I have to go south.  There are too many others suffering there.  Tarks as they call us.  Slaves.  And, if I am to help them, I can only get close as one of them.”

I swallowed hard.  “It can’t be done,” I said bluntly, “The slavers . . . you don’t know what they’re like.  They’re strong and they’re cruel.  They’d kill you without a thought.”

“I have dealt with their ilk before.  And I have to try.”

“Why?”  The question burst out of me before I could think better of it.  “For the slaves?  You don’t even know them!  Why die for them?  You once told me that there was no one in Gondor or Rohan who would pay even a bit of silver to save you.  What do you owe these . . . strangers?”

For long moments, he watched me, his eyes steady and piercing.  I held his gaze, difficult though it was.  Finally, he looked away and nodded slightly, as if he’d seen my heart and found me worthy.  “There is a story I’ve never told you.”  His voice was deep and solemn.  I recognized in that inflection the beginnings of a tale.  “’Twas only a few months ago.  I had served in Gondor for years, but I knew my time was nearing its end.  The Steward’s good will would not outlive him, and other pressing concerns called me away.  But, I put that out of my mind when I was called to go to Lebennin.”

His gaze was distant and troubled.  “There was a village there, along the banks of the Anduin.  They were simple people.  Herders and fishermen.  Ships had come upon them in the night and set the village to the torch.”

He closed his eyes.  “My men and I arrived too late to do anything but bury the dead.  Survivors were few.  Those that we found spoke of black ships with great banks of oars—the Corsairs of Umbar.  They landed and pillaged the town.  They killed every man who lifted a weapon against them.  They killed even the dogs.  But, they carried away every animal of value . . . and every person.

“I returned to Minas Tirith in a rage.  Long had I warned about the dangers of the Corsair fleet, and long had I been ignored.  I demanded to see the Steward.  In private, I pleaded with him.  ‘How long,’ I asked, ‘How long must our people suffer this predation?’  I appealed to his mind and his heart.  I used all my considerable influence over him.  And in the end, he gave me a fleet.”

Dakheel drew a slow breath.  “We used only small ships, with experienced men.  We slipped into the harbor undetected and were upon the Umbari before they realized we had come.  In the chaos, none could stand against us.  We sought out their captain and slayed him, but it was not him that we’d come for.  It was the ships.  They all rested in harbor.  We had too few men to commandeer them, but that had never been our intent.  As the defenders were roused and time ran short, I ordered the ships put to the torch.  I knew there were men aboard.  I convinced myself that they were soldiers in Sauron’s service—that they deserved what they got, though I should not have subjected even an orc to that kind of death.  I fled with my men, triumphant.  It was only later, when you told me of Umbar, that I realized what I had done.”

A sudden chill fell over me.  I remembered Rashid’s words from weeks ago.  “They say a great storm rose on the bay—a mighty tempest . . . It broke upon Umbar and sank nearly every ship in the harbor.”

Dakheel met my gaze.  “A storm didn’t kill the galley slaves of Umbar, Hakim.  I did.”

I stared, as the horror of the situation struck me.  I could almost see them—the doomed men forgotten below decks, screaming as their chains grew too hot, as the smoke dragged them down . . . I brimmed with sympathy for Dakheel and at the same time I recoiled from him.  I’d known he was a warrior from his own confession.  I’d known war was terrible from his stories.  But, until I saw the devastation in his eyes, I did not truly understand what that meant.

There was nothing I could say—nothing that would make it better.  All I could do was try to save his life.  “They’ll kill you,” I said flatly, “If they discover what you’re about.  And even if they don’t, you might die still.  Slaves often do.  And no one will even know you were here.”

“I must try, nonetheless.  It is a debt that must be paid.”

“Will it mean more killing?”

“Perhaps.  That is the nature of war.”

“Yes,” I said bitterly, “Always war.”

For a long moment, he was silent.  Then he reached for my face with his free hand and tipped my chin so that I met his gaze.  “No.  Not always.  There will be peace between our peoples someday, Hakim.  The days of men are short . . . but not so short that we should give up hope of seeing that peace.”  His hand dropped away.  Slowly, he reached for the shackle and closed it once more around his wrist.  “You should go now.  You have been a good friend . . . better than I looked to find here, and probably better than I deserved.  But there is nothing left to be said.”

And, there wasn’t.

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I slept fitfully that night, haunted by dreams in which our fold caught fire and all the goats screamed with human voices.  When my mother touched my arm in the morning, it was almost a relief.  Then I remembered why I must rise so early and my heart sank.

I trudged down to the barn, heavily laden with two packs.  It was still dark, but I knew sunrise was not far off.

I found Father in Dakheel’s cell, putting the rusted manacles back in their canvas sack.  Dakheel waited silently, rubbing his wrists.  When he saw me, he offered a solemn nod in greeting.  Without a word, I dropped one of the packs at Father’s feet.  He grunted as he stooped to tie something long and thin to the side of the pack.  The light was just bright enough that I could make out the scabbard of Dakheel’s sword.  I arched an eyebrow in question, and Father caught the look.  “We’ll sell the sword as well,” he said shortly.  He stood with a length of rope in his hand and strode over to Dakheel. 

The taller man did not resist as Father began to bind his hands.  I winced, thinking of his scraped wrists.  “Father—“ But both men shot me warning glances, and I fell silent.

We left our lands and stepped onto the road in a silent procession.  But for Father’s and my packs and Dakheel’s bound wrists, we could have been any group of laborers on our way to work.  The morning light was growing rapidly, as it always did in the desert.  As dawn approached, the sun all but leapt over the distant horizon, banishing in an instant the grays and blues of early morning.  The first rays gilded the far away dunes and heads of rock and glinted off the red earth and green grasses.

As we made our way east along the rutted track, Dakheel watched the sun with the smallest of smiles.  “A sunrise without a shadow,” he murmured.  But, then he cast an anxious glance to the north and fell silent.

Much of the morning passed that way—in silence.  The road was straight, and we made good time despite the damp mud.  All the while, Father stared stonily ahead, speaking not a word.  Dakheel’s face was composed and unconcerned, his gaze flicking lightly from the road to the surrounding scenery to the distant mountains.  I glanced between the two of them, willing someone to break the heavy silence, but not willing to do so myself.

The sun was high in the sky when the village finally came in view as a dark smudge on the horizon, half a league away.  Father paused, his face clouded with indecision.  At last he unslung his pack and nodded toward a nearby cluster of boulders.  “We will rest a while, and have a midday meal.”  So, I followed him over to the rock formation and sat, carefully keeping confusion off of my face.  A midday meal was a rare indulgence for us.

I thought I understood when Father pulled out the meat and cheese we’d packed, divided it into three portions, and gave the lion’s share to Dakheel.  This was one last gift, given in consolation—a salve for my father’s conscience.

Dakheel ate slowly, his gaze drifting across the landscape.  It was now the middle of the rainy season, and the desert was in full bloom.  Scrubby bushes and straggly trees had put out new leaves of rich, verdant life.  Grasses had sprung up along the slopes and in the ditches.  Everywhere, wildflowers peeked out, their tiny blossoms riots of red and blue, gold and violet.  Rainstorms would likely roll in come afternoon, but for the moment, the sun shone down and the sky was scattered with clouds like puffs of wool.

“This is a beautiful country.”  Dakheel’s voice was soft and thoughtful.

I nodded, glad of any attempt at conversation.  “The flowers will last until the end of the rainy season.  Perhaps another week after that.”  I nibbled at a hunk of cheese.  “They say in the forests of the far south, there are plants that bloom all year long.  They say some of the flowers are as big as a man’s hand.”

Dakheel smiled.  “I should like to see that.”

Father’s scowl deepened a little.  Dakheel turned to him, his voice light.  “I hope it will not disappoint you overmuch, Azzam,” he said, a touch of humor softening his words, “If I say that I have no intention of dying in Umbar.”

Father met his gaze, and his own eyes softened infinitesimally.  “I hope you don’t.  But, I’ve warned you about hope.”

“Indeed, you have.”  The smile faded from Dakheel’s face as he looked away.  “This market of yours,” he said to my father, “It is an auction?”

Father shook his head.  “This time of year, there are too few buyers for that.  ‘Tis only a handful of traders.”

Dakheel nodded.  “Nevertheless,” he said slowly, “It seems the sort of thing Hakim ought not see.”

I opened my mouth to object—I wasn’t a child, I’d seen the markets before—but Dakheel’s eyes met mine, and the protests died on my lips.  He wasn’t looking at me like a child.  Rather, he met my gaze as an equal with a request—almost a plea—in his eyes.  I looked down.  He didn’t want me there at the end?  It seemed wrong after I had come so far.  Only . . . I thought of the human indignities I had seen in the slave market, and had to suppress a shudder.  Was it any wonder he didn’t want me there to see him poked and prodded, priced and penned like a common mule?

Father watched with sharp eyes.  “I agree,” he said simply, “Hakim, you will take your leave at the gates and await me at the inn.”

I could only stare at my knees and nod.

All too soon, it was time to tie our packs shut and set out for the village once more.  As we drew near the rough, mudbrick walls, I could see Dakheel drawing in on himself, stifling that keen light in his eyes so as not to draw undue attention.  By the time we reached the gates, his head was bowed, his shoulders slightly slumped.  Still, when I paused, uncertain, he met my gaze and reached out to clasp my forearm.  “Farewell, mellon-nín,” he murmured so that only I could hear, “May we meet in better times.”

And before I could find the words to respond, he turned, following my father, and was soon lost in the press of people.

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When Father found me later, he would not meet my eyes.  He was even more taciturn than usual, but he grunted that we would stay the night in the inn and set out for home in the morning.  So, I spent a sleepless night tossing and turning in our tiny room, while Father stayed in the common room and drowned his guilt in tankard after tankard of brandy.

By the time the earliest pre-dawn light crept through our dusty window, Father had finally returned and was snoring loudly on his pallet.  I rose silently, though the caution was hardly necessary, and crept from the room.  There was something I needed to see.

There is a bluff that overlooks the south gate of the village, rising above the ramshackle houses into the clear air.  I climbed it on legs that felt leaden and looked down on crumbling adobe and cracking roof tiles, all illuminated by soft, gray light.  The slave caravans always set out at dawn.

There.  A handful of men on camels.  More camels and donkeys laden with supplies.  A long line of ragged human beings, their pale skin covered by dirt, their limbs weighed down with chains.  Each slave wore a rag tied about their head as a headdress, obscuring each face, but even so, Dakheel was easy to spot.  He was the tallest of them.  He stood the straightest, with only a bowed head to suggest he was not a soldier on parade.

I don’t know how, but he seemed to sense me watching from above.  As the column drew close and began to pass through the gate, he lifted his head and met my gaze.  Just for a moment, his eyes flashed, bright and sharp with every emotion he couldn’t show.  I lifted my hand in farewell, and the corners of his mouth curved up, ever so slightly.

It was enough.  Enough to let me know that he had not been crushed by my father or the slavers or even his own guilt.  He left as a slave, but he was not broken, and he was not beaten.

Then he ducked his head, and all an observer would see was a battered line of slaves trudging toward their doom.

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A few days after we returned, I found Kali in the back of the barn.  As Mother had predicted, she had reacted with wrath when she learned that Dakheel would not be returning.  For what felt like hours, she’d screamed and railed at our parents—calling them cruel, calling them cowards.  They offered no defense against the child’s truths, but neither did they offer comfort.  She took to fleeing from them—finding odd places to hide whenever we were not at work.  Only in the fields with me, did she act like herself.

When I came upon her, she was sitting on Dakheel’s abandoned pallet.  In her small hands, she held a tooled leather pouch, which she was turning over and over.  Wordlessly, I sat beside her.  She did not look at me.  Her face was tear-streaked, but composed.

“I thought he’d stay,” she said at last.

“I know,” I said softly, “So did I.”

“He wanted to stay, didn’t he?”

“I think he did.  But he couldn’t.”

“Because of Father.”

“No.  It’s not that, Kali.  It’s just . . . he’s a great hero, you see.  A man like that can’t stay forever in a place like this.”

Her face remained strangely blank.  Though she was still so young, for a moment she seemed ancient and world-weary.  “I know.”  In a few hours, she would curl up beside Mother and ask for help with her needlepoint.  Another day and she would climb into Father’s lap and ask him for a story for the first time in weeks.

Soon, she would begin to forgive.  But not yet.

Without another word, she pressed the pouch into my hands and walked away.

Sitting alone in the dim chamber, I opened the pouch, lifted it to my face, and breathed deep.  There.  A faint aroma evoking rain storms and new life.  But it was scarcely an echo of what I remembered.

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In the months that followed, rumors came up out of the south at an unprecedented rate.  First, it was tales of slave revolts, of hundreds of captives overthrowing their masters and vanishing into the night.  Then came mass desertions from within the Grand Army—a phenomenon never before seen on such a scale, even during wartime.  Then came the rumors that men hardly dared to whisper about a growing faction deep within Harad that named Sauron a false god and called for an end to his tyranny.

I couldn’t have said how I knew, but with each troubling tale, I breathed a sigh of relief.  He was still alive.

But, what can I say for my family during that same time?  If this were a child’s fable or a parable told by priests, this would be the part where we’d all learned a valuable lesson.  We would turn to each other, forsaking the cloying wealth of the world in favor of the boundless love of family.

But, this is life, and life does not fit so easily into simple tales.

The money helped, for the farm at least.  With the coin Father brought back from the market, we were able to stock the barn with feed.  Bales of hay were stacked high in the loft, and sacks of grain covered the battered pallet where a man once slept.  The goats thrived.  We had more food on our own table.  The next harvest season promised to be a good year.

Yet, both my parents were crippled by guilt they refused to show.  Father turned to the bottle, first in the evenings to avoid having to talk to us, then more and more during the day.  As my eighteenth birthday approached, I found myself leaving the herd in Kali’s hands so that I could take on more and more of my father’s work.

He aged quickly after that, and died just a few years later.  In a bitter piece of irony, he got what he’d wanted in the end; even Ghassan would not compel a young man to go off to war when he had a widowed mother and young sister to provide for.

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When I think of those first months after Dakheel’s departure, only two moments stand out in my mind.  The first occurred a month after he left us.  Mother found me in her bower, staring down at a small collection of jewelry.  Or, more specifically, staring at a particular ring, larger than all the others with green stones that glinted in the lowest light.

She put her hand on my shoulder in a rare gesture of affection.  “It’s not really worthless, is it?”  I asked, “Dakheel’s ring?”

She sighed.  “At first, I thought it was.  As I though he was worthless.  Now, I’m not so sure.”

“Why haven’t you sold it?”

“I dare not.”

“Because of the wrath of the gods?”

“Call it what you will.”  After a moment, she lifted the ring and dropped it into my hand.  “It is a ring for a man, though.  You should have it, Hakim.  Dakheel would want you to.”

I closed my fingers slowly around the gleaming silver.  It was wrought in the image of two snakes, a detail I’d not noticed when I first set eyes on it.  “What about Father?  Shouldn’t it be his decision?”

Her eyes hardened and her hand tightened ever so slightly on my shoulder.

“It is a ring for a man.”

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Mother did not falter as Father did.  She continued to labor from sunup to sundown, cooking and gardening, weaving and sewing, keeping up the house and teaching Kali her lessons.  She would spend full days in a frenzy, making soap or cheese or a decade’s supply of candles.  Like Father, though, she withdrew.  She became colder and sterner than ever before. The only time she truly came alive was when I sat down with her book of herb lore and asked her to teach me healing.  Outside of lessons, though, she spoke little to Kali and me, and even less to Father.  I could tell that she blamed him, as she blamed herself.

But, still, when Father’s liver suddenly failed three years later, she was there for him at every moment—treating him for weeks, staying at his side through the delirium, holding him as he died.

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Nearly eight months after Dakheel left us, every family was summoned to the temple at the center of every village.  The priests had decreed a grand celebration to honor the Dark Lord’s imminent ascendance.  Participation in the feasting and sacrifices was mandatory, even for small children and the infirm.  The next day, the four of us walked home together, our feet dragging.

We reached the house only to find something long and slim, wrapped in rough cloth and lying across our doorstep.  I picked it up slowly; gone were the days when Father would insist on handling any potential danger himself.  Pulling away the cloth, I gasped at the familiar sight of steel and leather.  Wordlessly, I held it out so that my parents could see.  There was no mistaking it; this was not just a Gondorian sword, this was Dakheel’s sword—the one Father had sold for a handful of silver to the same trader who bought my friend.

“It’s his,” I said quietly, “But how?  Why?”  Somehow, none of us doubted that Dakheel himself had left the blade.

Father’s brow furrowed as he reached for the scabbard.  I found myself strangely reluctant to release it.  “I don’t understand,” he muttered thickly, “Is this a threat?  Is he coming to take his revenge?”

Mother snorted.  “Some threat.  Labeling another an enemy by arming him?  What purpose does that serve?”

I stared at the hilt for a moment longer.  Then, I thought of something.  Leaving the sword in Father’s hands, I raced into the house, all but ran to my room, and threw open my small trunk.  The contents—clothes, parchment, a handful of childhood toys—were slightly mussed, as if someone had rifled through them with great haste but no malice.  And a few things were conspicuously absent.

“They’re gone,” I said, returning to my parents and Kali.  “His ring, his pouch, the herbs.”  I lifted the sword out of Father’s unresisting fingers.  “I think he left this as payment.  For the ring.”  I spotted a scrap of parchment tied to the corner of the hilt, and lifted it slowly.  A handful of words were written across it, in tidy, Westron script.

For Hakim, may he bear it in the days of peace.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

A/N:  Only the epilogue remains of this story.  It will be published in a few days and will wrap up the story of Hakim trying to free his son in Minas Tirith.  Obviously, much more could be said of Aragorn’s travels in Harad, but that’s not Hakim’s story to tell.  Before you start throwing things at me, know that there is a sequel in the works which will detail those adventures more fully.  The first part of that story will probably be up in about two weeks.

As always, I value your feedback, both positive and negative.

Mellon-nín:  Sindarin for “my friend”